"No cheap dirty offices for you, huh, Mallarme?" said Alan Barth.  It
was all thick and heavy, like the credit that flowed into her bank
accounts all across the system.  Charcoal silk curtains; plush green
carpet; a desk that had killed a dozen sandalwood trees.

"You getting to the point any time soon, Barth?"  Alison Mallarme asked.
 She arched back in her desk with a highball of whisky in one hand and a
cigarette in the other.  "I'm a busy girl."

"Yeah, real busy," Barth said, slapping down a printout.  "This guy
Crawford.  We know he shot his boss on that ski retreat.  With a goddamn
nine millimeter.  We had the bullet.  Now all of a sudden the bullet's
from a hunting rifle and it was an accident, some guy was shooting at a
moose and missed and didn't come forward for a couple of days because
his truck got stuck in a snowbank."

Mallarme shrugged eloquently.  "What're you talking to me for?"

"It's got your fingers all over it," Barth snorted.

"My fingers?" She spread her manicured hands.  "Are you here to print
me, Sergeant?"

Barth sighed.  "You're going to make this hard on us?  We can keep
digging on this, lady, and the more we dig, the more dirt we'll get."

"So you want me to scratch your back, is what you're saying?"

"In a manner of speaking, yeah," Barth said.  He poured himself some of
her whiskey and helped himself to a cigarette.  "These got pot in them?"
he asked.

"Some," she said.  "It doesn't take much."

He lit up.  "We got some trouble with one of your kind.  He's been a
real problem for years.  Like you to have a word with him."

"Let me guess," Mallarme said, smoke curling from her mouth as she
spoke.  "Brody Mercher?"  Brody was one of many detectives on the
legitimate side of the fence that she wouldn't deal with.  In fact,
there were many detectives she refused to associate with because she
considered them, well, grubby.  Some of them refused to associate with
her because they considered her, well, sleazy.  She enlisted the
feminists against her male detractors and her tits against the female
ones.

"Mercher's been giving us some crap, yeah," Barth said.  "He's got some
big client, old man Tersicord, and he's been punching all over town with
that muscle.  Couple of cops beat the hell out of him but you know that
doesn't do much."

"Brody's been hit in the head more times than a coconut monkey,"
Mallarme agreed.  "What do you want me to do about him?"

Barth bared his teeth.  "Distract him some while we get him off this
case."

Mallarme looked down at herself.  "You think I can?"  She looked at
Barth through her lashes and sucked at her cigarette.

"Yeah," Barth said.  "You can."

*  *  *

Brody Mercher was trying to maintain at least a shred of the good mood
he had been enjoying earlier in the evening.  He lay on the black
leather sofa in his office while his secretary Annie dabbed a wet cloth
delicately and largely ineffectually on the deep cut above his left eye.
 This wasn't the first time that Mercher had discovered her first-aid
talents to be in almost as short supply as her secretarial ones, but he
hadn't hired her for either.  The detective business had many rules,
most of them unwritten, and Mercher saw no reason to break the one about
employing attractive female assistants only.  It would have been a
professional discourtesy to his clients.

"They gave you no idea what they wanted?"  Annie asked, her
ministrations with the cloth in truth spreading more than absorbing the
blood that was just starting to stem it's flow.

"Oh, no specifics," Mercher said, "just some of the usual dire warnings
about being careful what cases I took and how stepping on certain toes
could be dangerous."  He snorted, knocking Annie's hand against his cut
and turning it into a wince.  "They know beating me around never gets me
off a case, sometimes I think they use me to train new cops in the finer
aspects of physical abuse."

Annie lowered her hand, leaning back from him and regarding him coolly.
"You being straight with me Brody?" she asked quietly, her unconscious
usage of his forename underlining her concern.

Her question took Mercher totally by surprise.  In the four years she'd
worked for him she had never once accused him of lying to her.  And
though far from being the greatest office assistant in the system, she
had more than once showed flashes of inspiration that had pulled him out
of a hole.

"Why do you think I wouldn't be?" he asked carefully, his gaze on hers.

She started to speak then abruptly stood up and walked to the centre of
the office, surveying it as if seeing it anew.  "Because six months ago
our entire premises would have sat comfortably in the corner of this
room. We could barely afford the rent and now you're throwing sums that
would have kept us afloat for a year on damn stupid things like that
monstrosity."  Her accusatory finger pointed to the painting hanging
above Mercer's head.

"Hey, that's art,"  he retorted, swinging his legs to the floor to sit
up. He would have liked to stand so that he wasn't still looking up at
her, but his head was still swimming too much.

"Art?" Annie laced the word with as much derision as she could muster.
"This is what I mean Brody.  You've hit the big time and you've started
acting like you think a big-time detective should act.  You're good at
what you do, damn good, but you've started throwing Tersicord's name and
money around an awful lot recently.  You sure you know what you're doing
here?"

Mercher stared back at her, momentarily speechless.  She'd never once
questioned his professional judgement, and had even kept quiet on the
thankfully few times when that judgement had failed him badly.  "I know
what I'm doing," he said levelly, then paused and added "but maybe I
should try to ruffle at least a few less feathers."  He offered what he
hoped was a conciliatory smile.

Annie looked at him for several moments and then nodded slightly. 
"That's all I ask," she said then added with a grin "besides, if they
don't kill you, my attempts at cleaning you up probably will."

Mercher chuckled, his mood starting to lift somewhat.  He blinked
suddenly, remembering the cause of his earlier good humour and the
appointment he had tonight.  He looked frantically at his watch, which
was broken, then bounded to his desk for the clock there.  He had an
hour before he met Tersicord, who had promised him some big money for as
yet unspecified work.

"I'll run home and get changed before my meeting," he said, mentally
chiding himself for never keeping enough spare suits at the office.
"Can't look like a scarecrow when I go see the man."

Annie looked him up and down and murmured something he didn't quite
catch. He suspected it had been a comment on him always looking like a
scarecrow. He wished it wasn't true.

Mercher had spent way too much of his life in offices waiting for one
expensive idiot or another to decide it was about time to let the poor
bastard private dick have five minutes.  They never apologized, they
never explained, and they invariably hid their best cigars.

Augustine Edgar Tersicord was never like that.  Mercher got whisked in,
as usual, by a smiling blonde secretary who seated him in one of the
good chairs.  Not the stiff high backed ones that would've made
Torquemada blush.  There was a double Glenlivet waiting for him. 
"Mister Tersicord will be with you in just a few minutes," the secretary
breathed.  She smelled like midnight on the ocean.

As promised, it was just a few minutes.  Tersicord burst into the room,
shook Mercher's hand, flashed his old but gleaming teeth, and settled
down behind the desk, twirling the tip of his white mustache.  "Always a
pleasure, Mistah Merchah," he cried with genuine satisfaction.

"Likewise, Mr. Tersicord," Mercher said.  "How's business going?"

Tersicord beamed as though Brody had just handed him a thousand dollar
bill.  "Very very well my boy, and only better, thanks to your brilliant
efforts."

"I, uh, understand you have another project for me?"  Mercher was always
uncomfortable when the client liked him too much.  It was easier to get
hit in the head a few times by a grumpy cop.

"I do, yes I do," the old man said.  He took a large leather portfolio
from his desk and slid it over to Mercher.  Mercher had seen so many of
these, real leather, from Tersicord that he was thinking about black
marketing them for the spare cash.  "One of my division heads is, what's
the word?  Skimming?  Yes, skimming.  Embezzling.  Or so I suspect.  You
will look into it for me, my boy?"

Mercher resisted the urge to salute.  "Yes sir, I'll get right on it." 
Yes sir?  he thought.  Annie would never let him forget it if she knew.

Mercher spent a few minutes exchanging small-talk with Tersicord, not
that he particularly liked the man, but he refused to rush quality
Scotch.  In truth though, Mercher did like him, it was hard not to grow
very fond of the man bankrolling you to such almost extravagant amounts.
 It was two things that kept Mercher feeling at least marginally distant
from the older man.  The first, and the most niggling was the urge he
kept feeling to please the man, and the second and more petty was the
fact he was always so goddamned cheerful.  It wasn't natural.

The conversation dried up just after the drinks, and Mercher rose to
leave, Tersicord clapping him jovially on the back and he nodding in a
pleased way that made his teeth grind.  The secretary escorted him to
the elevator, and wished him well in a tone that sounded like she meant
it. When he was alone in the silent descent, Mercher could feel sweat on
his palms.  In some respects, Annie had been right.  This world was very
alien to him, his years of hunting down petty thieves and conmen had
given him precious little experience to deal with people like Tersicord
and his minions.  He understood the cops from earlier better.

He hefted the leather portfolio, musing at this latest assignment.  Over
the past half a year similar cases had led him across a vast range of
the old man's business interests.  Now he was to investigate a
department head who had developed sticky fingers.  If Brody had been a
suspicious man, he would have started wondering at just why he, a good
but far from famous private dick had been given this string of
high-profile jobs.  You didn't survive in this business without a streak
of suspicion a mile wide, and not for the first time Brody had images of
himself swinging in the wind somewhere.  It was unfounded suspicion, he
told himself, he found it hard to believe Tersicord would have let him
poke through so much of his business if it was for some ulterior motive.
 The old man was generally regarded as one of the straightest men in
town, "last of the old school" many called him, but the suspicion
wouldn't be exorcised that easily. Maybe Annie was right, and he was
letting the money and sense of importance inflate his ego, which usually
didn't need much for that.

The smooth opening of the elevator doors gave Brody an excuse to stop
his internal descent into another bad mood, and he strode across the
immaculate lobby refocusing all his sleuthing powers on how to get home.
He knew the hospitality always shown by the old man, and wasn't about to
give the cops a chance of getting him for being drunk while in control,
so had hopped the underground on his way to the meeting.  The early
evening air was cool when he walked through the huge glass entranceway,
and he considered returning home the same way until he remembered that
it was dark and he had already been beaten up once today.  He hailed a
cab, very much looking forward to relaxing at home and starting to
peruse his new assignment.

***

No-one liked walking into Alan Barth's office, especially if they bore
what could be construed as bad news.  Jeff Harris was no exception, and
despite what he had been told, knew that it was his position as newest
recruit in the station that volunteered him for such hand-picked jobs. 
He walked in slowly, premonitions of the next few moments all too clear
in his mind.

"What is it Harris?" Barth said shortly, his eyes barely flickering up
from the file he held in a white knuckled grip.

Harris saw the name on the file and felt his heart sink even lower. 
This was going to be even worse than he had feared, and he had feared
some pretty terrible things.  The other cops were going to love it.  He
thought he could hear their sniggering already.  "Brody Mercher just
walked out of Tersicord's office with a document case in hand."  Best
not to beat around the bush he thought.  He held  his breath and waited
for the explosion.

A nerve twitched above Barth's right eye, and his fingers seemed to
tighten even more on the file.  "And we have no idea what's in the
pouch?"

Harris shook his head.

"But", Barth hissed through teeth that didn't seem to want to part,
"will we be at all surprised if it leads Brody frigging Mercher to screw
up yet another of our operations?"

Harris shook his head again.  He had decided that the less he said the
better.  Barth had acquired a deep interest in the Tersicord case, and
had slowly been developing it into a personal grudge.  He seemed to
believe Tersicord to be as corrupt as most thought him honest and had
initiated dozens of enquiries over the last year to try and prove it. 
Brody Mercher had frustrated most of them.  Not directly, of course, but
he kept popping up asking questions in just the right way to confound
Barth's probes, revealing possible witnesses and alerting others in the
business. Harris really didn't care if Tersicord was dirty or clean, he
just wanted Barth to throw his fit and have it over with.

Barth put the file down, the act of unclenching his fingers seemingly a
difficult one.  "He's an arrogant little bastard this Mercher, looks
like the talk the guys had with him earlier was about as much use as we
thought."  Barth's face seemed to slacken slightly, muscles unclenching
just a fraction.  "I don't think he'll be a worry for us much longer
though Harris, I suspect his life is going to get an awfully lot more
interesting soon.  The son of a bitch doesn't deserve that sort of
interesting, but if it gets him out of my hair long enough to nail the
old man, it's worth it."  Barth leaned back more fully in his chair, a
slow grin spreading across his face.

Harris looked in shock at Barth and wished he had exploded instead. 
That grin would be worth a dozen nightmares.

Mercher lived in an old but solid wooden house, on the third floor of a
building once devoted to a single family.  A set of steep stairs led up
to his private door.  Each step was heavily overgrown with ivy that he
kept promising himself he'd hack away.  Tonight, though, he was glad he
hadn't, because he could see the nubbin marks of high heeled shoes dug
into the leaves.

He slipped his gun into his palm and held it by his side as he
noiselessly climbed up.  The stairs were normally creaky, but he'd
learned how to walk on them without making a sound.  His door was
unlocked.  He leaned down, squinting at the brass around the keyhole,
looking for the telltale scratches from lockpicks.  He thought he saw
one slender hairline.  Whomever was in his place was a pro.

Mercher took a deep, quiet breath, and slipped inside.  His lights were
off, but he could make out a figure on his couch, through the dimness. 
"Stand up," he rasped, pleased at how steady he sounded.  Nobody had
invaded his apartment in a long time.

The woman -- he was sure it was a woman from how she stood -- unrolled
like a bolt of black silk.  There was a bolt of flame and a glowing
ember from her cigarette.  "You can turn on the lights if you want to,
Brody," she said.

"Alison?" he said, half gasp, half groan.  "What are you doing in my
apartment?"

"I came here to see you, Brody," she purred.  "It's been such a long
time since we last talked.  Haven't you missed me?"

"Who doesn't?" he asked as he groped for the light switch.  Four years
since he'd been in the same room with her and she hadn't changed a bit. 
Put on a couple of pounds in the right places.  Very right places.  He
found his attention wandering from her face for a moment, and had the
grace to almost blush.

"So you're slumming?" he said.  "Want a drink?  I might have a clean
glass in the kitchen somewhere."

"I can find it," Mallarme said, brushing past him, her high heels
clicking on his kitchen tiles.  Expensive perfume, real diamonds in her
ears, not the flashy paste ones she used to wear on undercover
operations.  Silk instead of nylon now.  She'd moved up even faster than
he had.

She paused for a moment, glancing around, then opened the cupboard next
to the sink.  Took out two glasses, one large and chipped, the other
proclaiming that someone had been to Atlantic City.  Then she took down
the bottle from above the sink, poured a slug of whiskey into each
glass, and gave Mercher the chipped one.

"To your health," Mallarme purred, raising the Atlantic City glass
against Mercher's.

"That means a lot, coming from you," Mercher said, tossing back half his
drink.  It tasted terrible when he remembered the Scotch in Tersicord's
office.  Mallarme was too well-bred to even make a face.  "Why are you
here, Alison?"

"A woman can't just drop in on an old friend?" she said blandly.

"Not you.  Every minute is worth ten credits to you, Alison, I remember
that pretty well," Mercher retorted.  "You've been here at least a half
hour so far, so I must be worth something."

Mallarme set down her glass and moved closer.  "I miss you, Brody," she
whispered.  "The old days together were so good, when we were partners,
Mallarme and Mercher stenciled on the office door, that cheap furniture
that kept breaking and the secretary that never showed up on time..." 
She chuckled softly and said, "I suppose it doesn't sound so good when I
put it like that."

Mercher set his glass carefully on the countertop next to hers.  "I
remember it wasn't so bad," he said.  "But we have some differences in
how we operate.  Like that you keep out people I want to put away."

There was a fractional tightening in her face, a slight shift in the set
of her smooth jaw, a thin layer of glass down over her eyes.  "Not all
my clients are crooks, and not all yours are angel clean," she said. 
"There's a middle ground we could meet on."

"Alison, you say that to all the guys.  Hell, we've all had bad
partnerships.  At Doc's Bar and Grill there's a four partner minimum and
you have to show all your old business cards just to get in the door." 
Mercher picked his glass back up and took a swallow.  "I even went in
with Christian Paget for a year and a half and we all know how worthless
he is."  He willed himself not to set a hand on her hip.  Or anywhere
else.  Her hair was like black snow on her shoulders.

"Will you at least think about it?" she purred.  He could feel her
breath on him, diffused through the air, barely warmed, but still, there
it was.  The tip of her tongue moved briefly over her lipsticked lips.

Mercher took one long step back, and smaller ones into his living room. 
He could see the city through the massive bay window that he'd recently
paid to have scrubbed of all the smog.  Spikes and lights.  Murders and
traffic violations.  Everything, all the time, whether you wanted it or
not.  He wondered what Annie was doing just then.

"I have thought about it," he said.  "The answer is still no."

"I see," Mallarme said.  "I'll leave my card in case you change your
mind.  You know where to find me anyhow."

He didn't hear her leave, but he felt it.  He sat down at the massive
oak desk that he kept promising he'd refinish and stared at the bit of
pasteboard with Alison's perfume still on it.

She'd cracked his apartment like an egg, though, he finally thought.  It
was time to do something about his security systems or lack thereof.

Down in her car, which she'd parked discreetly a few streets away,
Mallarme let out a low irritable snarl.  She yanked her cell phone from
her coat pocket and stabbed a few buttons.  "Alan Barth's office,
please," she said.

Barth had been on the point of knocking off for the evening when the
phone rang.  He shot it a baleful glare, but when this intimidation
failed and it continued to demand his attention he picked it up, the
decision already made to transfer his frustration to the poor
unfortunate who had decided to bother him.  The girl on the switchboard
barely took time to breathe "Ms. Mallarme for you sir" before he heard
the faint click of the call being connected.  They knew of his moods
down in the communications room.

"Well?" he snapped into the mouthpiece.  He didn't like Mallarme, and
would be astonished if she felt anything but the same for him.  He
didn't see any point in feigned pleasantness.  The asses down in
Community Relations were always spouting garbage about being warm and
friendly to the public, but none of them had dared even come near
Barth's office in a very long time.

Malarme's sultry voice in his ear didn't quite have all the venom
disguised.  "Brody's going to be a problem Barth," she said simply, "I
think he's starting to believe his own hype about how great he is."

Barth was incredulous.  She was telling him the plan had failed already?
 He tried to take a few deep breaths to steady himself but instead found
he was hissing his words.  "What do you mean, a problem?  You said you
could handle it, said it'd be a piece of goddamn cake.  I don't want to
hear about frigging problems!"

"I mean it may take longer than I had thought," Mallarme replied slowly,
the honey gone from her voice.  "I'll get Brody Mercher off your back
but it's going to take time."

"I don't have time!" Barth barked, "and neither do you Mallarme.  We had
a deal, and if you can't come through on your half.. well, then I'll
have to start throwing a lot of men at clearing up that case I mentioned
to you.  Could be bad for your business having so many cops sniffing
around couldn't it?"

"Now Barth, I'm sure there's no need for such drastic actions," Mallarme
said softly, her voice almost seeming to caress Barth's ear.  He hated
to admit it, but she sure was one class act.  "Give me a little time to
work on Brody," she continued, "and I'll have him dangling off my finger
in no time."

Barth didn't have a better way to deal with Mercher right now, but he
was damned if he'd let Mallarme know that.  "A week," he said simply, "a
week until I start using you to help inflate our clearup figures.  I'll
have someone behind bars when this is over, and if I can't get Tersicord
then maybe you'll do."  Barth's face creased in his second smile of the
evening as he thought of the perfect way to bait her.  "I don't think
you'd like the slammer Mallarme," he said, his voice seeming to show
concern, "I hear there's a lot of ladies there who couldn't resist your
charms, even if Brody Mercher can."  He dropped the receiver back into
its cradle, and sat back in his chair, hands behind his head.  You had
to take your pleasures where you could get them sometimes.

***

The cellphone hit the passenger's side seat, door and dash before
finally coming to rest at Mallarme's feet, it's faint rocking strangely
loud in the silence following her stream of colourful curses.  Barth was
enjoying this she knew, she'd outwitted him enough in the past for him
to want to take full advantage of the situation.  He wasn't one of the
city's finest in any way you meant it, but what he lacked in inspiration
and intelligence he made up for by being both exceptionally devious and
ruthless.  He'd see her in jail if he wanted to, and she had no doubt
that if it meant some creative use of evidence that he wouldn't hesitate
to do it.

And Brody Mercher?  There was a turn up for the books.  Sure, he still
looked like a two-bit private dick in a fake suit, he sure still lived
like it, but the suits were real now and he wasn't the putty in her
hands he'd once been.  She used to know exactly how to press his
buttons, she could never have kept so much about her clients from him
for so long while they were partners if she didn't, but apart from a few
twitches just now he had done as much as slam the door in her face when
she left.  Alison Mallarme wasn't used to men doing that, and didn't
like it one bit.

She straightened herself at the wheel, retreived her phone and gunned
the engine.  When she glanced in the rear-view mirror she saw her face
taut in a manner she didn't like and forced herself to relax somewhat. 
Brody Mercher on one side, Alan Barth on the other.  Not a good place
for a girl to be, but she'd came through a lot worse before.  She felt
her anger start to focus itself into something she could work with.  If
Brody hadn't been so utterly dismissive then maybe she would have tried
to work on Barth, but not now.  He had insulted her professionally, and
showed an almost complete lack of interest personally, and that wouldn't
do.  As she drove the car away down the street her mind was whirring. 
Brody would get his.

Mallarme waited at a stop light.  She relaxed her white-knuckled grip on
her steering wheel.  Her expression smoothed.  Yes, sometimes the old
ways were indeed the best.  Barth would learn better than to try to
threaten her into a job she might have done willingly -- for a price.

She drove a while longer, then pulled over to a pay phone.  She had a
phenomenal memory for trivia about her clients, since she didn't dare
keep her records closer than Canada or Mexico.  Unlike Mercher, she had
spent a great deal of money and time on her security systems, and knew
that nothing would keep out someone truly dedicated.  Her office was
riddled with false safes and hair trigger alarms for when she wasn't
present, but still.  There was no such thing as too much paranoia in
this business.

Which was why she wasn't using her abused cell phone.  She didn't want
this traceable.

"Hi, Bobby?" she purred into the phone.  "Ally here.  You know that
money your brother owes?  Yes, that money.  I can arrange for it to be
forgotten if you do me the tiniest favour.  Much less of a favour than
those sharks want to do for his legs.  Meet me at the Frog in an hour? 
Wear something nice.  Thank you darling, bye."

Mallarme took a complicated route to the Frog to make sure she wasn't
tailed, although she thought Barth would be too smug to bother having
her followed.  She'd chosen it because it was out of Barth's immediate
jurisdiction.  After parking, she shrugged on a drab gray trenchcoat and
pinned her hair back in a ponytail.  Made her look about nineteen but
still too grim for the bouncers to check her age.

Bobby was someone she'd cultivated back in high school for her
attractiveness and malleability.  They weren't in touch often now, but
Mallarme had done a lot to keep Bobby's worthless brother out of hock or
jail.  One never knew when a cheap favour or two would ease the future.

Tall, blonde, busty, the woman looked like a slightly shopworn Barbie
doll.  Barth had a noted weakness for blondes and Bobby would be
perfect.

"Thank you so much,"  Mallarme said, patting Bobby's hand with her
gloved one.  "You're the only person who can do this for me, Bobby, and
it'll help me, oh so much."

Bobby nodded and smiled, flashing teeth that had been the envy of
cheerleaders the school round.  "Anything I can do for you, Ally," she
bubbled.

"It's very simple," Mallarme said, taking a slim case from her pocket,
riffling through it, finding a photo of Alan Barth and sliding it across
the battered tabletop.  "This guy?  He's a cop.  I need you to make nice
with him for a couple of hours."

Bobby glanced down at her wedding ring and said carefully, "How nice,
Ally?  You know I can't be doing the stuff we were doing back in school.
 Doug'd kill me."

Mallarme smiled patiently.  "I'd never ask you to do anything against
your principles, silly girl, trust Ally.  Just do what you have to do to
get him to take you to a motel.  You're clever, you don't have to let
him get away with much."

Bobby nodded reluctantly, then broke into a grin.  "Oh Ally, it's just
like high school!" she giggled.

Right, Mallarme thought.  Whatever you have to think.  Just nail this
bastard.

"I'm going to give you a bottle of scotch," Mallarme said aloud.  "Don't
drink any of it yourself.  Just get him to.  It'll knock him out.  Then
go to a pay phone -- don't call me from the motel room -- and phone me. 
I'll take care of the rest."

"Sure thing, Ally," Bobby agreed.  "You've done so much for me that I'm
glad I can help you sometimes."

Mallarme took the photo back after she was confident Bobby would
recognize Barth, then said, "He usually goes to The Slither after work
to pick up girls.  He'll be there in forty-five minutes.  I'll call Doug
and let him know you're over at my place because I just broke up with my
boyfriend and you're helping me through it.  You can remember that?"

Bobby nodded again.  "Just like the old days," she repeated.  Pretty
idiot, Mallarme thought.

She left the Frog and sped over to the twenty-four hour garage where she
kept her spare cars.  Mallarme cycled through vehicles like most women
go through shoes.  Then she went to Rockwood Heights, a building that
might've been considered tall when it was built, but was now dwarfed by
gleaming towers in all other directions.  Where Annie lived.

It was even easier to break into Annie's apartment than it had been to
get into Mercher's.  Mallarme was disgusted with them both.  Annie was
asleep in her bedroom, surrounded by discarded silk and lace.  So much
the better, Mallarme thought, should the press get at this place.

She dosed Annie's sleeping form with an ether cocktail designed to
simulate drunkenness and impair the memory of the victim.  Fitted a long
red wig over her dark hair, slung her trenchcoat over her arm, and
unbuttoned her shirt just enough to show most of her cleavage.  Some
brassy lipstick finished the picture.  Always give potential witnesses
something more memorable than your face.  The wig hung right to cover
most of her features in any case.

"Come on, honey," she whispered, hefting Annie up and slapping her just
hard enough to bring her around.  Annie mumbled.  The two women lurched
toward the door and made surprisingly quick time down the stairs. 
Mallarme put the Annie in the back seat of her car.  Fed her a little
more ether.  Now there was nothing to do but call Doug, and then wait
until the cell phone rang, an hour and a half later.

"We're at the Moonlight Motel," Bobby whispered.  "Room 12.  I did
good?"

"Yes, Bobby," Mallarme said.  "Thank you.  You can go home now."

She swaggered up to room 12 with Annie on her arm, giggling, flashing
her cleavage to what few passersby there were, and fielded two questions
about their rates.  "My friend's a l'il drunk," she said to one, "and we
got a date already.  Maybe some other time."  She took the guy's phone
number.  Didn't recognize him, but who knew who he might be?

From there it was a simple matter to strip Annie and Barth and arrange
both in a suitably compromising position.  From here she could destroy
Barth's career, implicate Tersicord in police corruption, or cause a
rift between Annie and Mercher.  Or any combination of those.

Life was good when revenge and work came together like this, she
thought.  Decisions, decisions.

Barth arrived late to work the next morning.  His head still swam a
little from the previous night, and he was starting to think that maybe
he should start taking things a little easier.  He remembered little
about what happened after he had left work after a very long day, and in
fact had only vague recollections of dragging himself from the motel
room and driving home.  That was a pity, the chick had been hot, and
very open-minded from the way she'd been lying when he woke, but that
was about as intimate as his recollections went.  His memory of the
almost empty whiskey bottle on the night stand was vague too, but it was
enough to have him a little worried.  It had been a long time since he'd
allowed himself to get so out of control, and it wasn't a good sign. 
Perhaps he was taking this Tersicord case too seriously.

He stomped through the outer offices, acknowledging the greetings of his
subordinates with a grunt at most.  When he was in his own office with
the door closed behind him he threw his coat on the desk and slumped
into his chair.  His head was pounding, and he had reached for the
bottle in the bottom drawer before he realised what he was doing and
snatched his hand back.  Maybe he'd take a break when this case was done
with.

It was mid-morning when he reached for the large envelope that had been
near the bottom of his mail.  A square white label had his name and
title printed on it in small letters.  His head had mostly cleared by
now, and his earlier emotions of worry and uncertainty had been replaced
by his more usual irritability and loathing for paperwork, so it was
with a disinterested flick of his wrist that he sliced the envelope with
his Police Association letter opener.  He shook the contents onto his
desk and felt his eyes bulge from his head as he scanned the glossy
photographic display arranged before him.  A lot of things suddenly came
clear in his mind and he cursed himself for being such a fool.  He
flicked through all of the prints, the whole scene seeming unreal, as if
it was happening to someone else.  This could ruin him.  No, more than
that, this could ruin and totally humiliate him.  Alan Barth had stepped
on enough toes and punched enough faces in his time that not many people
would weep if that was to happen.  Which raised the question of who was
behind it.  The girl looked vaguely familiar, not just from last night
but he knew he had seen her before somewhere.  Or maybe that was just
his imagination.  He examined the envelope more closely, searching for
some kind of identifying mark, and as he turned it over in his hand a
small slip of paper fell from it and landed atop one of the photographs.
 Barth lifted it by an edge, his stomach seeming to want to shoot up his
body.

"With compliments of the Torchlight Foundation."

Barth stared at the words as if there was a danger of them jumping from
the paper and attacking him.  The Torchlight Foundation was a charitable
fund that ran a number of locations across the city for the treatment of
alcoholics.  The bleeding hearts said it had done remarkable work in the
four years since it had been established.  It's chief donor and
supporter was Augustine Tersicord.  Barth felt a chill run up his spine.
 This proved the old man was every bit as rotten as Barth had believed,
but that was little consolation.  Barth didn't stop himself this time
when he felt his hand reach for the bottom drawer.

***

Mallarme would have given just about anything to see Alan Barth's face
when he opened the package.  She had been up late the previous night
putting everything in place, but now she knew everything was well
underway she allowed herself a small smug smile as she sat in her
office, first drink of the day in hand.  She had resisted her initial
urge of simply mailing the pictures to the local scandal sheet with some
degree of difficulty, but now was glad she had.  If both Barth and
Brody's dumb secretary were ruined by the story appearing in such a way
questions would be asked about who was responsible for it, and no matter
what she thought of the new Brody Mercher she wasn't going to believe he
wouldn't at least suspect her.  Barth suspected everyone of everything
as a matter of course, so a little muddying of the water had been
needed.  She had dropped three sets of the prints into mailboxes in the
early hours of the morning, and of course had secreted several copies
elsewhere as insurance. As well as to Barth himself, she had sent sets
to Tersicord and Annie, and now looked forward to watching the chaos
from a safe distance.  Barth would have had all his suspicions about
Tersicord confirmed, and would be feeling cornered, which meant he would
probably do something rash and stupid.  Mallarme didn't know if
Tersicord was crooked, she had never seen evidence that he was, but
didn't believe the man could be so successful and be as honest as he
claimed.  It didn't matter though.  If he was bent then he'd use the
photos to hang Barth by the balls, and if he was straight he may feel
obliged to make them public as part of his civic duty, nicely focusing
on him any attention that may have leaked her way. Either way, once he
realised the photographs showed the cop who was hounding him with his
star detective's secretary, which shouldn't be long as her enclosed note
had identified Annie, Tersicord wasn't likely to put much more work
Brody's way.

Annie had been the recipient of the final set of prints, largely to try
and keep her quiet until things exploded one way or another.  It had
been necessary to use her to make this work as sweetly as it was, but
since most people aren't used to waking up in a motel room after going
to sleep in their own bed, the risk had been her wondering too quickly
what had happened, or more importantly who had made it happen.  If shame
at the photographs and confusion could keep Annie quiet for a day or
two, then it shouldn't matter who she told after that.

Mallarme sat back in her chair, stretched out her long legs and sighed.
Brody Mercher was going to find that nothing good came of rejecting her
advances.

Annie woke late, her head fuzzy and throbbing from the drugs,
disoriented as hell.  She sat up slowly and then lay back down.  Where
the hell was she?  Lying on a disordered cheap chenille bedspread and a
hard pillow in a room with ugly green walls and uglier brown carpet.  A
motel room?  How did she get here?

Her eyes lit on the open bathroom door and she forced herself upright,
to stagger in, fill a plastic cup with tap water and drink it down. 
Slowly.  Little baby sips.  Her stomach felt empty or she would've
welcomed being sick.  Her head began to clear.

Mallarme had thoughtfully left Annie's trenchcoat and handbag, so that
the woman wouldn't have to call Mercher for a lift, and wouldn't be so
suspicious of having been carted here.  Some previously worn slinky
clothes from Annie's wardrobe were strewn on the floor, including a torn
brassiere.  Her lipstick was smeared over the pillowcases; a nice touch,
Mallarme had thought.

Annie sat down on the bed, trying to piece together what had happened. 
She saw the empty whiskey bottle, picked it up, stared at it.  Had she
gone on a bender and picked up some guy?  There was short dark hair on
the pillow that was definitely not hers.

The shower was scalding hot and that blew more cobwebs from her head. 
Brody must not find out, she thought.  How could he trust her if she was
getting hammered and picking up guys and not even remembering it?  She
dried herself hurriedly, dressed, and started cleaning the room, then
tucked the whiskey bottle in her handbag.  She'd call Brody from home
and tell him she was sick; it was close enough to true.

Annie walked eight blocks west before hailing a taxi home.  Mallarme had
thoughtfully stuffed cab fare into Annie's purse.  She was still trying
to understand what had happened to her but it wasn't becoming any
clearer.  The cab pulled up by the concrete steps to her building. 
Inside.  Get the mail, pretend you're normal, Annie.  The stairs were
enough to make her break out in a clammy sweat but she wanted to burn
the rest of the poison out of her system.  Only one more landing, she
kept telling herself.  And another one more landing.

The triple locks on her door were almost beyond her ability to cope and
she found herself near tears before it burst open.  She hit the speed
dial for Brody and sifted through her mail.  There was a large white
envelope with her name and address printed on it.  Strange.  She slit it
open with her nails.

"Brody Mercher," she heard, tinny through the phone.  He sounded
irritable and harried.

"Brody, it's me, Annie.  I..." A handful of glossy prints spilled onto
her couch.

"Oh, hell, Annie, I've been trying to reach you all morning, kid, what
happened?"

Her throat closed.  "I just woke up a bit ago," she rasped.  "Bad
headache and feel terrible.  I don't know what happened."  All of this
was true.  The prints stared lewdly up at her.  The other person in them
looked oddly familiar, but she couldn't quite place him yet.

"You want me to bring you anything?" Brody's voice was solicitous and
concerned.

"No!  I mean, I don't want to take you away from the office.  You've got
work to do."

"I'll bring you some chicken soup in an hour.  It's almost lunch anyhow,
and I'd just drink it if I was let to."

"Okay," Annie whispered.  Tears spattered down onto the glossies.

"I'll see you soon, kid, keep your chin up."  The phone clicked dead in
her hand.  At least her red eyes and puffy cheeks would make her look
sicker.

The temptation was strong just to burn the photos and throw away the
bottle.  "No!" she said aloud.  "There's something funny here."  She
tucked the photos in her lingerie drawer and put the bottle in the
middle of some other bottles she kept for when Brody came by.  She
didn't drink much herself, except socially.

***

Something had been tugging at Mallarme's mind as she fixed herself a
second highball.  Something she'd overlooked?  Everything should be in
plain motion.  She screwed the cap onto the mostly empty bottle and then
blanched.  That damn empty bottle.  She had left it to confuse them. 
But now... she needed to know what had become of it.

***

It was nearer to two hours later when a haggard-looking Brody Mercher
knocked on Annie's door, the simple act a challenge as he tried to do it
without sending his armful of goodies spilling across the hallway. 
There was no answer, and after a few moments he rapped once more, the
hand that did it having to snap at a magazine that started to slip from
his grasp. "Hey Annie," he called, feeling somewhat silly at talking to
a door, "it's me, Brody, let me in kid?"

"Brody?" came a faint reply from within the apartment, in a voice
seeming too small to be Annie's.

"Yeah, it's me Annie, you going to let me in or do you want me to stand
here until I finally drop all this stuff?"  Brody tried to make his
voice jolly, Annie sounded like she really was ill, and she could
probably do with cheering up.  The sounds of several locks turning
preceded the opening of the door a crack, and Brody saw a puffy red eye
appear and then the noise of a security chain being released.  Damn, but
Annie protected her place better than he did.  Maybe if he'd been half
as conscientious Mallarme couldn't have broken his place so easily, but
he'd started improving his security this morning.  Plus, Mallarme was a
pro, if she wanted to get in somewhere she would.

He walked into Annie's apartment, and tried to hide his shock at his
first full sight of her as she quickly moved to lock the door.  She
looked gaunt and pale, her eyes swollen, bloodshot and rimmed red.  "God
kid," he blurted, "you look terrible."

Annie turned to face him and just nodded slightly.  "I feel terrible,"
she said softly, then moved to help Brody set his armful of items on the
coffee table.  Annie's apartment was quite small, the lounge they stood
in being the largest of it's five rooms.  What it lacked in size though,
she had more than made up for in the decor, with the furnishings being
plain yet carefully chosen.  It was a place it was easy to relax in.

Brody couldn't help but feel slightly smug at the selection of packages
now arrayed on the table.  It had taken him so long to get here because
he kept thinking of something else to bring for Annie, and had only
stopped buying when he could carry no more.  He stomped ruthlessly on a
stray thought that asked him just why he was being so solicitous to her
just as he had done to the thought of a few moments ago that had him
feeling very worried for her in a most disturbing way.  He motioned
Annie to sit on the couch, the quilt bunched on it showing that she had
been lying there before his arrival.  She did as he bid and he started
the presentation.

He had brought magazines, the ones women read that always seemed to be
about sex.  He hated to think she would be bored.  Brody couldn't
remember the last time he'd visited a florist, and still shook a little
from the experience, but Annie seemed genuinely touched by the small
bouquet of freshly-scented tulips that he'd bought from the little place
across the street from the office.  There was a selection of cold and
flu remedies from the pharmacy, ranging from simple painkillers to
vitamin rich drinks to scented candles that Brody had felt very dubious
about but had been convinced by the assistant of their soothing
qualities.  He had thrown himself at the task of finding nice things to
bring her to such an extent that he had almost forgotten the original
idea of bringing something to eat.  So he had brought food.  Lots of it.
 The promised chicken soup, thick and rich, and containing what Brody
believed to be real chicken. Some doughnuts, several danish pastries,
and what he knew to be her favourite, a small box of Belgian chocolates.

After he had unwrapped and displayed everything, he took a step back and
waited to see Annie's reaction.  It wasn't what he expected.  She burst
into tears, bent over with her head in her hands.  Brody moved to sit
beside her, her body shaking with long wracking sobs.  He placed a hand
on her shoulder and she recoiled from him as if stung.  "I'm sorry
Brody," she managed through her tears, "I'm so so sorry."

Brody kept his voice level and soft, feeling very unsure of what to say,
when it came to women he always seemed to either say the things they
didn't want to hear or not say those they did.  "Hey ki.. Annie, it's
okay, you're ill, we're all allowed to get sick at times.  The office
didn't collapse totally this morning without you, not that I don't want
you there of course.  I'm worried though, shouldn't you see a doctor if
you're feeling this bad?"

Annie raised her head slowly and looked straight into Brody's eyes.  For
an instant he thought he saw her face acquire that look he had come to
know quite well, the one she adopted when she realised he had missed
something completely obvious and was about to point out to him.  That
couldn't be now though, and anyhow the look vanished as quickly as it
had appeared.  Annie wiped at her eyes with her fingers and then with
Brody's proffered handkerchief.  "I'm sorry," she said again, though
much more lightly now, "I'm just feeling pretty rotten and it's getting
to me a little.  I think it's just a bug though, probably one of those
twenty-four hour things, I'm sure I'll be fine tomorrow."  She tried a
smile and looked at the food on the table.  "Shouldn't we eat this soup
before it gets cold?"

So they ate, following the soup with the pastries and ending up on a few
chocolates.  Brody told Annie about the events of the morning, which had
probably been one of the busiest they'd ever had.  "You know," Brody
said with a smile, "a year ago I would have been ecstatic at getting
half as much business in a week as I got offered this morning, and right
now all I'm thinking is that maybe it wasn't really so bad back then."

Annie looked scornful as she took another chocolate from the box, "yes
it was Brody, you weren't the one who had to bat her eyelashes at the
landlord and ask him for another week to find the rent for the office
while you hid under the desk."

Brody cleared his throat and had the grace to look slightly abashed.
"Uhmm, well maybe it wasn't all that great, but.. well, you said it
yourself yesterday that this is a whole new ballgame for us, and it's
hard to learn the rules.  I guess what I'm saying is that the politics
of high-flying businessmen I have more problems understanding than the
habits of some guy pushing drugs at work.. hey what's up?  Mouth not
working properly?"  Brody nodded to the half eaten chocolate that had
fallen from Annie's wide-open mouth to her lap.

"No, it's nothing," she murmured in a distracted voice, "I was just
realising just how much we've moved on.  I really can't thank you enough
for everything you've brought me Brody, but would you mind if I went and
lay down again?  I think sleep is best for me right now."

Brody looked at his watch and realised he'd been there well over an
hour. "I'm sorry Annie, damn, I didn't mean to tire you, and I guess I
should get back to the grind, I really need to try and spend some hours
on Tersicord's latest case."  He stood and gathered his coat as she
walked him to the door.  "I'll give you a call tonight, and you stay at
home tomorrow if you're not feeling better you hear?"

Annie smiled at Brody and raised on her tiptoes and kissed him lightly
on the cheek.  "Thanks Brody," she said in a voice deep with sincerity,
"I really appreciate it.  I have a feeling I'll feel much better
tomorrow though."

Brody nodded dumbly and stepped into the hallway, the door clicking
behind him.  He stood with his fingers on his cheek where her lips had
touched him until he realised what he was doing and headed towards the
stairs with a curse, a cold sweat starting to form on his back.

***

Annie was running to her address book almost before the door fully
clicked shut.  She pulled the brown leather volume from her purse and
flipped to near the back, flicking quickly over pages until she found
the name she was searching for.  Steve Randal was an old acquaintance of
Brody's who had done some work for them a few times.  He ran a lab on
the east side that did analysis for the city council, determining what
nasties were lurking in food sold in the eating establishments that had
unorthodox attitudes to hygiene, but also did some contract work on the
side to help subsidise his income.  Brody didn't need his services
often, but occasionally something would come up that Steve could help
with, like the time last year he'd helped them snag the guy trying to
speed up his inheritance of his uncle's estate by pumping poison into
his food.  That was the type of case the private dicks took to Steve,
ones involving poisons, or drugs.  Annie looked at the empty whiskey
bottle, it's top just visible in the forest of glass.  Drugs.  Brody's
casual mention had clicked the jigsaw together and congealed her feeling
that the situation was fishy, and now she half-wondered how she couldn't
see it before.  It didn't matter.  She had a better idea what was going
on, and suspected that a visit to Steve could prove her suspicions.  The
only questions left were who and why, and on those she had no idea
whatsoever.  One step at a time though.  She quickly showered and
dressed, her feelings of shame and horror changing into anger and
determination.

***

Alan Barth spent the hours after receiving the photographs in his
office, turning away those who wanted to speak to him with a brief word,
not even taking the time to scream at them.  He kept replaying what he
could remember of the previous night in his mind and staring at the
glossy prints, trying to use them to plug the holes in his memory.  He
felt scared, an emotion that he knew little of, and initially he was
incapable of doing anything to counter it.  At around lunchtime though,
his attitude changed somewhat, moving from that of the deer in the
headlights to that of the cornered rat.  Tersicord wanted to grind him
underfoot, that much was plain, and Barth reckoned that this kind of
inactivity was what the crook wanted.  Doubtless the old man hoped the
photographs would scare Barth off, make him scale back his
investigations, and then a little further down the line the photographs
would doubtless appear in some scandal rag anyway, making sure Barth was
off the case permanently.  If he kept his investigations going now, then
that day would come all the sooner.  Either way, Tersicord had him by
the balls and sooner or later the squeeze would come.  Barth wasn't
about to sit by and let that happen. The problem though was what he
could do about it.  He stared once more at the photographs.  The only
leads he had were the girl and the motel.  It wasn't obvious how he
could track down the girl, though he still had the feeling he had seen
her before, so that left that seedy motel.  He doubted he could learn
much from it, but right now it was the best he could do.

The Moonlight Motel was not an attractive building.  A squat concrete
structure, it resembled a run-down prison more than a motel.  Barth had
been here more than once, but never in the daytime and despite himself
he winced somewhat.  It wasn't on a particularly busy road, there were
no major attractions nearby and if you asked right they rented rooms by
the hour.  The Moonlight made most of its income from housing discrete
sexual encounters, or at least mostly discrete ones.

The desk clerk didn't seem to recognise him, all the better, and was on
the verge of asking what he wanted when Barth flashed his badge and gave
the man a lot of the frustration he'd been building all morning.  Within
two minutes he had the guestbook in one hand and the keys to room twelve
in the other.  The signature in the book was Barth's own, though in a
different name of course.  He had doubted his companion would have been
quite so careless, but it had been worth the try.  The clerk wrung his
hands and said that the room had been cleaned and nothing had been
found, but Barth ignored him and walked to the room.  He knew just how
little cleaning the rooms meant in this place.

Barth spent over an hour in the room, finding nothing as he had expected
after a most cursory search, but that wasn't what his hopes were on.  He
pulled the fingerprint kit from his briefcase and painstakingly took
prints from every smooth surface he thought likely to have anything
useful.  He paid particular attention to the glasses, and was excited to
see clear sets on both the tumblers by the bed.  He took more from door
handles and light switches, and was feeling slightly hopeful when he
left.

His good mood almost evaporated as he drove from the motel, as some
woman came within a hairsbreadth of ploughing her car into his.  He had
his hand on the door lever before he decided not to bother, he had more
important things to worry about than some bimbo who couldn't drive.  He
made a universally understood hand gesture to her, she seemed curled
over her steering wheel from the shock and stomped on the accelerator,
speeding off down the road.

***

Alison Mallarme took deep breaths, her heart pounding and her entire
body shaking, curls from her flame-red wig bouncing before her eyes. 
She had almost killed herself there, and probably Alan Barth with it. 
She had just been so utterly shocked by seeing him as she drove into the
Moonlight that she had sat mouth agape as their cars almost collided. 
Had he recognised her?  She looked into the rear view mirror and down at
herself and doubted it, she looked very different, and she had tried to
curl up in her seat so as not to give him any kind of view of her face. 
No, he probably hadn't, he would have come at her if he had, no doubt
about that. She felt another stab of panic as she wondered how traceable
this car was to her.  Would he have noted the registration?  It was the
sort of thing Alan Barth would do.  Then the full horror of it all hit
her, that he quite possibly had the incriminating whiskey bottle, her
licence number and wasn't stupid enough not to be able to put it all
together.  She felt herself shake harder.


***

Outside was a marbled white and blue sky with a gusty wind full of dust.
 Annie dodged three suicidal pedestrians, two leashless dogs, and an
executive packing a cellphone in one hand and a sandwich in the other,
on her way to Randal's lab.  Although she'd already handled the whisky
bottle, she'd wrapped it carefully in a pillowcase to keep fingerprints
from smearing much more.

Randal's offices were on a quiet side street downtown, conveniently on
the edge of a bad neighborhood, but just respectable enough to keep the
air from being full of car alarms.  He worked in a blocky tan one story
building with glass doors, khaki walls, and cracked speckled tile. 
There was no sign on the door; anybody needing his services that badly
would know how to find him, and he didn't need work enough to advertise.
 "I like keeping it personal," he'd said once.

Annie found him in the back room eating a tuna salad sandwich.  He was
short, wiry, with fuzzy straw coloured hair that flopped in his eyes. 
"Oh, hi Annie," he said, "gosh, you look less than your normal lovely
self today."

Annie plastered a bright smile on her face.  "Just a little cold.  You
got a few minutes to run something for me?"

"Sure thing, slow day.  I wrapped up some wetland soil analysis faster
than I expected so I've got time all over.  What do you need?"

Annie set the bottle down, gingerly, on the table in front of Randal. 
"This was probably doped.  I need a print check on it too but I didn't
have the tools handy.  Do you..."

Randal nodded, chewing and swallowing the last of his sandwich.  "Yeah,
I picked up the stuff for that a few years ago.  I'm not that good at it
though, so unless there's a clean print, I won't have much luck.  You
sure you want me to try?"

Annie nodded firmly.  "You have to be better at it than I am."  She
forced a light laugh.

"Why don't you just get Brody to do it?"

"He's in meetings with clients all week."  She shrugged.  "I want to get
a search on these prints as fast as possible."

"Okay, let's see what I can do."

"I'll wait while you do that."

Mallarme had wiped the bottle quite clean, then wrapped both Annie and
Barth's hands around it.  Despite the smudging, Randal was able to pull
several clean prints off the glass.  "Wonderful!"  Annie exclaimed when
he told her, throwing her arms around him and leaving a lipsticky kiss
on his cheek.  Randal blushed.

"I, uh, hope you're lucky, with those prints, uh, finding out who they
belong to," he mumbled.  "What else did you want?"

"I need you to run a test on what's left in the bottle.  It's probably
doped.  I'm not sure what with, though."

Randal nodded, still bright red and conscious of her proximity. 
"That'll take a bit longer.  You'll probably want to come back later
this afternoon, say around five.  I'll get right on it though!"

Annie flashed Randal a real, wide smile, and he caught his breath. 
"Thank you so much," she breathed, taking the card with the prints on
it.  "I'll see you later."  She hurried off with a spring in her step. 
Randal watched her sway until she was out of sight.  He sighed, glanced
at the bottle, shrugged, and went to work.

Now it was a matter of finding who the prints belonged to.  Annie
expected this to dead end; despite government promises that every print
would be available electronically there were still vast stacks of dusty
cards buried in underground offices.  She wasn't expecting Paula to find
out in seconds.  "Here ya go," Paula said, cracking her gum, wrapping
her curly red hair around a nail-bitten fingertip.  "Says Alan Steven
Barth.  A cop, eh?  Hey, I know this guy!  Real rat bastard.  What ya
after him for?"

Annie stared in horror at the printed tearsheet Paula had given her. 
Barth?  Barth had done this?  She started to shake.  "Thanks Paula," she
managed.  "Bill the office."  High heels were hard to run in, but Annie
was suddenly learning how.

***

Alan Barth was much more hopeful of turning up print matches fast, being
willing to browbeat anybody he needed to in order to get results.  "I
want these on my desk in an hour!" he snarled, almost reducing the clerk
to tears.  Then he stormed back into his office, feeling quite satisfied
indeed, and was getting settled in his chair when the phone rang.

"Barth," he said, almost expansive, opening his bottom drawer and
unscrewing a bottle.

"Sir, I, uhm, I have a print match for you sir," the clerk he'd
terrorized moments before mumbled.

"Well, spit it out, please, I don't have all day."  He tipped a medium
sized slosh into his glass and considered whether he wanted more.

"Sir, I, ah, sir, they're your prints, sir."

Barth froze.  "All of them?" he barked.

"Yes, sir, all of them.  No other prints, sir."

He filled his glass and carefully set the bottle down.  "That will be
all," he said tonelessly and hung up.

***

Annie sat on the wooden park bench, her coat pulled tight around her to
try and cut out some of the early evening chill.  The park was almost
deserted this close to dusk, and the few people left hurried about their
business, none but a handful even noticing her sitting amidst the unruly
tangle of bushes.  The cold wasn't the only reason she shook.  Would he
come?  She hoped he wouldn't, wished she didn't have to do this, but saw
no other choice.  She shoved her hands deep into her pockets and her
left hand found once again the small piece of paper the contents she
could picture perfectly by now.  Steve Randal had been true to his word
and had the test completed just before five o'clock, and the results
were what she held in her stiff fingers.  The whiskey was drugged, in a
major way.  The concoction was a nasty piece of work, rendering the
victim in a state similar to extreme drunkenness but also left them
utterly pliable.  No wonder she had been doing those.. things with
Barth, with a dose similar to what was in the whiskey Randal had said a
person would be like a rag doll, just flop them whatever way you wanted.
 She wished she could remember how it all had started, how he had gotten
her to take the first of it, but her memory was a total blank.  Another
effect of the chemical with the seven syllable name.  Christ but it was
evil.

Annie looked at her wristwatch yet again.  Four minutes since last she
had checked it.  He was ten minutes late.  Perhaps he wouldn't show, her
heart leapt at the thought, but her stomach did a leap of its own when
she realised where that would leave her.  She looked down the path in
both directions and jolted upright as she saw Alan Barth striding
purposefully towards her.

***

Barth had sat in his office for an hour after the woman had called,
Annie was her name it seemed, trying to put the pieces together.  This
puzzle had been changing all day, and every time he thought he knew what
picture was to be revealed the whole thing turned on its head.  When he
had picked up the phone to hear a female voice demanding to talk to him
about the photographs his throat had tightened, all his fears of
blackmail and coercion seeming to coalesce before his very eyes.  The
terror that gripped him had quickly turned into incredulity as the woman
started demanding to know why he was doing this to her and what he
wanted from her.  He was so completely unprepared for such a turn of
events that he half-expected her to read his shock from his incoherent
utterances.  But Alan Barth was adaptable if nothing else and within a
few minutes had taken control of the situation and confirmed that the
woman did indeed believe him to be blackmailing her.  She didn't want
Brody to know, which had clicked another piece into place, the vague
familiarity of the figure in the photographs suddenly became clear to
him.  He had realised that they were talking on an insecure line and
arranged this meeting, giving himself a few hours to try and collect his
thoughts.  Obviously he wasn't the only target here, but if Mercher's
secretary didn't know that then perhaps, just perhaps he could turn this
around.

Barth walked up to Annie and sat beside her without a word, his hand
tight around the pistol in his pocket.  He was taking no chances.

He turned to look at Annie and smiled, the motion never touching his
eyes. "nice evening," he said casually.  The provocation had the desired
effect.

"Cut the shit Barth," Annie hissed, her anger bringing red blotches to
her otherwise pale face.  "Just tell me what the hell you want and get
it over with."  She slumped back against the bench, her momentary
bravado quickly departing.  Barth thought he saw tears starting to well
in her eyes.  All the better.

"I want your help with a case I'm working on," Barth leaned towards her
as he spoke, his voice low though no-one was within sight let alone
earshot. "You're going to help me nail that bastard Tersicord."

*** Annie made her way home for the second time that day through a haze
of tears that wanted to be shed.  She had heard Brody and others talk
about how nasty Alan Barth was, but their worst suspicions didn't even
amount to a scratch on his putrid surface.  The man was.. words failed
her at just how low Barth was willing to stoop to get what he wanted. 
She arrived at her apartment and threw herself on the bed, the sobs
finally released. How had Barth possibly guessed how close she felt to
Brody?  Had he, or was his plan merely to use this in a way that she
felt threatened her job? She didn't know, and it really didn't matter. 
He wanted her to tell him what Brody was doing for Tersicord, let him
know about when they met and start sending him copies of the files.  If
she refused, Brody would get a set of the pictures, the shame of which
would kill her, and another set would go to Tersicord, with enough
information to almost certainly make him fire Brody.  She had been so
enraged by what Barth was demanding that she had threatened to send the
pictures to the newspaper and destroy both their careers but Barth had
just fixed her with that cold smile of his and told her that if that
happened Brody wouldn't see the next dawn.  If the bastard hadn't known
of her feelings for Brody the strength of her reactions had signposted
it for him.

Annie got up and walked to the lounge, grabbing one of the bottles she
kept for Brody and a glass and took them back to the bedroom.  She
didn't stop until she passed out.

***

Alan Barth's drinking was much more satisfying.  He had went back to the
office from the park, and sat at his desk with a selection of files on
Tersicord arrayed before him.  He took another mouthful and sat back in
his chair, swirling it around his mouth.  He could do it.  With
Mercher's files and advance warning of his exploits Barth should be able
to throw such a case at Tersicord that the man's head would spin.  The
old man had been too clever for his own good, setting up this elaborate
scheme to keep both himself and the chick in line for whatever reason
was going to backfire on him horribly.  If Barth could charge Tersicord
with enough serious offences it would be a big story, the biggest of the
year by far. If those photographs then found themselves in the hands of
the press, well then it would seem like a dirty trick campaign by
Tersicord to discredit Barth.  Sure it would be embarrassing, but he
could weather it.  If he could don the mantle of someone fighting
against big-time crooks then Tersicord's minions would be crazy to try
and use the photographs then, it would only make the man look worse. 
Yes, this was turning out to be a good day after all.

*** Mercher slept badly that night.  The day had been far too busy, full
of executives in suits and their secretaries, all wanting a piece of his
time.  Six months was nowhere near long enough to adjust.  When his
phone rang at eight in the morning, his first instinct was to ignore it,
roll over, and go back to sleep.  But then he thought it might be Annie,
so odd that she was sick and maybe she needed something, so he answered
it.

"May I speak to Brody Mercher please," Tersichord's secretary, Sarah
Delisle, said.  Her voice was indecently crisp.

"You ought to know my voice by now," he mumbled, then sat up in bed. 
"Ah, sorry, Mercher speaking."

"Mister Mercher.  Mister Tersicord would like to speak with you at your
earliest possible convenience.  When may I tell him you are available?"

What the hell?  Mercher thought.  Tersicord usually made appointments
days, sometimes weeks in advance.  The old man was so busy that for his
schedule to crack open like this was unheard of.

"I can be down in an hour," he said uncomfortably.

"Hold one moment, please."  The line went silent.  "Yes, Mister
Tersicord will expect you in one hour precisely.  Good day, Mister
Mercher."  Now the phone was dead in his hand.

Mercher stood under the shower for the maximum span he possibly could. 
It was his favorite place to think; the body did what it needed to do
and left his mind loose.  Tersicord's secretary was never so abrupt with
him.  Usually they swapped some banter on the phone.  Today it was like
she didn't want to admit he existed.

He dressed quickly after wiping the stubble from his face.  In a suit as
expensive as it was simple, that Annie had helped him select, he felt 
more like a private investigator deserving of the vast sums Tersicord
had channeled into his accounts.  He wanted a drink but decided he'd
better go sober.

The day was overcast and hot.  Sweat was running down Mercher's face by
the time he got to Tersicord's offices.  He stopped just long enough to
mop dry with one of the white linen handkerchiefs Annie made him start
carrying.  He'd have to call her as soon as he got out, check on her.

The building was blessedly cool inside.  Long drooping ferns sprawled at
the edge of the wide cream marble walkway up to the polished brass
elevators.  "Top floor," Mercher said softly to the elevator attendant,
who pushed a gleaming black button.  "What's that music?"

"The Royal March From "L'Histoire Du Soldat", by Stravinsky, sir."

"Oh.  It's nice."

"Yes, sir."

Mercher stepped out of the elevator, walked to the large double doors
before Tersicord's secretary's office, and opened them.  The second he
was seen, Sarah rushed forward.  "Good to see you, Mister Mercher, come
with me please."  She was blushing and unsteady; twice he had to catch
her when she tripped on the carpet.  She kept tugging her tailored blue
blazer down against her torso.

They staggered in to Tersicord's office, where Mercher received another
shock.  The old man was waiting for him.  There was no cheerful grating
smile.  Mercher gazed uncomfortably back at Tersicord's lined, gray,
grim face.

"That will be all, Sarah.  Hold all calls.  I mean all of them."  Sarah
bobbed her head and hurried out.

Tersicord came around his large, polished, suspiciously clean desk. 
"Sit down," he ordered.  He put a double scotch in Mercher's hand. 
"Drink that.  You are sober, aren't you?  You'll need not to be."

Mercher reflexively gulped half the drink.  "I'm afraid I don't
understand..."

"You will."  Tersicord unlocked the center drawer of his desk and took
out a large white envelope.  "Mistah Merchah, do you know why I employ
you?"

Mercher shook his head once, before he could stop himself, then said,
"No, sir, I don't.  There are a hundred bigger detectives in this town
than I am."

"What do you think of them?"

Mercher shrugged uncomfortably.  "There are a lot of skilled people."

"That's not what I asked."  Tersicord's eyes glinted with impatience. 
He sighed, setting the envelope on top of his desk.  He clasped his
hands behind his back and paced carelessly over a thousand year old
Oriental carpet with bright birds and dark dragons.

"Mistah Merchah, I inherited a great deal of money when I was a young
man.  As young men do, I spent it as fast as I could.  But that became
dull.  Can you understand how that could become dull?"

"I've never had that kind of money," Mercher answered.  "But I could
never do what it took to get it."

"That money freed me, Mistah Merchah, to become what I am now.  Many
hate me, do you know that?  Because I do what they cannot or will not. 
To become as good a man as I could.  To be able to look at my wife
Selena, who I have loved for forty years.  Children and grandchildren. 
Knowing that their lives were never made dirty by my actions." 
Tersicord paused, as though expecting Mercher to speak, and when Mercher
didn't, he went on.

"This has caused me my share of problems.  Not the least of these
problems is that cheap bastard Detective Alan Barth."

"Sir?"

"If I were a tenth the crook Barth wishes I was, I'd have him wiped off
the face of this city.  There are men that kill for money.  But that is
not my way, Mistah Merchah.  Do you understand that?"

Tersicord's chest was thrust out, his hands clenched, eyes like two
glittering fire opals.  He stuck out a forefinger at Mercher, who jumped
in spite of himself.  "This man Barth has gone too far this time.  I
have ignored him and worked around him.  You have done an excellent job
in assisting this.  But now, he has done too much."

"Sir, I wish I knew what you were talking about."

Tersicord seemed to deflate.  His posture sunk into low, swampy lines. 
"Yes.  Of course."  He picked up the envelope and dropped it in
Mercher's lap.  He set a warm hand on Mercher's shoulder.  Mercher
opened the envelope.  Took out the prints.  Stared glassily at the top
one.

"What the hell is this?" he croaked, leaping from his chair, flipping
quickly through them to verify.  Each was worse than the last.  Annie
sprawled with Barth.  Annie completely undressed, which he had never
seen, and never wanted to see this way.  "What the hell is this?"  He
spun, spraying the photos on the carpet, grabbing Tersicord by the
collar, snarling, "Where did you get these?"

Tersicord was calm, taking Mercher's hands in a surprisingly strong
grip, and moving them away.  "My secrahtary opened that envelope
yesterday.  There was a card identifying your secrahtary as the woman. 
The man I knew."

Mercher stared down at the scattered prints, and collapsed back into his
chair.  "Christ," he whispered, "no wonder Annie was so upset
yesterday..."  Then, "She'd been crying.  He made her cry."  Drank the
rest of the scotch and forced himself still.  "Do you want to fire me
now, sir?" he asked, tight with anger.

Tersicord barked a short laugh.  "No, Mistah Merchah, I need you more
than ever.  Barth seems to have a personal dislike of you.  That can be
valuable."

"What do you want done?"

"What needs done.  But keep it clean, Merchah, this must be clean.  I
will not use his ways."  Tersicord sat down heavily.  "Spend as much as
must be spent.  Suspend what else you're doing."

Mercher nodded slowly.  "There's something I have to do first, though."

"What?" the old man snapped.

"I have to go see Annie.  Have to..." Mercher set his glass down
carefully.  "You understand, sir?"

Tersicord gave Mercher the most genuine smile Mercher had ever seen. 
"More than you think.  Go now."

Mercher rose unsteadily, turning his back on Tersicord, on the ancient
antiques and cold lights.  Hand on the burnished brass doorknob, he
stopped, looking back.

"Why did you hire me, sir?"

"Because if you could be bought, you wouldn't have been in that cheap
little office looking for lost cats and purse snatchahs."

Mercher nodded and walked out.

***

"Annie?"  Brody rapped on the door again.  "Annie, I know you're in
there.  I'm not going away until you come out.  Annie!  Kid, open the
door, your neighbors are starting to get mad."

"Go away," she called through the door.  Her voice was an almost
unrecognizable rasp.  "I don't want to see anybody."

"Annie.  I know what happened.  Let me in."  He listened for the locks
turning.  They didn't.  "I'm going to sit out here until you let me in!"

"Let him in," one of Annie's neighbors yelled.  "Or I'm calling the
cops!"

Inside her apartment, Annie blanched at the thought of the police. 
Maybe even Barth.  He'd like that, wouldn't he, an excuse to pick up
Brody.  She threw open the door.

"Oh kid," he whispered.  Her long hair was knotted against her shoulders
and her face was a purple and gray mask.  She had a dark green
terrycloth robe belted tightly around her.

"Come in, damnit," she snarled, grabbing his arm, pulling him in, and
slamming the door shut.  She fumbled the locks closed.

Brody stood helplessly just inside her apartment.  There was a half
empty bottle of brandy on the coffee table.  She smelled of hangover and
like she'd just started drinking again.  "Oh kid," he whispered again. 
"Annie, I..."

"Say what y'came to say.  Fire me.  I don care."  She sprawled on the
couch, staring sullenly up at Brody.  Tried to push her hair out of her
eyes and just mussed it more.  A couple of brandy soaked tears leaked
out of her bloodshot eyes.

Brody sat gingerly down on the other end of the couch.  "I saw the
pictures," he mumbled.

"Like what y'saw?" she spat, holding her robe tight closed at her
throat, folding her body into the corner of her couch.

"Please, Annie... Listen, I, just listen.  Barth sent copies to
Tersicord.  Trying to get me fired I guess.  Just let me finish," he
said as Annie started to speak.  "Teriscord hired me to do whatever it
takes to get Barth, but I have to do it above board."

Annie stared blankly at him.  "You don't think I did it?" she asked, her
voice small and sore.

Brody took her hand.  She almost snatched it away, but then let him hold
it, the bones tense.  "Tersicord never believed it for a second."

"What about you?"  He had to strain to make out the words.

"Aw, kid, Annie, I'd never think you'd do something like that.  Why
didn't you tell me?"

"Never?"  Hope began to brighten her eyes.

"Not for a second."  He tried to smile.  "I mean that, Annie," he said
more seriously, and managed a real smile.

Brody sat on the couch in Annie's apartment, sipping hot strong coffee
and listening to the sound of the running shower coming from the
bathroom. Annie had spent the majority of the two hours since he'd
arrived ricocheting from one emotion to another, from anger to shame and
back again, paying a visit to self-loathing on the return trip.  She
wasn't the sort to stay down too long though, and once she truly
believed Brody wanted to go after Barth and would need her help the
light came back into her eyes and she began to pull herself together.

Alone with his thoughts for the first time since being awakened by the
call from Tersicord's secretary this morning, Brody sat wondering how so
much could change in one day.  Yesterday Annie was accusing him of
getting cocky due to Tersicord's business and today she was going to
relish aiding him in trying to nail the worst scum in the police
department.

Brody would enjoy it too.  Barth had been the cause of more than one
beating he had suffered over the years, so Brody would have loved to see
him go down at the best of times, but now he couldn't stop wanting to
march downtown and break Barth's face for what he'd done to Annie.  The
strength of his feelings surprised him somewhat, Brody was never one to
use violence to solve a problem, but no matter how much he chided
himself for it, the thought still held great appeal.  It wasn't the way
though.

His reverie was interrupted by Annie coming back into the room, looking
very unlike the sad drunk in an old robe who had padded off to clean up.
She was smartly dressed as usual, and her makeup managed to hide most of
the rings under her eyes.  Her face had a very determined cast to it.

"You ever heard of it?" she asked, motioning to the piece of paper on
the coffee table before Brody.

Brody picked it up, "I can't even say the damn thing, but that's usually
the case with the weird and wonderful chemicals Randal loves to tell us
about, but then again this sort of stuff really isn't my bag.  He say
anything else about it?"

Annie sat down beside Brody, shaking her head.  "Just told me what it
was called and the effect it has.. he did seem a little smug with
himself though, apparently it's not very common and I think he saw
identifying it as an opportunity to prove his skills."

"You know he likes to impress you," Brody said with a grin.  "Might be
worth another visit to see if he can give us anything else, though I'm
sure Barth can get his hands on any sort of crap he wants."

Annie nodded then said softly "how are we going to do this Brody?"

Brody sighed and turned to face Annie squarely.  "At this point kid,
I've no idea.  I want to check up on that stuff he dosed you with just
to get the full picture, but I doubt we can use that against him.  Not
without running the risk of those photos going into general
circulation."  Brody saw some of the colour drain from Annie's cheeks as
he spoke and took her hand and gave it what he hoped was a comforting
squeeze.  "I won't let that happen Annie, Barth's so goddamn rotten that
there shouldn't be any shortage of ways to nab him, we just gotta be
clever about how we go about it."

Annie nodded, managing a small smile.  "We could use his fondness of
having private dicks beaten up but I'm not sure anyone would care too
much."

Barth nodded with feigned seriousness.  "He'd probably end up mayor if
that got out."

Annie began to laugh then she quickly became serious again.  "Then how
Brody?  He's going to be expecting me to start channelling info about
you and Tersicord his way very soon, and he'll smell a rat in no time if
I try and stall him."

Brody nodded thoughtfully.  "I've been thinking about that.  Maybe we
can use that against him."

"Feed him dud info?"

"Yes.. perhaps.  I don't know if we can give him something that'll he
use in such a way that it hangs him, that would be sweet but damn hard
to do, not without Barth throwing a few dozen false charges at the old
man in the meantime.  What you can do is keep him off my back while I
sniff around. Tersicord has pulled me from that new case, but Barth
isn't to know that."

Brody stood and began pacing across the room.  I'll make enough noises
to make it look like that's still the center of my focus, and you can
pass any meetings I have with Tersicord off as part of all that.  If you
send him that and a few other little pointers I'll give you then he'll
find his case being totally uninterrupted by my efforts and think his
little plan is working out a charm.  If he thinks I'm floundering around
ineffectually then all the better, it'll give me the time I need to do..
whatever the hell it takes to get this bastard."  Brody heard a cold
note of hate in his voice.

***

The rest of the day was painfully frustrating.  Brody and Annie spent it
at the office, sorting through all their files on Tersicord, extracting
those tidbits of information that they could feed to Barth without
giving him something he could twist to use against the old man.  It was
the sort of painstaking work that Brody hated to do, and he was very
glad when they finally knocked off for the evening well past their
normal closing time.

Annie had another appointment with Randal in the morning to see if he
could give them anything else, and Brody had.. nothing.  As he drove
home from the office he felt a fear that he had never felt before in his
career.  He was scared that he couldn't pull this off, and though
failure wasn't something that struck him regularly, he'd had his share
of cases that just collapsed.  But never one that mattered to him. 
Never involving someone that mattered to him.

He parked his car and trudged up the steps to his apartment.  He
couldn't, he wouldn't let Annie down.  Whatever it took, Tersicord had
said, and though that was all well and good sounding, now he was on the
sharp end of it Brody wasn't sure how to do it.  Barth was a powerful
and ruthless man, and taking him down a challenge not to be taken
lightly.

Brody went into his apartment and headed straight for the whiskey bottle
in the kitchen.  He poured a generous measure into a cup and made a
conscious effort not to take the bottle with him when he headed back out
to take a seat at the table.

Half his problem, he thought, was that he and Tersicord were only
willing to do this above the law, whereas Barth, the supposed protector
of the same would stoop as low as it took. The simple act of being on a
case where the goal was to get someone was new to Brody, his experience
was in sniffing out things about people, usually with some hints as to
where to look, and never with the intention of then actively using what
he found to destroy the person.

He looked down at the piece of card he had been pushing around the table
as he ruminated.  Alison Mallarme's name looked back at him.  Not all
his acquaintances were equally as inexperienced.

It was about eleven that night by the time Mercher decided to call
Mallarme.  He'd nursed the same slosh of whiskey for a couple of hours
as he thought about what to do.  He'd run down the list of others he
might contact.  Al Crampton did divorces and ran a lot of dirty business
Mercher wouldn't touch and had a sleaze factor that was not to be
believed.  No.  He couldn't be trusted to do it straight.  Neither could
Lynn Brown for the same reasons.  Nor Lindy Odell.  Too many of his
colleagues were crooked or had too much reason to hate Barth.

Mallarme was crooked but could be bought straight.  He hoped.

Mercher was halfway through punching Mallarme's number when he realized
how livid Annie was going to be.  She'd have to be told; otherwise he'd
never hear the end of it when Annie did find out.  He promised himself
he'd do that tomorrow, when it was too late to be talked out of it.

"Alison Mallarme speaking," he heard.

Mallarme was holed up in her apartment.  Ever since she'd nearly hit
Barth earlier that day, her vaunted self-control had been gone.  She'd
been nailed, hard, by blind circumstance, and she didn't like it. 
Coming on top of Brody's incomprehensible lack of interest, she knew
that all she could do was go home, get smashed, and wait for the next
day to be better.  Let her mind relax until the right answer magically
appeared.  She knew she was on the right track, had suffered some
setbacks, and couldn't force the outcome.

When the phone rang, her paranoid mind presumed it was Barth, so she
mustered her calmest, smoothest, most silken sensual voice she could.

"Alison Mallarme speaking."

"Alison.  Brody Mercher."

Mallarme sat bolt upright in her large comfortable black chair.  Brody? 
What the hell was he calling for?

"Well, well, Brody, what can I do for you?" she purred, forcing herself
into lotus position.

"Uh.  I was thinking.  About your offer.  Maybe a trial.  See how we
work on one case.  Not as full partners.  I'll hire you."  Brody wiped
his brow, wishing he'd thought this through more or discussed it with
Annie.  Mallarme had always made him nervous, even when they were
partners, and particularly when their business relations had fractured
over his not wanting to make it more personal.

"Why Brody Mercher," Mallarme crooned.  "Haven't you moved up in the
world.  You can afford my rates now?"

Mercher swallowed, reflexively reaching for a bottle that wasn't there. 
He was no longer sure how he'd resisted her in the past, or for what
insane reason.  His body was tight and his hands were shaking.

"Yeah.  Yeah, moved up in the world."

"So what do you want me for?"  She purposefully left the question
hanging in the air, a balloon full of dope.

Mercher's voice dropped though he was the only one in his apartment. 
"You alone?  This line secure?"

"Best money can buy, Brody."  Her tongue curled possessively over his
name.  "But I could... come by your place... if you want."

Long pause.  "No.  No, it's late, I don't want to disturb you for
something I can say over the phone."  His handkerchief was soaked.  "I
need you to find some legit dirt for me.  I need to wreck someone.  For
what he did.  I need him wrecked, but all legal, you get me Alison?  I'm
paying for it to be straight."

"Oh, Brody, you still believe that old line about me?  I'm no saint, but
I didn't do half the stuff they say about me."  She sounded wounded,
convincing, marvelling at her own performance.  "Who hasn't got a little
tarnish?  But not as much as... as all that, Brody!"

"Please, Alison... Ah, I don't want to... Look, are you available for
this under my terms?"

"Who am I getting?"  This should be interesting, she thought.  Maybe the
mayor?  Even the governor?  Couldn't be coming from Tersicord, that man
was so clean it made her sick.

"Barth."

Now her had her attention.  "Detective Alan Barth?"  The excitement was
hard to hide.

"Yes.  Yeah.  He... He, look Alison, I could take it when it was just me
he was after, you know, but he shouldn't have gone after Annie like
that.  Like he did.  I don't want to talk about what he did.  He, look,
I'm willing to pay whatever it takes to get him.  All legal though,
admissible evidence."

She pitched her voice low, to thrum over his skin, sink into his bones. 
"Are you sure you don't want me to come by and discuss it?"

Mercher shook his head violently, then realized what he was doing. 
"That's fine.  Call when you've got something.  Normal rates plus
expenses."

"However you like it, Brody.  I'll be in touch soon."

"Yeah.  Do that."  The phone went dead.

"Secretary, huh?" Mallarme snarled, letting the bitterness leak into her
face.  "Guess I did better than I thought.  That pretty little thing has
him wrapped tight.  Well, we'll see.  We'll see about that."

Time for more whiskey, Mercher thought.  Whiskey and bed.  By himself. 
Alison's curves popped up in his mind as he grabbed the bottle out of
the kitchen.  As he drank more, she turned into Annie.  Those damn
pictures.  He put his face in his hands and passed out where he sat.

***

The roles were reversed at the office the next day, with Annie looking
fresh and eager and Brody looking like a man with most of a bottle of
whiskey in his system.  He kept telling himself it had been half the
bottle at most, but his reflection in the mirror looked decidedly
unconvinced.  Annie took one long measured look at him as he trudged in
just after ten, and managed to communicate volumes of disapproval
without uttering a single word.  Brody hated how women did that.

She waited until he was ensconced at his desk with a second cup of
coffee before asking in an all too casual voice "so how are we going to
do this Brody?"  She walked to the couch across from his desk and sat,
crossing her legs.  Brody shook his head to clear some of last night's
images which resurfaced with her motion.

"We'll do it a few ways," he started, realising that he was as
unprepared for this conversation as he had been last night with Alison,
no, Mallarme damn it.  Annie just sat expectantly, waiting for the rest.
 "We use you to conduit to Barth what we want him to know, and I'll get
Tersicord to keep me informed on where Barth is nosing around so I can
make a point not to disrupt him."  Annie nodded, approvingly he thought.
 Maybe he wasn't doing too badly after all.

"And what will you be doing while Barth is gloating at his free run at
Tersicord?" she asked, leaning forward slightly, intent on his response.

It suddenly struck Brody that the entirety of his plan last night had
been to use Ali.. Mallarme to get the dirt on Barth.  In the cold and
all-too painful light of day that didn't seem like his most brilliant
idea ever. He couldn't rely on her, he thought she would play as
straight as he could hope for if he paid enough, but he needed another
avenue to explore. Annie started to open her mouth and he raised a hand
to forestall her.

"I'm going to do a little quiet poking around," he said slowly, "Barth
has got in the way of enough people that more than one must know where
the occasional skeleton is buried.  Talk to a few people, maybe go
through the archives on his past cases and such."  There, that sounded
like he had thought it all out thoroughly.

Annie looked thoughtful for a minute and then asked "is that all?  Spend
a few hours at the library and buy some of your friends some drinks down
at Joe's and swap stories on how Barth screwed you over?"  A note of
incredulity entered her voice, "you really think you can nail one of the
city's most senior Detectives that way?"

Brody cleared his throat and felt his feet shuffle involuntarily under
the desk.  "Uhm, well, not exactly Annie.  I'm not very experienced at
this type of thing, so I've been thinking that maybe I should..
subcontract part of this out.." he raised both hands as she bolted to
her feet and added quickly "they won't know the reasons for it, I'll pay
enough to stop them wondering.  Plus, most every private dick in town
would love to see Barth's head on a pole."

Annie nodded slowly, "as long as you promise they won't see those filthy
things, I can live with it.  It's actually not a bad idea, you have
anyone particular in mind?  I'm sure Lynn Brown would jump at it, she
hates Barth big time.  Not sure if we could keep her quiet enough
though."

Brody felt the walls close in around him.  "No, not Lynn," he muttered.
"I need someone who will work exactly as we want for the money, and
she's too much of a loose cannon.  It has to be done clean, we have to
make sure of that."  Brody hoped the use of 'we' would help Annie feel
like a part of the project, it wasn't a clumsy attempt to spread the
blame.

"Who then?"  Annie asked quizzically, her head cocked to one slightly as
she ran through her own list of names and seemed not to pull up any that
matched the criteria.

Brody took a deep breath, crossed his fingers, said a quick mental
prayer to any passing god who may be listening and said simply "Alison
Mallarme." He slumped back in his chair and waited for the explosion.

Annie didn't disappoint him.  Her voice started as a screech and worked
up from there.  "Alison Mallarme?  You expect me to let Alison bloody
Mallarme in on this?  Christ Brody, that tramp is dirtier than frigging
Barth."  She looked at Brody like he was something unpleasant she had
stepped in.  "Have you already talked to her?  No, don't answer that, I
think I understand now why you look like you didn't sleep last night.  I
thought you'd been on the bottle, or god forbid, working on this case.
Butt, no.  She give you a hard night huh Brody?"

Brody's jaw had been working soundlessly through her tirade, his mind
trying to fixate on which argument to make first.  Better nip in the bud
the idea he'd hit the sack with Mallarme, if she believed that then
maybe she could see reason on why they needed to use her.  He put on
what he hoped was his contrite demeanour.  "Yes, I talked to her last
night Annie, but just to give her the terms of the deal."  Just telling
of his conversation with Mallarme brought it back clearly to his mind,
her silky sensuous voice seeming to caress him from the phone.  He felt
his cheeks redden at the memory, and saw Annie interpret it as a sign of
his guilt.

"I don't think I want to know just what you promised to give her," Annie
hissed with dripping contempt, "but it doesn't look like I can do much
about it.  How the hell do you think this makes me feel Brody?  After
everything that happened between me and her you trust a case that could
see me completely ruined to Alison Mallarme?"  The last came as a shout.

The silence that followed Annie's tirade was broken by the noise of the
door to the office being opened from the outside.  Brody snatched open
his bottom drawer and felt his fingers close around his pistol just as
the door swung open to reveal Alison Mallarme wearing a business suit
cut just right to flaunt her curves in a way just a notch short of
crude.  Brody was unsure if he would maybe need the gun after all.

"Did I hear my name being mentioned?"  she purred, her well-practiced
expression of innocence on display.  "I did knock, but there was no-one
around outside and once I heard voices.. hello Annie, nice to see you
again."  She flashed a smile at Annie then turned to Brody. "I thought
we should talk over in more detail your proposal of last night?"  She
laced the words with just a hint of innuendo.

Annie looked from Brody to Mallarme then back again.  "I'll leave you to
it," she said icily, "I've got that appointment to attend to."

Mallarme stepped aside smoothly to let Annie leave, her anger and hurt
wrapped around her like a mantle.

"I didn't upset her did I Brody?" she said in a light voice, her eyes
twinkling.  "I'd hate to have done that."

Brody looked at his desk clock.  Not eleven yet.  This was going to be a
long day.

***

Barth was hanging about like an insomniac bat when Annie emerged from
Randal's lab.  "Want some company, doll?" he smirked, sidling up to her.

Annie stiffened in the sun.  "Good afternoon, detective," she said. 
First Mallarme, now this.

Barth fell into step next to her.  "Randal, huh?  He does good work. 
Expensive too.  Tersicord bankrolling this little investigation you're
doing?"

Annie nodded, relieved to be able to be honest about that much.  "He
foots most of the bills these days."

Barth gave her an almost obscenely searching look.  She was damn fine
looking, he thought.  Nice long red hair, good hourglass figure --
hourglass?  A whole century.  A real redhead, he remembered from the
photos.  Wished he remembered more than what was implied by the prints. 
"Listen, Annie," he said intimately, "we could be good friends, you and
me."

Annie went from stiff to white and wishing she could flee.  "Aren't we
friends?" she said desperately.  "I'm helping you out aren't I?"

"Yeah, but..." he put his hand on her rigid arm.  "We could be really
good friends.  You know what I mean?"

"I..."

Barth took his hand off her and smiled more amicably.  "Look, honey," he
said, "I've never had to force anyone."  Which was true, he paid cash or
alcohol.  "And I sure didn't have to force you a couple of nights ago." 
He took her arm again as her heel caught on the sidewalk.  "Careful,
wouldn't want you to fall and hurt that pretty face of yours."

Annie mustered a sickly smile, masking her fury.  "I have to get back to
the office."

"Course.  I'll see you soon."

Annie didn't go back to the office, but Barth didn't tail her any more
that day.  She set Paula gathering information on what she'd gotten from
Randal, as well as information on Barth.  Brody might be putting his
eggs in Mallarme's basket but she wasn't.  Then just drove around the
city for a while.  For hours.  She wasn't that surprised when she ended
up outside of Mercher's house later in the evening.

Brody was stone sober and not liking it very much.  But he had to think
about what was going on.  Mallarme had been utterly maddening to work
with, terribly competent and terribly unwilling to let him put a finger
on anything she'd done that was over the line.  She wanted him to come
to her on his knees, he knew, and tempting as she was, he wouldn't,
couldn't do that.

Or could he.  The thought of her, how she'd been the night their
business relations last dissolved... He still didn't know how he'd
turned her down and broke out in a cold fear sweat when he thought about
it.

So when he heard the knock at the door, he leapt out off his couch, all
his muscles twanging with tension, and yelled, "Alison, damn you, no!"
before he knew what he was saying.  He shook himself and hurried over to
open the door.

"It's not her," Annie said, eyes wide with surprise at the violence in
his voice.  "It's me.  Can I come in?"

"Oh, ki... Annie, sure, yeah, come in," he stepped aside to let her
enter.  "Didn't expect to see you in these parts."  He shook with
relief.

Annie gave him a sharp look.  "What's wrong, Brody?"

Brody shook his head.  "Everything," he said, with unaccustomed
savagery.  "It's all changing so fast.  I don't know how to deal with
half these people, problems, hell Annie, I don't even know if I want to
be doing this anymore."

"Doing what?"  Annie moved past him into the room.  "We would've killed
for cases like this in the old days.  I know what you mean though.  It
seems like it should be easy, you know?  Now that we have the money and
the clout.  But it seems like all the rules changed to make it harder
than ever."

Brody stared at her.  Whenever he got used to her, she'd say something
so unexpected that he'd have to rethink everything.  That was why he'd
hired her to begin with, though.  "You got a brain under all that," he
said, trying for lightness, flipping his hand against a tendril of her
hair, meaning it to be a quick friendly gesture, but then unable to pull
away as smoothly as he'd meant.

"You alone?" came out harsher than she'd meant it to.  His hand snapped
back to his side.

"Don't," he said simply.  "It isn't like that.  I swear it isn't."

"How can I believe that?"  The words were strangling in Annie's throat,
trying to all push out at once, voice raising, growing shrill, ringing
hard and angry and hurt in her own ears such that she winced.  More
softly, "it is hard to believe, Brody."

"I called her for one reason, Annie, only one.  I thought she could
help.  She knows how to handle these situations.  This money.  These
people.  That's all, kid, I swear it."

Annie wrapped her arms around herself.  "I want to believe you," she
said, her voice beginning to crack with sobs, a lonely Cressida
abandoned outside Troy...

Brody felt cold and exhausted and lonely and wanted nothing more than to
hug her, hold her, try to smooth away the last few days.  He felt if he
did any of that that she would only scream, slap him, and it would all
start again.  "Annie," he said softly.  It was enough that Barth had
made her cry, he wouldn't do the same.  He set his hand on her arm,
which made her think of how Barth had done the same earlier, and the
tears came in earnest.

"Oh, Annie, I'm sorry, I didn't mean..."  He stood there uncertainly
with his hand on her arm.

"I saw... I saw... He was waiting for me... I saw Barth today," she
sobbed.

"What!"  The confusion blasted out of Brody's system like a rocket. 
"Where?  What did he do?"

"He wanted to kn-now what I was doing about... what he asked... and
he... he wanted..."  She was on the edge of disintegrating, Brody could
tell, and some cold professionalism clicked down over him.

"It's okay," he said, and put his arms loosely around her, stroking her
back comfortingly.  "Tell me what else he wanted."

Annie sighed long, leaning forward, sagging against Brody.  "He
wanted... he basically propositioned me, Brody.  Said he didn't have to
force me before."  Muffled against his chest.

"Oh Annie..." he whispered.  Put his hands in her hair and tilted her
face up to his.  "I promise you that he won't get away with this."  His
hate was cooling, crystalizing, forming into something with physical
force.

Annie smiled wearily.  "No, Brody, he won't," with less of a tremble in
her voice.  "I put out a few questions myself.  You might want to rely
on beer and Mallarme but I don't."

They stood quietly for a while, after which Annie said, "I'm sorry I got
mad about Mallarme.  I know you have your reasons for working with her."

"Aw, kid, I knew you'd be mad.  I wouldn't have asked her if I knew
anybody better though.  But it's just business."  His muscles felt
looser than they had lately.  He kept stroking her back without thinking
about it.

"Hard to believe she'd let it be just business," Annie said, the tired
quality beginning to go out of her smile.

Brody shrugged, which slid Annie's torso against him in a manner that
almost made him stagger.  "I can handle her," he said with surprising
firmness.

"You know, Brody, I think you can," Annie said.  Then there was another
silence.  "I... guess I should go."  She made no movement to leave.

"You probably need your rest, after the last couple of days," Brody
said, and made no movement to take his arms away from her.

"You need yours too.  Long days lately."

"Yes."

She turned her face up to be kissed at the same moment that he tightened
his arms around her.  She didn't get home that night.

***

Mallarme enjoyed her evening also, if for different reasons than Brody
and Annie.  It had been delicious luck for her to arrive at the office
just at the perfect moment, and she still smiled at the shock that
painted itself on Brody's face when she made her entrance.  That little
tramp Annie hadn't been pleased either, and Mallarme had heard enough of
their argument to know that Annie thought she had at the very least been
trying to seduce Brody.  Mallarme saw no need to make her think
otherwise.  She knew it was petty considering what else was going on,
but thought that since she would be around Brody's office a little that
she should make the most of it.  The occasional knowing glance, a barely
veiled innuendo, these and other things should absolutely torture Annie.
 It would be even more fun to watch Brody's squirming denials knowing
they were indeed true. Petty perhaps, but very satisfying.

Mallarme was lying on a long leather sofa at home, her shoes kicked off
and another highball in hand, contemplating how to proceed.  Thirty-six
hours ago she was a shivering wreck huddled over the wheel of her car,
waiting for Barth to rip the door open and then start on her.  Now she
had been hired by Brody Mercher to dig up some legitimate dirt, Brody's
very use of the term showed his naivete, and she knew that if she played
this well she could sink both of them.  She had no idea why Brody
thought Barth was behind the photographs, something like that was well
beyond Barth's ability to concoct, but for whatever reason he did.  She
sat up, a new thought striking her.  Though Barth could never have
thought up such a plan, it would be just like him to take credit for it
once it had happened.  That would make sense to Brody, no love lost
between those two, and would explain why Brody didn't look deeper into
it.  Mallarme felt a little uneasy, things that seemed this good usually
blew up in your face soon enough.  Time to get more information before
anything else.

***

The phone rang just as Barth had put his hand on the door handle,
finishing for the night.  He'd stayed much later than usual, the ability
to run at Tersicord without Mercher running interference being an
opportunity he was going to make the most of.  He threw his coat onto
his desk and went about savaging the switchboard operator.  Then
Mallarme's silky voice was smooth in his ear.

"Good evening Detective," she purred, "I hoped I could catch you before
you left."

Barth's mouth went dry despite himself.  Mallarme could sure put it on
when she wanted to, and she seemed to be giving him a full salvo
tonight. He had almost forgotten the threats he'd thrown at her to get
her working on Mercher, and the remembered power he had over her helped
him regain his composure.  "I haven't heard from you in a few days," he
said coldly, "I trust you didn't call me this late to detail another
failure?"  He smiled as he finished, expecting the mention of failure to
have caused some teeth grinding at Mallarme's end.

To her credit her voice was only slightly tight when she replied.  "No,
Detective, not failure.  I've been, shall we say, suggesting to Brody
how much he could get out of reforming our old partnership, and he seems
to be very interested in it now.  Or maybe just interested in me, but it
amounts to the same thing.  Which strings do you want pulled?"

Barth was surprised at her news, but he could understand it.  Not many
red-blooded men could resist Mallarme's advances for long, not one still
breathing anyway.  Now it seemed he had another lever on Mercher.
Tersicord would be history soon.

"Keep me updated on what he's working on," he said after a moment's
thought, "which cases and for whom.  I want to know where he's likely to
be at any time."

"You don't want me to try and encourage him away from Tersicord's cases
any more?"  Mallarme asked, the curiosity in her words all too real.

Barth allowed himself a little smirk.  "You can tell me if he looks like
he's doing any work for the old coot, but I don't think he will be.  You
keep me current with what he's doing and that may just keep me happy
enough for me not to have to get you in the slammer you understand?  I
want reports every other day, sooner if it's urgent."  He barely
listened to her choked response before hanging up.  He stood, gathered
his coat and headed out.  Perhaps he wouldn't bother with a drink
tonight, things seemed good enough without that.

***

Mallarme cursed at the phone in her hand for several moments before she
calmed down enough to think rationally.  Barth definitely felt he was in
control, her hunch had proved out.  The possibilities started to whir
through her mind.  Brody wanting her to get info to ruin Barth.  Barth
wanting her to tell him what Brody was up to.  Both of them thinking the
other was working actively against him and that she was on his side. 
Both of them likely to trust what she gave them, sure that the money or
the threats had assured her compliance.  She began to chuckle, a rich
throaty sound that soon became a full laugh.  She could almost feel
sorry for them both.

***

Brody woke to loud knocking on his front door.  Cracked open an eye and
stared at the clock.  Too early.  Turned over to go back to sleep.
Rolled into Annie.  That woke him up properly.

Mercher's bed was a large immobile rack of carved mahogany that they
were both sprawled greedily across.  He'd inherited it from a whorehouse
that couldn't pay his bills any other way.  It was the bed or a lifetime
key to the back door, and not only had he never paid cash for sex, he
didn't like the idea of getting it for free from women that normally
were paid.

Brody had been propositioned by some exceptional women.  Heiresses,
murder suspects, unfaithful wives, distressed sisters, movie stars that
had dimmed but not gone out.  Some he'd accepted, some he'd refused. 
But Annie!  Worked next to her for four years and not once had he laid a
hand on her.  Thought about it a few times, but she seemed like such a
nice kid.  Some obscure sense of honour had kept their relations static.

Now that was shot.  The implications...

Well.

It was a while before either had to go into the office, so he started
thinking about how he might wake her up.  Smiling.

The door rattled again.  She was still sleeping.  Brody sighed, climbed
out of bed, pulled on a worn but clean blue bathrobe and padded out,
closing the door quietly, firmly behind him.  Looked out the front
peephole and saw Randal.  Regretfully opened the locks.

"What do you want?  I was asleep!"

"Couldn't wait.  Sorry.  Got any coffee?"  Randal pushed into the room,
a battered folder under his arm.

"I just woke up," Brody pointed out.  "I'd like to go back to sleep. 
What are you here about?"

"I'll handle it then."  Randal dropped the folder on Brody's coffee
table and bustled into the kitchen.

"This for me?"

"Yeah.  Full chemical breakdown of the dope Annie brought me.  I was
tied up yesterday so I didn't really have any news for her.  I traced it
to a doc out in the valley and figured you'd want to know right away."

Brody nodded slowly.  "You're right.  This his current address?"  He
held up a card engraved "Doctor Davis Carvell".

"Far as I know."  Randal brought two cups of coffee that were better
than anything Brody'd ever coaxed from his machine.  "I fixed your
percolator.  Hope you don't mind.  Look, I want to go out there with
you."

"What the hell for?" Brody jerked his head up and almost spilled his
coffee.

"This guy.  I ran into his work a few times before.  He keeps an
expensive sanitarium for women that got too much time on their hands and
need a little something to help it pass, you know?  Well, I don't like
that.  Carvell gives my work a bad name.  I want to see him get a little
back."

"I don't like people looking over my shoulder when I work.  That's why I
don't have a partner."  Uncomfortable thought of Mallarme.  He brushed
it away with the recent thought of Annie, warm against him, more sharply
demanding than he'd thought she would be, which he'd liked...

"Hey!  Mercher!  Wake up!  You take me or I'll go there alone.  Here,
look, I'll hire you.  What are your standard rates?"

Brody sighed.  "Let me get dressed."

Annie was still sleeping, and much as he wanted to wake her, Brody
decided not to.  He kissed her softly on her mouth, covered up her
long-limbed body, and left silently.

This is the note he left on his table:

Annie,

I had to go.  Randal came by with the name of the doctor he thinks made
the stuff that drugged you.  I'm going out to 2389 Hillside Drive with
him.  If you don't see me by tonight send Lindy after me.  Absolutely DO
NOT come out yourself!  Don't tell Mallarme either.  I don't trust her
that much.

There's a spare key to my place under my gun in the bible on my left
hand bookcase.  Take it if you like.

Brody

***

Annie awoke a little later and found herself in a strange bedroom for
the second time in three days.  Her first reaction was one of sharp
panic, the clutching fear that Barth had done it again crashing down on
her and stopping her focusing too much on her surroundings.  It was only
an instant before she realised where she was, but she lay still for
several long minutes, her racing heart thumping in her ears.  Brody's
place.  Of course.  Her panic gave way to fresh memories of the previous
night and she found her cheeks redden at the thought.  Her and Brody? 
It was ridiculous, she would never have believed it a week ago.  But
then, a week ago she wouldn't have believed she and Brody would be
trying to bring down one of the city's most senior detectives because of
what he'd done to her. That brought up a whole slew of considerably less
pleasant memories and she firmly put her mind back to the events of last
night.  She still blushed a little, but she was an adult damnit.  And
her and Brody?  Why not?

She rose after a little while and wrapped a robe that had seen much
better days around herself to go find what Brody was up to.  She smelled
coffee and headed to the kitchen, but found nothing but Brody's note and
the coffee percolator happily brewing something that now resembled tar. 
She sat down at the table and read the note several times.  Randal had
come up with something it seemed, and from Brody's tone the Doc in
question probably wasn't going to welcome their visit with open arms.  A
sudden pang of concern for Brody was ruthlessly stomped on, Annie was
damned if she couldn't act like a professional anymore.  She got up to
empty out the coffee pot to make some fresh, but saw that some had
bubbled over and the hotplate looked ruined.  Strange, Brody had made
her coffee here a few times, and it was usually nearer luke warm than in
any danger of boiling over.  Annie shrugged and went to shower, whatever
Brody was up to she had to be in the office to make things look good and
put together some dud info to hand over to Barth.  She collected the
spare key on her way out.

***

It was nothing more exciting than routine bills that Annie was working
on when Alison Mallarme glided in close to lunchtime.  It was the first
time ever that Annie had been looking forward to her arrival.  Mallarme
ignored her and walked straight to Brody's office, and Annie only spoke
when she reached for the handle.

"Brody is out," Annie said sweetly, "can I help you?"

Mallarme looked briefly at Brody's door then opened it and looked
inside. She pulled the door shut harder than was strictly necessary and
walked to stand in front of Annie.

"When will he be back?"  Mallarme didn't hide her irritation at all
well.

Annie shrugged briefly.  "Maybe not at all today, he's in the middle of
something.  Was he expecting you?"  Annie knew that he must have been,
Mallarme would only be this riled if Brody knew she would be coming and
had forgotten to call her to cancel.  A brief flame of jealousy flared
at the notion of Brody making arrangements with this woman, but the
knowledge that Mallarme must be seething at being seen to have been
stood up in front of her placated Annie almost entirely.

"Well," Mallarme said tightly, "if he does make it back today will you
please tell him that I'd like to speak with him at his earliest
convenience?"  She had turned and headed for the door before Annie could
open her mouth to reply.

"I'll do that," Annie called as Mallarme was leaving, then added "and if
he's not back before five I'll tell him when I see him tonight."

Mallarme seemed to trip over her feet and grabbed the doorframe to
steady herself.  She turned, shot a baleful glare at Annie then slammed
the door shut hard.  It was perhaps the farthest Annie had ever seen
Mallarme slip from her usual cool elegant confidence.  It was one of the
most beautiful things she had ever witnessed.

Hillside Drive was a long way from Brody's place on Ellerby Crescent. 
Long enough that Mercher had time to reconsider the wisdom of bringing
Randal and try a half dozen different ways of getting rid of the
chemist.  It was no good, Randal was growing more livid as they got
closer, his refusals to step back growing more aggressive.  "I'll go
alone," he finally snarled, "if you turn me out now.  Is that what you
want?  Me mucking up your investigation by going solo?"

Mercher sighed and turned his mind to pleasanter thoughts.  Would he see
Annie that night?  He hoped so, but he was stewing in the vague
confusion that she would be embarrassed or hesitant to believe that they
could go on working together as professionals, as well as being the
friends they had become, while being... involved in this manner.

He knew his feelings toward her had been changing for a while, and he
wanted to let them keep growing slowly.  So he'd given her a key to his
place.  So what?  He hadn't said that loaded three letter phrase that
starts with "I" and ends with "you" -- that he could remember, anyway,
and although they'd been passionate, they hadn't said anything
irrevocable.  She'd said some things that had surprised the hell out of
him, but nothing that fretted.

It was enough to like the new dimension to their relationship; there was
no need to fret about the future.

"But let's not talk of love or chains or things we can't untie," he
found himself murmuring along with Leonard Cohen on the radio.  Randal
was staring sideways at him.  Mercher swore under his breath and changed
station.

Now the Eagles were playing.

"...lighten up while you still can, don't even try to understand..."

He wasn't fond of either the music or the band, but it let him focus. 
Doctor Davis Carvell was at least indirectly responsible for what
happened to Annie.  Mercher tightened his grip on the steering wheel and
his insides went cold.

He turned his battered and heavy old maroon convertible up the gravel
driveway numbered 2389.  The road went over a brush covered rise and
sharply down to a small and flat, if unpaved, parking area.  A half
dozen small cabins dotted the yellow-green grass.  Nearer the front was
a long, dark, low structure of brick and wood, surrounded by narrow
hedges and covered in ivy.  A group of women were playing lazy doubles
tennis in white short-shorts and thin shirts, on a clay court at the
east side of the building.

The game broke up on their approach.  Mercher parked his car and got out
with Randal.  One of the women, gleaming with sweat, made her way over. 
Her bleached hair was severely back from a face that might've been
pretty if it hadn't been punctuated with hungry, drug-stilled eyes. 
"Hi," she drawled, "what brings y'all out here?"

"We want to see the doctor," Randal said with barely suppressed disgust.

Her chin snapped down.  "You sure he wants to see you?"

"He will," Mercher said grimly.  "Show us to him."