Five Scarves, Two Bullets

Note to Lit admin. Special formatting in this story includes the use of italics and paragraph centering.

To my faithful followers and new readers. This is my offering for the "Hammered Story Event 2025". This is an annual Literotica ode to Mickey Spillane, a boundary breaking author who introduced the world to fast paced, sexy detective novels. I've tried my best to stay true to the lexicon and technology of the period. I made a paltry attempt to emulate Spillane's unique writing style; a task many authors have tried but none have mastered.

All characters are 18 years of age or older.

Enjoy.

Five Scarves, Two Bullets

A Mick Nailer Murder Mystery

***

New York City

1952

Monday

Tom Ranger's body lies spread eagled face up on a four-poster bed. His arms and legs are secured with scarves, one to each oak upright. A fifth scarf, used as a blindfold, absorbs the blood from two small entry wounds in the forehead. Powder burns and exact placement of the rounds indicate the shooter held the gun directly against his skin. The lack of exit wounds suggests a small caliber weapon. My guess is a.22, most likely a Derringer.

Except for the argyle socks which cover his feet, his clothing is scattered haphazardly across the bedroom. Coat by the door, shoes tossed in opposite corners, shirt rumpled onto a chair, pants slung onto the floor, underwear mystically hanging from one of the posts. There is nary a scratch on his nearly naked body which tells me he didn't struggle. He wasn't forced onto the soft mattress and willfully let the woman tie him to it.

Yes. It was a woman who killed him. A good-looking woman to be sure, because Tom was a successful handsome businessman who had his pick of the prettiest, sexiest ladies the city had to offer.

I'm guessing it wasn't their first date. Tom wasn't known to pick up girls at a bar and immediately invite them to his upscale apartment. He was selective, overly so in my mind, but he had the combination of money and looks to be persnickety about the women he let into his life. If he was serious about a dame, serious enough to let her into his apartment, serious enough to let her tie him to his bed, I would have known. Or would I?

At one time, Tom and I were best friends. We played football together in high school. He was the quarterback. I played left tackle, protecting him from blitzing linebackers. We joined the Army together... the day after the Japs bombed Pearl Harbor. We rode side by side on a Normandy bound landing craft and remained attached at the hip as we marched through France and into Germany.

Returning home after the war, he went to college while I joined the police force. Four years later, he's working on Wall Street while I'm still walking a beat, but we stayed in touch. He climbed the corporate ladder. I went into business for myself.

Mick Nailer, private investigator. That's me. People hire me to do what the cops can't. I'm a big ugly guy who's been through one world war and a hundred bar fights, with the scars to prove it. A guy who doesn't mind bonking a few heads together when the circumstances require it. And since I get results, the cops mostly stay out of my way.

Enough about me. Let's get back to my buddy Tom.

He's lying naked on his bed, deader than a doornail, and probably been that way for at least a day. I only came by because we was supposed to meet for a beer or three. He wanted to talk. It was something we did when his new-fangled job got the best of him. When he didn't show at the bar, I went to his apartment and, when he didn't answer my knock, I let myself in with the help of a lock pick.

Now I'm wondering if he wanted to talk about his high-pressure job or something else. Like maybe a lady friend. Specifically, the dame who put two bullets in his brain. Optimistically, the woman in question did him right. If there is any justice in this world, after she tied him to the bed and put the scarf over his eyes, she did a proper job of pleasuring him. Soft kisses on his lips, then on his chin, chest, and belly button. If that didn't get his blood flowing south, she hopefully continued the kissing, licking, and sucking until he was standing proud and then lowered her folds around his staff and rode him until he blessed her with his seed. When they were done, I'm hoping she said "I love you" before she pulled the trigger.

If she didn't, if she just tied him up and shot him, she'll regret it. Because once I find the broad, I'll do the same to her as she did to Tom.

I spend three hours going through Tom's apartment before calling the police. I don't find anything. His calendar is chock full of appointments, but they all seem to be business related. He doesn't have a little black book full of women's names and numbers. No lady's undergarments in his chest of drawers, or even a box of rubbers in his nightstand. Forty minutes on my hands and knees doesn't produce a single strand of long hair. I know Tom wasn't a saint but, if he had a girl over recently, she didn't leave a trace of femininity behind.

Satisfied I haven't overlooked any clues, I call Lt. Matt Board of the New York City Police Department and tell him what I've found.

Matt and I go back nearly a decade. We've got one of those mutually beneficial love/hate relationships. He hates that I break the rules to solve crimes that he can't, but appreciates me taking criminals off his streets. We don't always work together, don't always share information, but we do when a truly tough case raises its ugly head. This one promised to be a mind bender.

Matt shows up with a coroner and full crime scene unit. I tell him why I was there and show him around the apartment but don't go into detail about my suspicions. Not that I don't want the killer found, I do. But I want to find her before Matt. If the NYPD finds her first, there will be lawyers, judges, juries, and a shit load of reporters involved. Good chance they won't hang a smart, good-looking woman for what she'll claim was a crime of passion.

If I find her first, she'll just be another body floating down the Hudson River.

***

It's 4:30 by the time I convince Matt I didn't kill my best friend and don't know who did. Too late to go to Tom's office and interview his workmates so, I jump in my jalopy and motor back to my office in a less exclusive section of the city, where I'm met by Zelda, my secretary.

Calling Zelda "my secretary" is a gross understatement of her talents. Sure, she answers my phone, coordinates with clients, pays my bills, and constantly reminds me of my schedule. Those tasks alone justify her meager salary but only take up a fraction of her workday. When not tending to my administrative needs she reads newspapers.

We subscribe to all the city rags; Times, Daily News, Post, Herald Tribune, and some I've never heard of. She reads each paper from page one to page last. Every day. Including the obituaries and help wanted adds but excluding the sports page and comics (the stuff I read). And if that ain't impressive enough to outshine a brand-new pair of spats, she also has what's called an eidetic memory. Sometimes known as a photographic memory. Ask her who got hitched in St. Patrick's Cathedral last March and she'll spout out the names of the bride, groom, best man, and maid of honor.

She's a handy girl to have around, especially if I were to make an off the wall request such as "give me the names and dates of all the people shot by a Derringer while tied naked to a bed in the last five years". But it's not as simple as that. To accomplish such a task, she has to visualize each specific newspaper article. Picture them in her mind's eye. Her brain and body need to be in a receptive state. Finding that physical/mental near nirvanian portal quite often requires my help. Something we usually practice every Wednesday after work. But, since this is an emergency, we make an exception.

We start on the couch, Zelda and me. I break the bad news about Tom's early demise while unbuttoning her blouse. She insists on buying shirts fitted with the tiniest buttons known to man. Buttons that are nearly impossible for my large fingers to negotiate. So small, tight, and frustrating that I'm often tempted to simply rip her shirt off. But I persevere and eventually make my way to her bra which, considering the size of her tits, is structurally sufficient to keep the Empire State Building and Statue of Liberty stable during a major earthquake.

Zelda had met Tom on several occasions. Learning of his passing brings a few tears to her eyes. Tears that I kiss away. And, while in the neighborhood, I also kiss her on the mouth. A nibble on her top lip. A bite on the bottom. Followed by a proper smooch, which turns into a battle of tongues, a battle which hardens her nips and arouses my loins.

Rising from the couch, my lips replace the fingers on her nips, so my hands have free access to her well-shaped posterior. I drop to my knees and continue to suckle her breasts while manipulating the zipper on her skirt. She steps out of her A-line, I remove her panties, and we settle happily into one of our favorite research positions; her elbows on my desk, my manhood poised at her entrance.

"Be gentle with me," she says. "Take your time."

"Aren't I always?"

"No. You're usually a brute. A mannerless gorilla who takes what he wants without regards to my feelings."

"I thought you liked it rough."

"Normally I do. But this is different. I need to concentrate; search my mind for the information you want. If you make me come too soon, I might not find it."

So, instead of immediately sticking it in her, I bend down and give her a good licking. And a good rubbing. And a finger, followed by another. Until her lady juices are dripping down her inner thighs. Her heart's pounding like a drum.

Even though she smells and sounds like it's time to tango, I still wait while rubbing my cock against her clit and tweaking her acorn sized nips between my thumb and oversized forefinger.

"I'm ready," she says.

"Not yet my love. We're just getting warmed up."

"God dammit Mick. Stick your gargantuan cock inside me and do what you were put on this earth to do."

And yet I still wait. Pinching her left nip a bit harder while caressing her ass with my other hand.

"Mick, if you don't do me in the next ten seconds, I swear I'll turn around, put your oversized pecker in my mouth and bite the damn thing clean off."

That's when she starts counting. "One, two, three..."

On the count of seven, I grasp her impossibly thin waist with both hands and shove a half dozen inches of thick hardened man tool up her slippery slit.

"Eee Ow," she screams, loud enough to be heard three streets over.

I pull back and shove it in deeper.

Eliciting an even louder response.

And the race is on.

I'm pummeling her snatch like a jackhammer trying to break concrete while she's squeezing my best friend like an anaconda tenderizing its next meal. Both of us are trying to make the other come first. I'm feeling pretty good about my chances until she does something with her inner muscles that defies two laws of physics and should be anatomically impossible.

I come. Loud and deep, with more force than a fifth avenue fire hydrant.

Her scream matches my roar as her body shakes and shivers from head to toe.

She collapses onto my desk.

I pick her up in my arms and lay her on the couch. Her head resting on my lap.

After a minute or two, she turns her head towards me, gives my deflating cock a cleansing lick, and says,

"Two years ago, in Poughkeepsie."

"Yeah?"

"And last year, in the Hamptons."

I put my hand on her still heaving chest and gave it a rub.

"Same MO," she continues. "Naked guys tied to a bed. Blindfolded. Shot in the forehead. I don't remember what kind of gun was used, but I'll find the original newspaper articles and show them to you."

***

Tuesday

I get up early the next morning. Shine my shoes, put on my best suit, and tie my tie three times before it looks presentable. Despite my best efforts, I still look like a bum from the Bronx when I walk into the fifteen-floor office building where Tom used to work.

I flash my PI badge at the well-dressed young receptionist and asked to be led to Tom's office.

"Mr. Ranger is out of the office today," the pretty bottle blonde says.

"And will be for the foreseeable future," I counter," since he was killed yesterday. That's why I'm here."

She does an adequate job of looking shocked and says, "if you'll wait just a minute, I'll get somebody down here to help you." She motions to a chair.

One minute turns into two, and then five, going on ten. Not being the most patient man on the planet, I rise from my assigned purgatory and wander around the ground floor until I find the elevator. Stepping in, I ask the operator,

"You know what floor Tom Ranger works on?"

"He's on seven," the old man says. "But something happened yesterday, and the boss told me not to take anybody up there until the cops show up."

"Glad to hear that. We wouldn't want any unauthorized civilians disturbing the crime scene. Now take me to seven and make sure you keep up the good work."

"You a cop?"

"Yeah. Sort of. I'm working with them on a case." I give him a flash of my PI badge. "Mick Nailer, private investigator." I make sure the old guy gets a glimpse of my shoulder-holstered.45 as I put the badge back in my coat pocket.

"No problem Mr. Nailer. Turn right when you get off the elevator, the office you're looking for will be the second on the left."

The second door on the left leads to a room occupied by a petite red head sitting at a desk and a large security mug standing in front of an inner office door with the words "Tom Ranger, Acquisition Director" stenciled on the frosted window.

"Are you Mick Nailer?" the hefty guard asks.

"Guilty as charged."

"You know Lt. Board of the NYPD?"

"He's one of my best friends."

"Well, your best friend called early this morning telling us to lock up Mr. Ranger's office and not let anybody in until he got here... especially a nosey PI named Nailer."

Crap. I got here early hoping to get a jump on Matt. Now what do I do?

Easy. Talk to his secretary. I'll probably get more out of her than a search of Tom's office anyway.

Judging by the half empty box of tissues on the red head's desk and her swollen eyes, I assume she's been crying. The name plate on her desk says "Daisy Malone".

"Daisy, Tom was a friend of mine. A good friend. Would you mind taking me someplace where we can talk?"

"I, I'm not sure if it's okay to leave my desk considering what happened yesterday. Won't the cops want to talk to me?"

"Yeah, they probably will. But that will come later. In the meantime, I'm pretty sure Tom wouldn't mind if you and I take a few minutes to reminisce about his life while we're waiting for New York's finest to show up."

She leads me to a small but cosey break room at the end of the hallway. I sit her down in a comfortable chair, dab a stray tear out of her eye with my handkerchief, and pour us both a cup of coffee.

"I've known Tom since we were kids," I tell her. "But ever since we came home from the war, we've kind of gone our separate ways. The Tom I knew was a fun-loving guy with more talent and charm than three men deserve. How did he turn out? Was he a good boss?"

She sniffles, blows her nose, and takes a sip of coffee. "He treated me well, never yelled at me, and didn't make me stay late very often."

"Was there ever anything romantic between you?"

She laughs. A cute little snicker that makes her eyes sparkle. "Only in my dreams. Mr. Ranger was by far the most eligible bachelor in the company. Way out of my league."

"Who did he date?"

"Pretty much anybody he wanted to."

"Other secretaries?"

"No. Mostly society girls and actresses."

"Sounds like he made the rounds."

"Yeah, I guess so. He'd date a woman for a month or two, but when she got too close, he'd break it off."

"Were they amicable breakups or did he hurt some feelings."

"A little bit of both. He remained friendly with some of the ladies but most of them just dropped off the radar."

"How do you know this?"

"I answered his phone when they called and dialed the number when he called them. That's how it works with the executives. Part of my job is to shield him from unwanted callers. Or it was before he died."

She wipes a few more tears from her cheek.

I wait until she regains her composure before asking, "how many unwanted calls did he get?"

"Quite a few. Mostly from business associates he didn't want to talk to. But, in a few instances, after he broke up with a girl, she'd call to beg him to take her back. That was the hardest thing I did for him. Listen to women beg me to put them through to my boss. Plead to have him call them back. Ladies, successful women, whose hearts he broke, cried when I told them he didn't want to talk to them, and I cried with them."

"Did any of the women, those that he dumped, did any of them make threats against him?"

"Are you suggesting one of them killed him?"

"Not necessarily, but somebody did the dirty deed and it's my job to find out who. Right now, the police have absolutely no clues, so help me out. Can you tell me which women in the last year or two might have been so pissed at your former boss that they'd do him harm?"

"I can do more than that," Daisey says. "I can give you names, phone numbers, and addresses."

"Addresses? How do you know where his girlfriends live?"

"Mr. Ranger liked to shower his lady friends with flowers. I was the one who called the florist and arranged for the delivery."

I leave with all the particulars of three women who Daisey deemed most upset with my old pal Tom. To put a cherry on top of it all, Daisey promised to call Zelda with the same information so my loyal secretary could get a head start on the research.

I escort Daisey back to her desk and spy Matt and a junior detective in Tom's office, looking for God knows what.

"Find anything?" I ask.

"Not a damn thing. You learn anything from the secretary?"

"Nada. Looks like my old army buddy was a straight arrow without a single enemy," I lied. "You mind if I take a look inside his office?"

"Be my guest. We were just leaving."

"Before you go, I've got some information for you."

"You talking about the other two victims?" Matt asked. "The guy in Poughkeepsie a couple years ago and the one in the Hamptons?"

"Yeah. How'd you know about them?"

"I didn't until your secretary called my office this morning. She asked if the bullets from those killings match what we found in Tom's skull."

"And?" I asked.

"Too early to tell. We've got to track down the ballistic reports and since one of them was in the Hamptons, it might take a while. But if I was a betting man, I'd lay down dollars to donuts that they came from the same gun."

"Make sure you remind your lab guys that a Derringer has two barrels, each with a different set of grooves."

"We're not idiots. We'll do you proud and send you a copy of the results."

Matt and his side kick walk out of the office and towards the outer door.

"Hey Mick," Matt says before heading to the elevator. "The captain wants us to work with a psychiatrist on this case. He says she's a profiler, or something like that. Sounds like a bunch of mumbo jumbo to me, but if you don't mind putting up with her, it will take a load off me."

"You know the game. I scratch your back, and you do mine."

"I know. I'll owe you one. Just keep the shrink out of my hair."

"How do I get in touch with her?"

"I already gave her your number," Matt says. "She'll contact you."

***

Lunch is a pastrami on rye accompanied by a beer at a dive down the street from my office. I spend the bulk of the afternoon nursing a second and third brew as I consider what I had so far.

Not much.

Tom broke a few hearts which might be motive for murder. But, if what Daisey said was right, Tom wouldn't have anything to do with a girl after he broke it off with her. Which precludes him crawling back in bed with the broad and letting her tie him up. Even if that was the case. Even if the murderess got back in Tom's good graces and then back on Tom's trussed up naked body, that doesn't explain the two additional nearly identical murders. Unless there's a psycho woman on the loose. A woman who lets a man court him, then does something to piss him off, and then convinces him to give her another chance, only to kill him. Times three.

Highly unlikely.

Maybe the first killing was a model for estranged women all over the city. One girl perfects the technique and the other two are copycat killings. All the way down to the type of gun used. Hell, for all I know there's a coven of man hating bitches that feel a religious need to kill slightly disloyal men. They might even share the same gun.

Or maybe I'm missing something.

With lunch behind me, I make my way back to the office, where Zelda is waiting for me with a half excited, half pissed expression on her face.

"Give me the good news first," I tell her.

"Matt got the lab report from the Poughkeepsie murder. Same gun. Same MO. The victim's parents run a deli on 65th. I told them you might stop by tomorrow morning.

"Now give me the bad."

"A woman named Charlene McManor called. She claims to be some kind of doctor and insists you meet her for dinner tomorrow evening."

"She must be the psychiatrist Matt told me about."

"Isn't it unusual to meet your shrink for dinner? I thought they had offices with a couch in the corner."

"She's not my shrink. She's a woman the city hired to help us with Tom's murder case. I'm doing Matt a favor by talking to her and, while it is a bit out of the ordinary to meet over dinner, maybe that's the only time she has free."

"Or maybe she volunteered to help because she found out the famous Mick Nailer is on the case. She wouldn't be the first woman to foist herself on you. And why does it have to be Wednesday night? That's our night."

"Probably because that's the first time we can get together and, since there is a murderer on the loose, it might make sense to get started as soon as we can. Besides, there's a good chance she's a sixty-year-old grandmother with three PhDs and no sex appeal."

"She didn't sound like a grandma on the phone."

"If it makes you feel any better, I'll make it an early dinner."

"Fine, but you better not come back here all frumpled up with lipstick on your collar."

***

Wednesday

I slam the alarm clock across the room at 7:00 and then go chase it because I missed the OFF button. Shit, shower, shave. Ham and eggs for breakfast. Two cups of black coffee. At a quarter to eight, I walk out the door in workman clothes covered by a light coat to hide my shoulder rig, jump in the jalopy, and head towards Poughkeepsie. Where the first murder happened.

Frank Bertinelli senior runs an Italian deli on 65th Ave. They don't open until 9:00 but he's expecting me and left the door ajar.

A thin fifty something man with jet black hair slicked to the side stands behind the counter while a similarly aged woman putters around behind him.

"You the private cop?" the man asks.

"Mick Nailer. I'm here to ask some questions about your son."

"He's dead."

"Yeah, I know that. I'm trying to find out who killed him."

"You're about two years late. Frankie passed in January of '50 and the cops still don't know nothing about it."

"How about you? Who do you think killed him?"

"I don't know and don't give a rat's patootie. Finding the killer won't bring Frankie back. Mary and I are tired of you folks coming around and asking the same questions every few months. All we want is to be left alone."

"I understand and wouldn't be bothering you, but two other guys were killed in the exact same way. One of them a couple of days ago."

"Then go bug his daddy."

"Both his parents are gone. I won't stay long. Just tell me about Frankie's girlfriends. Was he dating anybody special. Did he and a girl break up just before he died?"

"Frankie had a wife and a girlfriend. I'm not proud of what he did. He wasn't raised like that. But there it is. And no, I'm not giving you their names. Now get out of here before I call the real cops."

What was I to do? The old guy didn't want to talk about his son and I sure the hell wasn't going to hold him up against the wall to make him talk. So, I walk out the door empty handed only to be stopped two doors down by the lady I assumed was Frankie's mother.

She looks around like a scared mouse, pulls me under an awning, and says, "Maria works in the dress shop two blocks down. She was Frankie's wife. Evelyn, the girl Frankie was seeing on the side, she works in the coffee shop across the street from the dress shop."

You ever hear of a bull in a China shop? That's me in a dress shop. Cause I've never been in one before and don't know what goes on in such places. But here I am, walking in the door of this lady's clothing store feeling like a sasquatch in church. The proprietor, a forty pushing fifty broad with her hair done up on top of her head and reading glasses hanging on a chain around her neck, comes up to me and gives me the most antagonistic "can I help you" I've ever heard.

"Mick Nailer. I'm a private investigator working on a murder case. I'd like to talk with Maria if she's available."

"She isn't."

"She isn't here, or she isn't available?"

"Maria has better things to do than talk to a phony cop. This is a dress shop. Unless you plan to purchase a dress this morning, I suggest you leave."

"Suppose I am looking for a dress, and maybe a coat as well. Then would Maria be available to help me?"

"Have you ever bought a dress before?"

"No. That's why I need Maria's help."

"Considering the circumstances, it would be better if I assisted you," the old matron says.

"The lady who will be wearing the dress is much closer to Maria's age and size than you. Either she helps me, or I go elsewhere."

The old broad gives in and goes to fetch her shop girl.

Maria is a dark-haired beauty who, despite her past, still has a sparkle in her smile. The two of us spend the next hour picking out a new dress for Zelda, which includes three separate phone calls to my sexy secretary inquiring about her height, weight, bra size, and how much cleavage she is willing to display in public. In the end, I walk out with a dress box and a lunch date, with Maria and Evelyn.

"We were best friends before Maria married Frankie," Evelyn tells me over a plate of pasta.

"Just because we both fell in love with the same two-timing guy, was no reason to quit seeing each other after he died," Maria added.

"You do know why I'm here don't you?" I ask the pair.

"Yeah. You're trying to find the man who killed Frankie."

"Actually, I'm trying to find the woman who killed Frankie and, from where I stand, you two are the prime suspects."

"You think a woman did it?"

"I'm almost certain. And since both of you qualify, can you tell me where you were the night he was murdered?"

"We already went through this with the cops four or five times," Evelyn complains.

"Both of us have iron padded alibis. We were taking a night course together at the local college with thirty other students."

"You were together? Even after he cheated on Maria?"

"We like to think that he cheated on both of us."

"At least that's what our therapist told us."

"You went to a shrink?"

"I was pretty messed up when I discovered that Frankie was sleeping with Evelyn."

"When he told me he wasn't going to divorce Maria I was borderline suicidal."

"Frank senior paid for our sessions after Frankie confessed to his unfaithfulness and, eventually, we were able to work things out between us."

"Did either of you get back together with him?"

The two girls look at each other, laugh, and simultaneously say, "absolutely not."

"Once burned, shame on me," Maria says.

"Twice burned, no nookie for him," Evelyn adds.

"Did all this psychologist stuff happen before Frankie was killed?" I ask.

"Yeah. Two maybe three months before. Is that important?"

"Could be. Maybe not. Hell, I don't know. But thanks for telling me."

***

The look Zelda gives me when I enter our office with a dress box in my arms is that of a schoolmarm gazing down at a disobedient child.

"Buying me a dress does not offset the sin of you having dinner with a beautiful lady on Wednesday night."

"I went to the dress shop to interview Frankie Bertinelli's widow."

"Can I assume that the widow is the same young lady who called to ascertain my dress and bra size?"

"Think of the dress as the bribe I had to pay to get by her boss."

"How did she look?"

"How did who look?"

"The young widow, when she tried on the dresses for you. Did she fill them out appropriately or did she overflow the top? How many did she model before you picked out the right one? Was there a proper changing room or did she just slip out of one dress and into the next in your presence? If so, I would hope that she at least had the decency to turn her back while doing it."

"Yes, at least ten, no, yes, and not all the time. Now let's quit playing twenty questions and get on with the business at hand. Does Matt have any further news about the Hamptons killing?"

"I called him an hour ago. The bullets from the Hamptons corpse definitely match those from the other two."

"That's not surprising. It confirms that all three murders were committed by the same person, or at least by the same gun. What else have you been up to?"

"Plenty. While you were flirting with young ladies in Poughkeepsie, I found three more beautiful but distraught women for you to ogle."

"You talking about the girls Tom was dating?"

"Exactly, but I wouldn't call them girls. Your old pal Tom was a big fan of Broadway, or at least of the ladies who sang and danced on stage. He wasn't flashy enough to date any of the stars, but he threw his lure into the chorus line from time to time and, if my sources are right, which they always are, he landed a few promising up and comers.

"If you hustle, you can meet one of the girls at the Barrymore between the matinee and evening shows. Be at the stage entrance at 5:00 and ask for Debbie. She's only 19 but the scuttle-but says she might make it big. I told her to be on the lookout for a large, poorly dressed man, who has absolutely no idea how to treat a woman.

"Once you're done accusing our aspiring stage star of killing Tom, you'll need to hustle down to Rockefeller Center for your 6:30 dinner date with Doctor McManor. I put the address of the restaurant in your coat pocket, so you won't forget it.

"Finally, after you've made nice with the shrink who I guarantee is not a grandmother, you should immediately go home and go to bed. And while you're laying there, alone, with no female companionship, think about what you could have had tonight if you weren't in such a hurry to solve this damn case."

Having said her piece, Zelda unbuttons her blouse, gives her unfettered ladies a shake, and storms back to her desk.

***

Driving an eight-year-old Nash to Broadway is like leading a donkey to Churchill Downs. I'm already fighting above my weight and see no need to stack the odds further against me. I splurge and call a cab.

"I'm here to see Debbie," I tell the goon guarding the Barrymore's stage door.

"Debbie who?"

"Hell if I know. Raymon, Reynolds, Regis. Something with an R. She's a young kid on the chorus line."

"Nice try pal. Now scram before I call the cops."

"Go ahead. Ask for Lt. Matt Board. Tell him Mick Nailer is about to kick your ass because you're obstructing a murder investigation." I flash my PI badge at him.

"Mick Nailer," he says. "Maybe I've heard of you, maybe not. Wait here." He closes and locks the stage door behind him.

It's not a great lock. Nothing more than a flimsy latch on a hook. Turning the handle and putting a shoulder to it gets me inside. I ask a fluff in tights where the chorus girls hang out and he points to a bevy of babes sitting on the floor eating cold cuts and cheese from paper plates.

I've got no idea what Tom's old girlfriend Debbie looks like but didn't have to ask because the ineffective door guard is talking to a doll with sparkly eyes and gams that would look perfect wrapped around my waist. The guard thinks about making a scene but only gives me a sneer as he walks back to his post.

"Hi, I'm Debbie." The young beauty takes my hand with more confidence than women twice her age.

"I'm Mick. Sorry to bother you at work but..."

"Not a problem. Your secretary called me earlier and told me you were coming. But she didn't mention how large and handsome of a man I'd be meeting."

Yep. This girl is certainly going places.

"I've only got a few minutes before the show starts so ask your questions quick. I've got nothing to hide."

Which is a complete lie because, as skimpy as her costume is, it's certainly hiding some of her choice bits.

"Tell me about your relationship with Tom Ranger."

Her smile loses some luster as she considers her response.

"I was just eighteen when I moved to the city. Tom was my first boyfriend, ever. I didn't tell my parents about him because he was so much older than me but, in my mind, he was the one. I was barely getting by, not working except as a waitress. Tom got me out of a financial bind and hinted that maybe I quit the theatre and move in with him. We never talked about marriage. To his credit, he never promised me a life of leisure as his wife. But that was my dream. Until one day, out of the blue, he quit calling.

"When I called his office, Daisey, his secretary, kept making excuses about why he wouldn't take my calls. After a week, Daisey fessed up and said that Tom had moved on to another girl. I took it pretty hard and seriously considered going back home to Arkansas."

"What made you change your mind?" I ask. "Why'd you stay?"

"Two things happened. Somebody I respect told me to not let one man ruin my dreams. Shortly after that, I auditioned and got a spot on the chorus line. I'm not a star, yet. But my hope has returned."

"One last question before I go. I know you didn't kill Tom, but can you tell me where you were Monday afternoon and evening?"

"What! Tom's dead?"

"Crap. I'm sorry. Didn't you know?"

"We don't have much time to read real newspapers. It's mostly the society and theatre rags for us."

"Nothing wrong with not keeping up with the local crime scene. You're probably better off not knowing and I'm sorry to be the one to tell you. But the question remains. Where were you Monday and what were you doing?"

"I was here, rehearsing. From noon until 6:30. And after that, some of us girls went out to a night club where we danced until nearly 10:00."

Before we can continue a loud voice announces, "Chorus line. Places for the opening number".

"Good meeting you Mick Nailer. I've only met you once, but I'm sure I'll never forget you," Debbie says.

"Likewise. I look forward to seeing you center stage in a starring role soon." Debbie blows me a kiss as she skips onto the stage.

Having eliminated her from the suspect list, I move on to my next appointment.

***

Zelda was right.

Dr. Charlene McManor is not a grandmother.

Although not movie star gorgeous, I doubt that a single man passes her by without sneaking a second or third look. I've charged Nazi machine gun nests. Stared down hardened gangsters. Even took on a professional boxer. Never in my life have I hesitated to advance, until I confront the blonde beauty who occupies a corner table at Del Frisco's.

She rises from her chair to greet me.

"Mick Nailer," I say, extending my hand while desperately trying to look her in the eyes instead of staring at the two large protuberances in her sweater.

"Charlene McManor. It's a pleasure to finally meet you, Mr. Nailer." Her delicate hands grasp my large mitt and hold on while she takes stock of me. "I've never dealt with a private investigator before and, by looking at you, I'd bet this is your first time talking to a psychiatrist. Why don't we sit down and get to know each other?"

A waiter takes our drink orders. She asks for a Reisling, I opt for a highball. The young server scurries off, leaving the two of us alone.

Looking at each other.

Neither of us speaking.

For over a minute.

Maybe two.

"I'm not what you expected." She says it as a statement. Not a question.

"And you?" I ask. "Are you disappointed that you're having dinner with a private investigator instead of a NYPD detective?"

"Not in the least. I've done my research, and you are exactly the man I wish to share this evening with. I would have come to you directly but thought it better to go through Lt. Board so you wouldn't suspect my intentions."

Interesting. Matt told me I was doing him a favor for talking to this broad. Sounds like he might be a little jealous that she chose me.

"What are your intentions?" I ask. "Matt mentioned something about you helping us with the Tom Ranger murder case. I seldom pass up the opportunity to have dinner with a good-looking gal, but I'm mighty curious about how a shrink can help us solve a murder."

"Have you ever heard of the term 'profiling'?" she asks.

"It doesn't ring a bell."

"It's a new term for the process of narrowing down the list of possible suspects when investigating a crime. You've been doing it for years."

"What makes you think that?" I ask.

"Tell me what you know about the case so far."

"Well, I'm fairly sure the killer is female."

"Why? Why do you think a woman pulled the trigger."

"When I found Tom, he was bare butt naked, tied to a bed, blindfolded, with two small caliber gunshot wounds to the head."

"And from those facts you are certain the murderer is a woman? Explain."

"Tom was a tough guy. A man's man. It would take two, maybe three burly goons to strip his clothes off and tie him up. If they did, he would of struggled. A bunch. Breaking a few noses while they did the same to him. But, except for the two holes in his head, there wasn't a mark on his body. Which means he voluntarily let himself get tied up. With scarves no less.

"Tom wasn't queer. He wasn't into guys. But the right woman, a gal he trusted, could easily have talked him out of his clothes and onto his back on that bed.

"The gun also points to a woman. When a man shoots somebody, he uses a manly gun. A thirty-eight at the least. I carry a.45. With a gun like that, you can kill a man from the other side of the room. Yeah, it might take a few slugs to put him down, depending on how good of a shot you are, but that's how a man would do it.

"Tom was shot by a Deringer. A lady's gun. Small, light, and easy to hide in a purse. To kill with a Deringer, you have to get in close. There's not a lot of stopping power in a.22 and they're not known for accuracy. Since Tom was trussed up, blindfolded, and unawares he was in danger, she could put the gun directly to his head and not have to worry about aiming. "

"Impressive," she says. "In one fell swoop, you eliminated half of the possible suspects. You know the killer is female and not male. That's profiling. But I'm guessing you've narrowed the list down even further. Tell me what else you've discovered."

We spend the rest of the evening in non-stop conversation. I do most of the talking, which is unusual for me. She does most of the listening, which I find extraordinarily uncommon for a lady. I fill her in on the two similar cases and what I'm doing to follow those leads. But we also take time to get to know each other.

Charlene and I sprang from different worlds. I was New York City born and bred. She'd only been in the city for a few years. I was street educated. From how she spoke, I suspect she spent a good bit of time attending schools up north, schools with walls covered in ivy.

The dinner started with us sitting on opposite sides of the table, like business associates. I can't say exactly when the transition occurred but, by the time we taste dessert and brandy, we're touching thighs and rubbing elbows. We're both reticent to let the evening end but glaring glances from the wait staff indicate we've overstayed our reservation. Rising to leave, my charming dinner companion ignores my offer of a handshake and gives me a chaste kiss.

"Mick, I can't remember the last time I've enjoyed a dinner so much." The titles Dr. McManor and Mr. Nailer disappeared before the salad was served.

"Tomorrow night, I'd like to explore the topic of motive," she says.

"Tomorrow night?" I ask.

"Please. Unless you have other plans. We've only scratched the surface of this case. I feel you have so much more to offer."

"Tomorrow night is clear for me, but I thought you'd want to sit in on some of my interviews with the suspects. I'd be interested in a psychiatrist's opinion of the ladies who were unceremoniously dumped by the male victims."

"As interesting as that might be, I'm afraid my presence would degrade your unique interrogation technique. Besides, to be completely honest, I spend a good part of my days listening to the woes of women's love lives and have heard it all several times. I trust you to ask the right questions and look forward to meeting with you every evening until we determine who killed your friend."

***

Thursday

I wake up in a sour mood.

Not from a hangover. My alcohol intake the previous evening was on the low side of Mick Nailer normal.

Not due to lack of sleep. I was in the sack before 11:00.

A hot shower followed by black coffee does nothing to cure my undiagnosed malaise. As I walk towards my office the sense of dread increases and, climbing the stairs, I realize what's bothering me.

Zelda.

Or, more specifically, which version of the woman will be sitting behind her desk when I stride through the door. I'm not expecting the cheerful, smiling, flirty version of my secretary. She normally shows on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Tuesday and Thursday Zelda is usually a kind, appreciative girl, who caters to my every need. Saturday and Sunday Zelda is a loud, obnoxious broad who complains about me calling her into the office during the weekend.

None of those women are present the morning after my dinner with Charlene. Instead, I'm faced with a sour-pussed, super-efficient, all-business employee who regards me with an accusing eye as I walk in.

"I hope that woman didn't wear you out last night," replaced her normal "good morning, Mick."

"You've got a busy day ahead of you," she continues. "You're interviewing two more of Tom's ex-girlfriends later this morning, both showgirls on Broadway. After that, you have a noon appointment in the Hamptons, and Lt. Board wants you to stop by the precinct to compare notes sometime this afternoon."

"What's with the attitude? Are you mad at me?"

"I have no right to be mad at you."

"That's not what I asked. Have I done something to piss you off?"

"Nothing you haven't done before and nothing I won't get over in a day or so. I'm more worried than mad."

"About what?" I ask.

"You biting off more than you can chew. I know Tom was a good friend but you're not making an inch of progress on this case and, need I mention that, as long as you try to find Tom's killer, you're not bringing in any money. I shudder to think how much you spent on last night's dinner. Mick, if you don't find a paying gig soon, your fancy restaurants will be replaced by a can of beans."

"Okay doll. I appreciate your concern for my financial well-being. I'm not proud to admit it, but Doctor McManor picked up the tab for last night's dinner. And I expect she'll do the same tonight."

"Tonight? You're going out with the shrink again? Never once since I've known you have you taken the same girl out two nights in a row."

"It's not what you think. She's doing this pro bono. She spends her days seeing clients so the only time we can consult is during dinner."

"I don't know Mick. A woman buying a man dinner doesn't sit right with an old-fashioned girl like me. You're the boss but please make sure you're consulting and not consorting."

Despite Zelda's obvious concern, or maybe because of it, I'm definitely looking forward to my second encounter with the lovely and charming Dr. Charlene McManor. But before that bit of heaven, I have to wade through the hellish tasks of interviewing two more jilted girlfriends and a grieving father.

My next stop is back on Broadway.

***

Gwen is on the chorus line of a Broadway production. Doris has garnered a role with a speaking part. Definitely not a star, she's the ditzy maid who keeps finding bodies in a murder mystery farce, but she's climbed one step up the ladder to fame.

Just like Debbie from the previous day, neither of these girls knows that Tom is dead, both have theatre approved alibis, and I get the impression that the "deep emotional damage" caused by my deceased client is more play acting than actual mental distress. On top of it all, I doubt that any of the girls know one end of a pistol from the other.

***

Having exhausted all leads for the murders of Tom Ranger and Frankie Bertinelli, I'm down to one last option.

Marcus Newton, the youngest of three Newton boys, spent five years getting a four-year college degree in business. He was killed a year before Tom under essentially identical circumstances; tied to a bed with scarves, blindfolded, and shot in the head with the same gun used in the other two murders. My noon appointment is with Marcus' father.

Brightson Newton is an extremely successful businessman with a large estate in the Hamptons and possible ties to the mob. Eight-foot-high hedgerows completely obscure any view of the houses on Newton's street. Only by good fortune and perfect vision do I spy his house number etched on a small metal plaque mounted on an impressive iron gate. A direct line telephone next to the plaque puts me through to a uniformed guard who takes five minutes ensuring I'm on the authorized visitor list before opening the gate and leading me to the mansion.

Parking my heap between a Bentley and a Rolls, we walk past the tennis court and swimming pool before opening a side door, which I assume is used by the help. The guard hands me over to a no-kidding, dressed in a tuxedo, straight out of a movie, butler. Jeeves escorts me up a staircase, down a long hall, past six massive doors, and through a seventh. A handsome woman in her forties wearing a conservative business suit sits behind a secretary's desk.

Checking her watch she says, "five minutes early. You are to be congratulated, Mr. Nailer. Mr. Newton rewards promptness. Take a seat. He will be with you shortly."

I sit where directed and, on the stroke of noon, the lady pushes an intercom button on her desk to announce my arrival.

"Mr. Nailer is here sir."

"Excellent, send him in."

Brightson Newton's office reminds me of pictures I've seen of the oval office in the White House. Bigger than any office I'd ever been in before, the walls are lined with pictures of Newton shaking hands with movie stars, professional athletes and, yes, a president or two. The lord of the manner, a man who resembles a gray-haired Rock Hudson, sits behind a replica of the Resolute desk. A combination of artificial and natural lighting accents the desk and the man sitting behind it while leaving the rest of the room in shadows. Anybody who walks into the room immediately understands who is in charge.

Talking on the phone when I walk in, Newton gestures to a low-slung chair while continuing his conversation. I lower my hefty frame into the cushiony seat and only then notice the shoes.

Red slippers. Covering dainty feet. Attached to shapely ankles. Sticking out from the back cover of the desk. The toes of the slippers are in contact with the carpet. The elevated heels point directly at me. Which means a good part of the girl who is wearing the slippers, the part I can't see, has to be on her hands and knees. Under the desk. With her head between Newton's legs.

"Johnny, I don't give a damn whose fault it is," Newton yells into the phone. "I also don't care how you fix it, just get it done."

He slams the phone into the cradle, takes a deep breath, and casts his eyes on me.

"So, you're Mick Nailer. The notorious private dick who everybody is afraid of. Tell me why you're here."

"Yeah, I'm Mick. But before we get started, you want to tell me what's going on under your desk?"

"I work long, stressful hours and my wife hasn't gone down on me since VE day. You got a problem with a man getting a little blow job on the side?"

"No. But considering what we're going to be talking about, don't you think it would be better if we don't have any witnesses?"

He laughs. "Good answer. I think you and I are going to get along just fine. There's no need to worry about Dorothy tattling on us. She's deafer than a brass doorknob."

"Is this all she does for you?" I ask, motioning towards what was going on under the desk.

"Not by a long shot. We hired her to be the upstairs maid. Her predecessors had a nasty habit of listening at key holes and passing family secrets on to folks outside the house. That's not a problem with a deaf girl. She volunteered for her noon time extracurricular activities in exchange for a bump in pay."

"How do you communicate with her? Do you write her notes?"

"No need. She reads lips."

"Can she speak?"

"She's a maid, Mick. She don't need to talk. I tell her what to do, she does it. The perfect employee. Maybe the perfect woman. Now let's quit wasting time discussing the hired help and get down to business. Martha says you're working with the cops on my son's murder. Does that mean you've made some progress?"

"Sort of. A good friend of mine was killed last week under the exact same circumstances as your son."

"You mean tied bare assed naked to a bed with a bullet in his brain?"

I hear the distinct sound of a descending zipper.

"Exactly. And there was another identical murder a year before your son was killed. We, NYPD and I, are going on the theory that the three murders are linked together."

"You think the same person killed all three boys?"

A barely audible slurping noise comes to my ears.

"The same gun was used in all three cases. Either one person pulled the trigger or the women who did the killing all knew each other and used the same technique."

"You think it was a woman who killed my son?"

The slurping transitions to sucking.

"Almost certain. And that's why I'm here. I know I'm scraping at old wounds, but can you tell me if there were any women who had motive to kill your son? A jilted girlfriend? A broken engagement? Maybe he had something to do with the firing of a female employee."

Newton is silent for several minutes. I'm not sure if he's contemplating an answer or just enjoying the services provided by Dorothy, his under-the-table stress reliever. Maybe a bit of both.

The ankles tense, the ruby slippers inch forward, and Newton lets out a satisfied moan, his eyes temporarily losing focus.

"There's something you need to understand about people like us," Newton says after regaining his composure. "Money, this kind of money," he gestures to his opulent surroundings, "changes how we interact with the rest of the populace.

"My third son took after his mother's side of the family. Unlike my remaining boys, Marcus was never known for his wit or intelligence. He was not the most popular kid in his class. He did not captain the lacrosse team or excel at debate. I wouldn't call the boy homely, but nobody ever accused him of being handsome. His only draw to the opposite sex was his trust fund. If he ever had a romantic relationship with a girl, I doubt he would be the one to break it off. And, if that were to happen, I can't imagine the girl being so upset that she would kill him. I know that's not what a father should say about his son, but it's the truth."

"Okay. If Marcus wasn't killed by an ex-girlfriend, who do you think did it?" I ask.

"The O'Sullivan's."

"The who?"

"The Irish scum that have been trying to take over the entire northeast trucking territory.

"Competitors of yours?"

"More like mortal enemies. They will do anything in their power to damage my family, both business-wise and physically. I told the NYPD and now I'm telling you. If you want to figure out who killed Marcus, look no further than Shawn O'Sullivan and his gang of highway robbers."

We don't shake hands after our brief meeting, which was fine with me, knowing what was going on under his desk. But we also don't part as enemies.

Getting out of the mansion is the reverse of getting in. The secretary magically appears at the door to usher me out of Newton's office. She hands me off to the butler who leads me to the side door, where the guard makes sure I drive out the gate before locking it behind me. No bones about it, they don't want strangers wandering around their castle unsupervised.

***

Charlene chooses a slightly less swanky joint for our date that night. Dinner doesn't cost an arm and a leg, just a thumb and a toe. Her sweater displays a bit more cleavage than the previous night's and her skirt reveals an inch more leg. At this rate, she'll be dining naked within a fortnight.

"Any luck today?" she asks while stroking my arm with a soft hand.

"If you're asking if we're any closer to figuring out who killed Tom, the answer is no. I've talked to all the girls Tom recently dated and, even though they're not overly impressed with his social skills, I can't imagine any of them taking time out of their busy Broadway careers to kill a man they've already put in the rear-view mirror."

"How about the boy from the Hamptons?"

"If we can believe his father, young Marcus Newton was more likely to be dumped than be the dumpee."

"That's a strange thing for a father to say about his own son."

"His father is a strange man."

"How so?"

I tell her about the ruby red slippers under Newton's desk, giving her the minimum amount of details possible to convey the situation.

"Are you saying she was performing the act of fellatio on her boss?"

"If that means she was giving him a blow job, then yes, I'm almost positive."

"She did this while you were talking to him?"

"He said she was deaf. She might not have even known I was in the room."

Charlene sits back in her chair, closes her eyes, and breathes in a lung full of air before continuing.

"Why, Mick? Why do men insist on treating women like this? I don't know which is worse. The harm you do to their bodies or to their psyche."

"Whoa doc. Back up a second. I'll admit that we boys have some bad apples in our basket, but it goes both ways. I can't tell you how many of my Army pals were completely destroyed by a dear John letter. Or, even worse, imagine a guy going through an entire war thinking he had a girl at home waiting for him, only to come back to see her holding a baby that isn't his."

"I'm sorry Mick," her hand back on my arm, her head on my shoulder. "I know you wouldn't hurt a girl; most men are raised not to. Men and women both suffer from the downfalls of romance. But it always seems that the woman has a harder time recovering. If a man gets dumped, he can call up a girl and be back in the saddle that evening. It's different for a lady. Proper etiquette doesn't allow her to call a man and ask him out. She has to either rely on friends to set her up or sit by the phone, hoping some shmuck will take pity on her and ask her to a movie."

Not wanting to refight the battle of the sexes with a woman who possessed twice as much firepower as me, I change tact.

"Forget about Newton. Let's talk about motive. I've about convinced myself I'm barking up the wrong tree. Hell, I might even be in the wrong forest. The two primary motives for a killing are love and money. I'm sticking with my theory that Tom and the other two men were killed by women, or maybe one woman, but suppose their reason for taking such drastic action wasn't emotional. Is it possible they were after cold hard cash?"

"Possible? Of course," Charlene says. "But, unless the lady was a professional killer..."

"A hit-woman?" I suggest.

"It wouldn't be the first time. But I still believe we're dealing with a crime of passion. Perhaps not the passion of a failed love affair. There are many other things women are passionate about. The most dangerous animal in the woods is a momma bear protecting her cubs. The fabled Amazon warriors fought to protect their tribe. There is no limit to what a woman will do to support a cause in which she truly believes. The suffragettes of the 20's endured unspeakable horrors in their quest for the right to vote."

"How about you, Charlene? What is your passion? What would you be willing to kill for?"

The intensity in her eyes softens to a mist. "I'd kill for one more glass of wine and another dinner date with you."

One more drink leads to two and our conversation transitions from professional to personal. I offer to drive her home, but she shoots me down by saying,

"Not tonight, Mick. But don't stop asking."

***

Friday

Zelda greets me the next morning with a cup of coffee and a sassy smile. Following me into my office, she sits on the corner of my desk and gives me a good view of her shapely legs.

"You have a follow up meeting with Mr. Newton today. He wants you there at noon."

"That's odd. When we talked yesterday, I got the impression he didn't give a damn who killed his son. Did he say what we'd be talking about?"

"His secretary made the call. She didn't say why he wanted to see you but insisted you show up on time."

"Yeah, he seems to be a stickler for punctuality. Anything else?"

"Matt wants you to stop by after you meet with Newton. Nothing important. He just wants an update."

"Which means he doesn't have squat. Just like me. What are your plans for the day?" I ask.

"Nothing pressing." She leans back, stretches across the length of my desk with her arms behind her and arches her back, straining the buttons of her blouse. "You got something particular in mind?"

"Yeah. Since I'll be gone most of the day, how about you doing a little research for me. I know you've got contacts all over New England. Call around and see if any other city has seen similar cases like what we're investigating down here. You know the situation: naked guys tied to a bed with scarves, blindfolded, and shot in the head with a Deringer."

"Sure Mick. I'll get right on it. If I find anything interesting, we can talk about it here in the office after you meet with Matt."

"No need to stay late," I tell her. "By the time I go out to the Hamptons, talk to Matt, and have dinner with Doctor McManor, it will be way past quitting time.

I'm sure she didn't purposely slam my door shut as she left my office. It must have been a draft.

***

My second audience with Brightson Newton is a carbon copy of the first. I drive to the guy's mansion. His gate guard gives me some shit before letting me in. The butler acts like I'm a flea-bitten mutt while leading me upstairs. His secretary compliments me on my punctuality and then tells me to sit down, shut up, and wait.

I'm not allowed to enter the inner sanctum until the great-grandfather clock strikes twelve and, sure enough, when I walk into Newton's oversized office, he's sitting behind a huge desk with a pair of ruby red slippers sticking out of the bottom.

"You like bourbon?" Newton asks me.

"Let me check," I say while pretending to look down my pants. "Yeah, I still got a set of balls. I must like bourbon."

Newton gets a chuckle out of that and motions to a small table in the corner.

"You mind pouring me a taste too? I'd do it myself but..." he points below the desk and shrugs.

I deliver a glass of the amber liquid to my host, taking care not to step on the slippers, and return to my comfy chair with drink in hand. We both take a sip and then he says,

"You called this meeting. I'm assuming you've got some news."

"Uh, no, I didn't," I stammer. "You called me. Or at least your secretary did."

Newton gives me a confused look and then buzzes his secretary on the intercom.

"Hey Martha, did you ask Mr. Nailer to come see me?"

"No sir," the voice in the box says. "His secretary called me this morning asking for a noon meeting with you."

"Are you sure?" he asks. "He's saying you called him."

"I assuredly didn't," she replies. "Should I call security and have him removed?"

"No. Let him stay. I'll let you know when we're done."

Newton sits quietly for a while looking off into space. I'm not sure if he's considering my fate or enjoying his daily blow job. Feeling the heft of my.45 press against my side, I'm not worried.

A flash of red catches my eye while I sip Newton's bourbon. The slippers sticking out from under the desk are doing a dance. The heels click together a couple of times and then the toes curl outward. Again and again. Like they're trying to draw attention to themselves.

And it works. When I first walked into the room, I purposely avoided looking at the slippers. Charlene was right. A man who uses women like Newton is using Dorothy is not a man at all. At least not in my book.

I'm sure he enjoys his daily blow job, but, the first time we met, he purposely scheduled our meeting to coincide with his under-the-table activity. He wants me to see it. Wants to show me how powerful of a man he is. It's like he's saying, "I am rich enough to pay women to please me and important enough to not get called on it. I can make Dorothy give me a daily blow job, therefore I can also make you do whatever I want. There is nothing either of you can do about it."

He's wrong. As I watch the dancing slippers, I notice markings on the soles. Markings that weren't there the previous day. The word "Manny's" is printed on the left sole. "Sat 1:00" is printed on the right.

I make a mental note of what I see and take a couple more sips of bourbon before Newton's brain returns from wherever it'd been.

"Do you believe in providence," he asks me.

"No. My faith is in a strong right cross followed by a.45 slug to the gut."

"That's what I've been told. So, here's the deal. I don't know who screwed up or who lied to who, but I've been looking for a man with your talents and, magically, you show up on my doorstep. What would you say to doing a little job for me."

"Depends on what you want done. I'm a private investigator, not a gun for hire."

"Well, that happens to be exactly what I want. The O'Sullivan family has been a pain in my ass for more years than I care to count. I need somebody to privately investigate their role in my son's death. And, while you're doing that, if you happen to find any evidence that they've been sabotaging my business interests, I'd be glad to pay you for that information as well."

"I'm already looking for your son's killer."

"And, best I can tell, you're not making an inch of progress. What you need is a little incentive. How much do you normally charge for a day of sleuthing?"

"Fifty dollars," I answer.

"How about I give you five hundred dollars today. Cash. And another thousand if you find out who killed Marcus. Plus ten thousand for each O'Sullivan you put in jail. How does that sound?"

"Like you'd be throwing your money away."

"Trust me son, I didn't get into my position by making bad investments. Take the five hundred, no strings attached. Once you've got a taste for my money, I'll guarantee you'll be back."

On my way out, the butler gives me an envelope full of cash accompanied by a sneer of contempt. The gate guard is equally obnoxious when I ask him about a place called "Manny's".

"It's a greasy spoon a couple miles down the road."

"Which way? East or West?"

"Look it up in the yellow pages. I ain't your travel agent."

Do I feel bad about taking Newton's money? Hell no.

Will I claim the extra thousand if I find his son's murderer? You bet your sweet ass I will.

Will I investigate the O'Sullivans after I find out who killed Tom? Absolutely not.

***

I take the coast road back to the city and meet up with Matt at our normal place; a dive two blocks from his office where he meets with all his shady contacts, or at least that's what he tells me. He's sitting at his normal seat, corner table towards the back. The barkeep holds up a mug when I pass by. I give him a nod and continue to Matt's second office.

"Did you get any smarter since the last time we met?" Matt asks.

"You talking about Tom's murder or life in general?"

"Either one."

"Well, I'm still a PI so I guess I'm still dumber than a box of rocks in that regard."

"How about the case? Any leads?"

"Maybe one. But I don't think it'll amount to anything. Other than that, I'm running out of ideas. How about you?"

"We've got nothing," he admits. "It's been damn near a week and the two best detectives in the city are stumped. The Captain thinks we should admit defeat on this one and move our resources to more pressing crimes, like locking up crooked politicians. My advice to you is to do the same."

"I hear ya. I probably would too if the father of the boy killed in the Hamptons didn't just hand me a few bills to find the gal who killed his kid."

The barkeep shows up with our beers and we each take a gulp. Something we couldn't do if we met in Matt's office.

"Tell me about the shrink," he says, wiping some foam off his mouth. "Is she helping you or just being a pain in the ass?"

"Considering I still don't know who offed Tom, I can't honestly say she's been any help. As far as the other bit, she does have some crazy ideas about police work, but a bright smile atop a well filled sweater makes up for her minor faults."

"Yeah, I heard she was a looker," Matt says. "What kind of psycho-bullshit is she spouting."

"She keeps talking about profiling."

"Never heard of it."

"It's the modern scientific way to narrow down your suspect list by getting into the killer's mind. According to Doc McManor, people with certain personality traits are much more likely to kill than others. And, digging even deeper, by looking at how the murder was done, you can limit your search even further. Essentially, if you know the perp's psychological tendencies, by the process of elimination, you'll figure out who did the dirty deed."

"Don't tell me you're buying any of this pile of malarky," Matt says.

"There's probably some merit to what she says but, truth be told, if a fat ugly broad told me the same story, I'd quit listening two minutes into the lecture."

***

After Matt and I say our goodbyes, I slide a nickel into the payphone at the end of the bar and give Zelda a jingle. Telling her about the five hundred Newton paid us to work his son's case puts a smile in her voice.

"Is there anything I need to know before my dinner with Doc McManor?" I ask.

She hesitates a moment as her smile turns upside down and then says, "I called around to some friends up north, like you asked. A librarian in Cambridge thinks she might remember a case involving a Harvard law student found dead and naked in his bed about four years ago. She promised to look for the newspaper article and call me back. There was a similar murder in Sanford Maine about six months ago but, in that case, the victim was a woman, and she was killed with a knife, not a gun. Those are the only two I've got so far, but I've still got more contacts who I'll call tomorrow."

"Tomorrow's Saturday. Take the weekend off and we'll hit it hard on Monday."

"Mick, are you working tomorrow?"

"Yeah, I'm running down a lead in the Hamptons."

"If you're working there's no reason why I can't either. Since old man Newton gave you a bonus, I'll be expecting some overtime. Behave yourself with the shrink tonight."

She hung up, but not before I heard her mutter, "I hope she chokes on a fishbone."

***

I get to the Gabriella, an Italian eatery in the fancy part of town, before Charlene. I give my name to the maître d who claims I don't have a reservation.

"How about McManor?" I ask. "Doctor Charlene McManor."

Looking shocked that a mug like me has the ability to attract any woman, no less a gorgeous, well-known psychiatrist, he hesitates to seat me.

"Yeah, I know. She's out of my league. It's a business meeting. Not a date. Now take me to your best table and I won't break your nose and put a huge blood stain on that fancy coat."

He leads me to a table towards the rear of the restaurant, points to a chair, and gives me a look which sounds a lot like a man telling his dog to "sit, stay".

After a ten-minute wait, a hush descends upon the diners. The normally hustling wait staff stops in mid stride. Even the clatter of the kitchen ceases. All eyes focus on a thin red blouse, barely covering two mounds of magnificent mementos to motherhood, which makes every man in the joint flush with desire and every woman green with envy. That's the front view. Once this apparition of Aphrodite passes, the voyeurs gaze upon a pair of white stretch pants, seemingly painted onto a perfect pair of long lanky legs, which lead to a traffic stopping derriere.

Charlene is in the building.

I pop to my feet, feeling ten feet tall as she gives me a welcoming kiss and sits at the chair adjoining mine. The show over, the normal restaurant noises return, and we pick up where we left off the night before.

She spends a good bit of the evening going deeper into her profiler philosophy, describing in detail each different personality trait and how each, if taken to extremes, might lead to "unsociable behavior", her code word for murderous intent. Much of what she says is well over my head, but I enjoy watching her lips form the words, wonder if her boobs will spill out of her blouse, and thrill at her habit of accentuating certain points by rubbing my upper thigh.

What must it be like to live in her body, I wonder; knowing you are always the best-looking, most intelligent person in the room. Does she enjoy the constant attention, does it annoy her, or does she even know she's different from the rest of us? People like Charlene may never realize how lucky they are. Or, is she as fortunate as us commoners think she is? She will never blend in with the crowd. She is always on stage. The mediocre are jealous of her. The degenerates plot her downfall.

"... that's our job. To know our clients intimately. Better than they know themselves."

Okay. My mind wandered for a while. I might have missed some of what she said, maybe most of it. But those last words grabbed my attention.

"Stop!" I blurt out.

She instantly removes her hand from my thigh. "I'm sorry Mick. Once I get going, sometimes I don't know when to quit."

"No worries. What you were doing felt great. Feel free to continue. It's what you said that caught my attention. About 'knowing your clients intimately'."

"I wasn't referring to physical intimacy..."

"Yeah, I get that. I'm talking about the other part. Do you really know your clients better than they know themselves? If a patient has a tendency towards those "unsociable behaviors" you mentioned, would their shrinks recognize it?"

"Definitely," she says. "Not right away, it's a process. But after several sessions, any therapist worth their salt should be able to identify abnormal personality traits."

"Well crap. Looks like I've been going about this all wrong. I've spent the last few days interviewing girls who might have reason to kill their ex-boyfriend. They all had a good story but I'm betting a complicit friend or three can easily manufacture a false alibi. I know for a fact that a few of those girls received professional help getting over the mental trauma of being dumped. I've got a pretty fair bullshit detector, but not good enough to know if they're inclined towards murder. However, I bet they couldn't hide their lies from a trained shrink."

Charlene takes both of my hands in hers, looks me straight in the eye and says, "Mick. I know where you're going with this and trust me, it's not going to work. First off, most women won't give you the name of their therapist, especially if she is guilty. But even if you do find out who was providing a suspect's mental health care, patient confidentiality laws prevent the therapist from talking to you. She can't even confirm or deny that your suspect was one of her clients."

"Well double crap. That's the only good idea I've had all week, and you shoot it down in less than a minute."

Charlene pulls me into a kiss... a long kiss... too long for such a public place, but I don't care.

"I think that's enough business talk for one night," she whispers. "How about we discuss something else. Like what you and I are going to do after dinner."

***

Saturday

Clamoring street sounds coax me to life. A hint of leftover perfume refreshes my memory. A pounding head insists I stay in bed, but a near bursting bladder forces me out. After draining the snake, I stumble back into my bedroom to find my clothes strewn across the floor and a clock with the little hand on the nine and the big hand pointing straight down. The note on my kitchen counter says,

"Thank you for restoring my faith in men. It will take me at least a day to recover from last night. Dinner Sunday evening? Charlene."

***

Bacon, eggs, toast, and two cups of coffee at a local diner give me sufficient strength to face the wrath of Zelda.

"You did it didn't you," my irate secretary says while ignoring the pastry I brought to the office as a peace offering.

From the look on her face, my attempt at an innocent shrug transformed into a telling smirk.

"I'm not a saint, honey. Sometimes a man's got to follow his hunches."

"Hunches or urges?"

"Does it really matter? What's done is done."

"What about tomorrow? Are you planning a repeat performance?"

"I don't know. Part of me hopes so and another part tells me not to."

"She's using you, Mick. Women like her don't mix with people like us unless there's a reason."

Zelda is right. Hell, she's always right. But sometimes, doing the wrong thing is right.

I grab my coat and hat, jump into the jalopy, and head north.

***

Private investigators spend a good bit of their day chasing wild geese. My third trip to the Hamptons most likely qualifies.

The cryptic note scrawled on the bottom of Dorothy's red slippers read, "Manny's. Sat 1:00". I assume "Manny's" refers to a diner a few miles from the Newton estate. But Manny is a common name in New York and the message might just as well refer to the other dozen establishments within a ten-mile radius also owned by a Manny. Or maybe it denotes Manny's house.

I also surmise "Sat 1:00" refers to one o'clock Saturday afternoon. But it might mean 1:00 am, an hour after midnight, when I was doing my best to entertain a certain blonde psychiatrist.

Lastly, I have no way to confirm that Dorothy's note is meant for me; a man she has never met and, since she is deaf, has no reason to know that I was ever in Newton's office. I don't know how long she kneels under the pervert's desk every day. Maybe 30 minutes, or an hour, or all afternoon. How many men sat in the Newton's easy chair yesterday? Sipping his bourbon. Watching him get his daily blow job. Fair chance I wasn't the only one. Not knowing why a deaf maid would want to secretly meet with a gangster's associate, I'm risking being someplace I don't need to be. Which is why I arrive at Manny's forty-five minutes early to case the joint.

What qualifies as a greasy spoon in the Hamptons would be called a middle-class diner in the rest of the state. Nothing fancy. It has clean Formica topped tables, Linoleum floors, and standard diner fare served by ladies who still possess most of their teeth. I order a Reuben with chips and a beer. A newspaper, the PI's best friend, gives me an excuse to hog a booth and serves to hide my face from potential adversaries.

I'm on my second draft when a short, brown-haired girl, wearing ruby red slippers, walks through the door and takes a table by the window. The waiter brings her coffee and a Danish which she takes her time eating, pausing between sips and bites to peruse each new customer as they enter. She orders another coffee at the fifteen-minute mark, visits the lady's room twenty minutes into her stay, and rises to leave after half an hour.

Leaving a fiver on the table, I follow her out the door and down the street. Not spotting an obvious tail, I catch up with her three blocks down while she waits at an intersection to cross over to the other side. A poorly tuned Ford backfires just as the light turns green, making her jump and me instinctively reach for my.45.

"Are you Dorothy?" I ask, making sure I'm facing her.

She nods, whispers "follow me", and continues on, up the main avenue, down a side street, through an alleyway, and into a wooded park.

I hang back to make sure we aren't being trailed and study the girl as I follow.

She's a little thing, several inches shy of five feet. Small enough to easily fit under a desk but certainly a full-grown woman. Her legs are toned, almost muscular; those of an athlete or a girl who spends a lot of time on her feet. Narrow hips still have a sway when she walks. Turning to settle onto a wooden bench under a copse of trees, her profile confirms a sufficient amount of breast meat to properly fill out her small blouse. Pageboy cut brown hair frames dark chocolate eyes, button nose, and lips that seem tailor made for... several things.

Satisfied that we hadn't been tailed it's time to get down to business.

"Dorothy!" I yell from behind her. "Get down, he's got a gun."

Quicker than a frightened mouse, the petit girl falls to the ground, rolls under the bench, and takes cover behind a tree. She stays partially hidden until I walk down the path towards her with a shit eating grin on my face.

"You're an asshole," she yells in my direction.

"I've been called much worse."

"Look at me. I've bruised my knee, and I bet there's grass stains all down my skirt and blouse."

"That's what you get for lying," I say.

"About what?"

"Claiming you were deaf."

"What makes you think I'm not?"

"You jumping when that Ford backfired was my first clue. And when you told me to follow you, you whispered. All the deaf people I've met aren't able to whisper. An Army buddy of mine lost his hearing shooting off artillery shells for three years. He can talk but doesn't know how to regulate his volume. You ducking when I yelled at you from behind is the proof of the pudding."

"Aren't you the fancy detective."

"Nothing fancy, just common sense. Now tell me why we're here, or was the message on the soles of your shoes meant for somebody else?"

"No. It's you I'm interested in. Two days ago, when you first talked to Mr. Newton, he left out a few things."

"About what?"

"Marcus, his son."

"And you find it your civic duty to correct his error of omission?"

"Yes. For the right price."

"How about you tell me what you know about Marcus in exchange for me not telling Mr. Newton what I know about you?"

At the moment, I didn't know much about the girl. Didn't know how she got into a situation where she had to kneel under a man's desk to survive. But her instincts are good. Instead of fighting me, she realizes when she is beaten.

"Mr. Newton told you that Marcus was a loser. Said his son wasn't good at anything and didn't have any girlfriends. That's not true.

"I've lived in their house for five years. They hired me as their upstairs maid when I was eighteen. I only got the job because the two maids before me were spying on them and selling what they heard to the highest bidder. Everybody thought I couldn't hear so I was the perfect servant. Nothing more than an automaton who changed their sheets, cleaned their toilets, and picked up their messes. The proverbial mouse in the corner. Well, this mouse got an earful. I won't go into it except to say rich people are some of the worst humans on earth. Except Marcus.

"He was by far the kindest of the three boys. Maybe not the smartest, but brains don't count for everything. He wasn't a great athlete, or a Rhodes scholar. He also didn't plot to eventually take over his father's business or get under the skirts of every girl he met. Of the entire household, to include the family and staff, Marcus was the only one to treat me well. The only one to remember my birthday or say thank you when I cleaned his room."

"Were you two lovers?" I asked.

"Goodness no," she laughs. "He was the only man in the house that didn't make a pass at me. But don't take that the wrong way. He wasn't one of those fluffy guys. Marcus knew how to romance a girl and that's what got him in trouble. Iris O'Sullivan was his downfall. They met in college and secretly dated for three years."

"Why did they keep their relationship a secret?"

"Iris is the daughter of Shawn O'Sullivan. Mr. Newton's prime competitor. The Newtons and O'Sullivans have been feuding since the turn of the century. When Marcus finally told his parents about his plan to marry Iris, Mr. Newton threatened to cut Marcus out of the will unless he broke off the engagement."

"Did he? Did Marcus call it off?"

"Marcus refused. He told his father that the money wasn't worth losing Iris. Right after that, Mr. Newton put Marcus and two of his goons on a boat for Europe. It wasn't a vacation, the poor boy was put in exile and Iris thought he'd left her for somebody else."

"Okay, I'm following you so far. Kind of a Romeo and Juliet kind of thing. But Marcus was killed last year, in the Hamptons. How did that happen?"

"Nobody knows. Marcus was allowed to come home after four months in Europe. By that time Iris was convinced he dumped her and refused to speak to him. Two months later, Marcus is dead."

We sit quietly for a minute or two while a mother pushing a stroller walks by. I contemplate not continuing but have to ask one last question.

"What you were doing to Newton when he and I talked. Is that a common occurrence? An everyday thing? An unwritten requirement of employment?"

Not able to look me in the eyes, she gazes out into the distance, as if confessing to a distant deity. "No, that's sort of a side job. Something I do to supplement my maid's salary."

"Newton gives you a bonus for under the table throat massages?"

"Not exactly. Mr. O'Sullivan pays me for information about Mr. Newton's business dealings. The more time I spend in Newton's office, the more I overhear. The more trade secrets I pass to O'Sullivan, the more I get paid. Giving Newton a daily blow job while he talks to his partners in crime nearly doubles my income. I'm not proud of it, but it's my ticket to a better life."

"How do you deliver this ill-gotten information?"

"I use an intermediary."

I gently take hold of her head and turn her face towards me.

"This is important Dorothy. Who passes the secret messages to O'Sullivan? Is it his daughter?"

"Yes. It's Iris. She hates Mr. Newton nearly as much as I do."

***

I take my time driving home from the Hamptons. My Nash barely above an idle. My mind racing like an Indy car.

Marcus Newton wasn't a dirt bag. He didn't jilt his fiancé. But Iris O'Sullivan didn't know that. Breaking off an engagement is certainly motive to kill, at least in a woman's mind.

Going deeper into it, the same could be said for each of the cases. Yeah, my buddy Tom was far from a saint and Frankie Bertinelli, the guy killed in Poughkeepsie, he was guilty of cheating on his wife, like thousands of other red blooded American guys. The only difference between those three and most of the young men in the country was they were murdered.

Then there's Dorothy. Something about her story smells. Not a huge overwhelming stink. Just enough of an odor to merit further thought. Dorothy is absolutely up to no good. She's lying about being deaf, spying on her employer, and prostituting her miniature but desirable body. All illegal, mostly immoral, but I don't know if I should feel sorry for her or turn her into the vice squad.

Then there's the gun. The damn Deringer used to kill all three men. No matter how I shuffle the deck of evidence, I can never deal a hand that makes a lick of sense. Because I'm missing a card. Not a Queen, not an Ace, I need to find a wild card, a Joker. Something that brings it all together. I'll be damned if I know which sleeve it's hiden in.

***

I grab dinner on the way home and purchase a bottle of whiskey to help with what I've got planned for later.

Doc McManor calls just as I'm walking in the door of my apartment. I give her the quick and dirty about my meeting with Dorothy. She naturally takes Dorothy's side of my moral dilemma, and we agree to continue our discussion over Sunday dinner.

Zelda stops by around 8:00. We share a drink and then spend the rest of the evening in my bedroom, conducting what one might call in-depth research.

***

Sunday

The day gets off to a decent start. I sleep in to almost 9:00, trying to recover from the events of the previous night. Breakfast is ham, eggs, and a short stack of pancakes at the place on the corner. I buy a magazine on the way home, brew a pot of coffee in my apartment, and plan to do absolutely nothing for the rest of the day. The Bible says to take the sabbath off and, even though I haven't stepped foot in a church since coming home from the war, I still try to abide by some of their rules... especially the ones I like.

Matt's call changes it all.

"Brightson Newton is dead."

My reaction includes several words one shouldn't use on a Sunday.

"They found him in their guest quarters. He was trussed up same as his son, same as your pal Tom, and all the others."

I spout out more expletives that shouldn't be uttered in close proximity to a church or grade school.

"All the crime scenes are identical. Scarves, blindfold, and two small bullet wounds in the forehead. Listen Mick, the local police are trying to keep a lid on this but it's going to eventually break. Once word gets out that you've been asking around about these killings, they're going to be leaning on you hard. Two murders in the same family, all within a year... That shit don't happen in the Hamptons and you can bet your badge they'll be looking for someone to blame."

My next call came from Zelda.

"I got a call from a friend..."

"You're a few minutes late, kitten. Matt just told me about Newton getting shot."

"Are you okay Mick? We've known about Marcus for several days."

"Not Marcus. Brightson, his old man."

"He's dead?"

"Yeah. Shot in the head. Just like the others. If you didn't know, why did you call?"

"If you had any manners at all, you wouldn't interrupt people before they're done speaking. I called to say that we've found three more murders that match Tom's. Besides the one in Cambridge that I told you about two days ago, there were two more in Boston and one in Providence. They all happened more than three years ago but the MOs are identical to what's been going on here."

Holy crap.

***

At Matt's suggestion, I don't visit the latest crime scene.

"The Hamptons' cops aren't likely to let one of their prime suspects disrupt their investigation. Best you stay incognito for a while until I can smooth things over with them. They don't have any jurisdiction in our neck of the woods but, just to be safe, I'd make myself scarce for a few hours if I were you."

Taking his advice to heart, I jump into the jalopy, run a few errands around town, and spend the rest of the afternoon perched on a bar stool, planning my next move while waiting on my dinner date with Dr. McManor.

We meet at an intimate bistro half an hour before sunset. Dressed in a conservative skirt topped by a loose-fitting sweater, Charlene doesn't attract the attention she did two nights previous. Which was fine by me. I know what's concealed underneath.

I let the waiter take our drink orders before hitting her with the bomb.

"Newton's dead."

It takes her a full minute to absorb what I told her.

"Brightson Newton? Of the Hamptons? The man you met with just yesterday?" she asks.

I nod. "Killed the same way as his son."

"This isn't a good sign." She takes my hand and holds on. "The other killings were spaced out. Nearly a year between them. Two in less than a week is a sign that something has changed."

"Talk to me Charlene. Do some of that psychiatrist stuff. Tell me what you're thinking."

"Let's assume we're dealing with a single killer," she says. "A woman. A murderess. From what you've told me so far, she's killed at least one man a year for the last three or four years."

"Actually more. We think she's been killing one man a year for six or seven years." I fill her in on what Zelda discovered about the killings in Boston and Providence. "What would make her change the pattern?"

"Hard to tell. One thought is that she discovered Marcus wasn't the devil his fiancé originally thought he was, so the killer went after his father to even the score. That would require knowledge only known to the family..."

Or a spy in their midst, thinking about Dorothy.

"She also could be getting frustrated. A lot of women suffer at the hands of men every day. Our killer may think she needs to step up her responses to warn off other unfaithful suiters."

"Any other possibilities?" I ask.

"Unfortunately, there are several. The killer's motivation may have changed. What started out as selective punishment for unfaithful men may have changed to enjoyment of the act. A blood lust. Killing for the sake of killing.

"Or, it could be just the opposite," she continued. "The Derringer wielding assassin may be experiencing moments of remorse and, by killing more often, hopes to be caught and punished for her actions."

The arrival of our dinner interrupts our dour discussion. We eat in silence while the dark cloud of death hovers overhead.

Finishing her chicken, Charlene lays her silverware purposely on her plate and says,

"I apologize for boring you with all that psychology drivel. While academically sound, it will not help us find the killer."

"That's okay, honey. You did a fine job of laying it out. What you said cleared up a few things in my mind. The answer is in there. I can feel it in my gut, churning around, trying to percolate to the top. This isn't my first time in the arena. Give me another day or two and we'll know who done it."

"Mick, I'm a psychiatrist, not a detective, but would you mind if I suggest we do something that has given me results in the past?"

"I'm all ears doctor."

"What I'm proposing is a reenactment. You and I do some role playing and try to get into the killer's mind. We need to experience what she's thinking, feeling, seeing. It's something I do with my patients; take them back to the scene of whatever caused their psychosis and slowly walk through the sequence of events in an attempt to identify what pushed them over the edge. There's a good chance it won't work but, if all you need to crack this case is one spark of insight, I think it's worth a shot."

***

I assumed we'd go to my place for the reenactment thing. Charlene had a better idea.

"We're trying to trick both our brains into thinking we're either a killer or victim. Let's do it in a place that most accurately replicates the actual event. Friends of mine have a house in Southampton. I'm watching their place while they cruise the med for a couple of weeks."

"We're going to break into their house and commandeer their bedroom?" I ask.

"Of course not. I have a key."

We swing by her uptown apartment just long enough for her to run upstairs and get some props. She returns with a small cloth sack, throws it in the backseat, and we make our way out of town and up the coast. Her friend's house is in an upscale neighborhood with wooded lots and miniature mansions. Nothing like Newton's place. The driveway doesn't have a gate with a guard and no butler meets us at the front door, but it's certainly better than anything I'll ever own. I park in a circular drive, thankful that it's dark and none of the neighbors will see my heap.

Her key easily fits the lock. She walks in like she owns the place, picks out a bottle of wine, a single glass, and a corkscrew from their bar, and then leads me upstairs. Poking her head into each of the bedrooms in turn, she settles on one and beckons me to follow her in.

The doc knows what she's doing. The sturdy four poster bed with a chandelier mounted directly above immediately brings me back to Tom's bedroom in the city. The bed where I discovered his naked corpse.

"Mick honey, would you mind opening the wine while I set the stage?"

By the time I get the cork out of the bottle and pour her a glass Charlene has positioned different colored scarves by each bedpost plus a pure white scarf on the lone pillow at the head of the bed.

"Is this where you tie me up?" I ask.

"No, my love. I have to seduce you first."

Taking a sizable gulp of her wine, she sets the glass on a nightstand and presses her alcohol infused lips to mine. She takes off my coat and tosses it onto a standing rack. I slip out of my shoulder rig and hang it from a chair.

"This is how it started," she says while her fingers work the buttons of my shirt. "This is how she got him to the house and onto the bed. He was a big man. Much larger and stronger than her. He wasn't forced to meet her. She didn't lead him here at gunpoint. She talked him into it. Promising the reward that no man can refuse."

My shirt falls to the floor and is kicked to the side. Her lips meet mine again. Sweet tasting lips that linger longer the second time.

"He might have been apprehensive, not used to a woman being so forward. His still functioning mind telling him that something was amiss."

Taking hold of my undershirt, she slowly raises it, kissing my belly and then my pecks as it travels upwards. My arms instinctively extend upwards and finish the job while her hands massage my now bare chest.

"Helping her take his shirt off was a mistake," she says. "Doing so lets her know his resistance is weakening."

Charlene takes a step back, pulls her sweater up, exposing her flat stomach, and then, with a wink, pulls it over her head.

"'Run', his conscience tells him. Get out while you can." Charlene says, mimicking the victim's thoughts. "'Stay' says his pride. 'I'm a man. I'm in control'."

As I stand at the foot of the bed, still as a statue, Charlene turns her back to me, slips her bra straps off her arms, rotates the garment a half turn, and releases the multipronged clasp. She holds the pose for several seconds, letting me appreciate the view of her naked back, and then turns to display two marvels of nature, a landscape that will stay with me for the rest of my life.

"She's got him," Charlene says. "Once a man sees a woman's naked breasts, he is putty in her hands. The 110-pound girl is now the master of the 200-pound man. Unless, of course, he isn't pleased by what he sees. But that is obviously not the case."

To prove her point, she puts her hand on my chest, gives it a slight shove, and I fall backwards onto the bed. Charlene slips out of her shoes and gently places them next to the bed while I rip mine off and throw them against the wall. Charlene's skirt comes off with a snap and a zip. I struggle with my belt, fight the hook, and damn near give myself a second circumcision trying to get the zipper down. Charlene takes hold of my trouser cuffs and pulls as I raise my ass off the bed.

"This is the moment of truth," she says. "If a clear-thinking man took stock of his situation, he would realize that a woman with a body such as the one in front of him would not throw herself at a man of inferior breeding. Therefore, she must be up to something nefarious. Unfortunately, the gentleman's ego has replaced any semblance of rational thought and, even though this has never happened to him before, he truly believes the goddess is smitten by the troll."

Walking to the side of the bed, dressed only in satiny panties, Charlene takes my hand and rests it on her breast while tying one end of a long silk scarf to a bedpost. Once convinced her knot is tight, she wraps the other end of the scarf around my wrist, secures it, and pulls to ensure I'm properly restrained. She repeats the procedure with the opposite hand and bedpost, giving me ample opportunity to fondle her other breast.

"Now that he's partially immobilized, a predicament most men never experience; is this where he realizes he might be in trouble?" Charlene asks. "I think not. The presence of a nearly naked woman is clouding his judgment like an oasis in the desert. He has only one goal in mind and will do anything in his power to get there."

The blindfold comes next. It doesn't completely cut out the light but is sufficient to block my view of Charlene's magnificent body. She must have taken another sip of her wine. I taste it in her kiss.

"We're at an interesting juncture. One I hadn't considered before," she says. "My man's hands are restrained, and he can't see. Why don't I kill him now? I can easily retrieve my gun, put it against his head, and pull the trigger. But that's not how it went. Perhaps her sense of justice demands giving him one last bit of pleasure before leaving this world; like the steak dinner fed to a death row inmate before he is sent to the electric chair. Or does she have feelings for him. Some sort of emotional attachment towards a man she wants dead."

I get another kiss. This one on my pecker, as she slides my underwear down my legs and off my ankles. Trying to keep my attention while she trusses up my ankles, she continues to stroke, lick, kiss, and suck my third leg, purposely giving it a bit of love after tying each leg restraining knot.

"We're almost there. The stage is set. Now it's time to let the magic happen. Time to do what we came here to do and to also solve the case."

"Isn't that the reason we came here?" I ask. "To identify the killer."

"No Mick, we came here to have sex. Mad, memorable, passionate sex. Just like we did Friday night. Except this time, it will be on my terms. And after I'm done enjoying your brutishly beautiful body, then, and only then will I tell you who did it."

I feel the bed sag and hear the springs creak as she climbs onto the mattress. Her hands explore my battle-damaged body, her lips flit back and forth, leaving kisses on unsuspecting places before moving on to another.

"You have so many scars. So many stories to tell. And yet you don't. Because you are a real man. A man who lives by the gun but knows right from wrong. A man who spends his time listening instead of talking. And when you do speak, you tell the truth."

The firm flesh of her breasts brushes against me as she shimmies up my thigh. The lavender scent of her hair invades my nostrils. Her contented sighs hint at what she is doing to herself. The taste of her musk when she shares with a finger confirms my suspicions.

She changes position. Her legs under my outstretched arms. Her muff pressed up against my nose. Her lower lips begging to be French kissed.

I comply and dine at the apex of fertility until I can smell her musk, taste her wantonness, and hear her heart beating out a rhythm of desire.

She eventually settles exactly where I expect. Her hands pressed against my chest, my manhood buried deep inside her temple.

"You were right about the girls, Mick. They were the key. But you were wrong about the victims. They weren't the men tied to the beds. The true victims were the girls who were wronged by those now deceased men. The men who tossed them aside like last year's fashions with no care about the consequences."

Charlene gets her legs under her, riding me like a cowgirl breaking a wild stallion. Reaching new heights and depths with each stroke.

"You were also right about the girls' innocence. Not one of them was capable of murder. All they wanted was to get past their grief, regain their self-confidence, and get their lives back in order. The only way to do that is through therapy. Months of it. Pouring their hearts out to a therapist who's been there, got over it, and dedicated her life to help others through it. That's what the girls had in common."

Her words started to come out ragged, her voice getting louder.

"Oh my god Mick. Why you? What in heaven possessed you to take this case? I never meant it to get this far."

"Is this it, Charlene. Is this where you tell me who did it?"

She didn't answer. Because it's damn near impossible to carry on a conversation in the middle of an orgasm. However, apparently a woman with lots of experience can train herself to simultaneously cum and pull a trigger. I feel the cold steel contact my forehead and hear the distinct sound of a firing pin contacting brass. Not once, but twice.

It takes Charlene a while to come down from her plateau of pleasure and discover her predicament. Not only does her gun fail to discharge, the man underneath her -the man who by all rights should be dead - is instead very much alive and holding her in his unrestrained arms.

"Oh shit," is her un-lady like response.

"Not quite what you had in mind?" I ask. "Perhaps you were expecting to get a bigger bang out of the experience?"

"It's... it's not what you think," she stammers. "I bought the gun to make our reenactment more realistic. I purposely told the salesman to load it with blanks. I knew it wouldn't fire. Did it work? Did our little experiment spark your intuition? Have you figured it out?"

"Partially. I know you did it. I know you killed Tom and all the rest, but I'm not sure why. I'll need your help with that."

"Mick, despite what you may think of me, please know that I am an excellent psychiatrist. Not because I'm smarter than my peers, I graduated in the middle of my class. I credit my success to my dedication to my patients.

"Unlike others, I feel what my clients feel. I experience their pain and do my best to take on their angst; transfer their anger from their psyche to mine. After a few months with me, they go home cured. I, on the other hand, retain their feelings of hurt and betrayal. I continue to seethe and suffer; feelings that can only be satisfied by positive action. Seeking revenge. Not against all the cheating men in the world. There are way too many. Instead, once a year, I pick out the most guilty of the guilty. Those that I know will continue to betray the women who trust and love them."

"Judge, jury, and executioner?" I ask.

"A man can be arrested for stealing a loaf of bread or locked up for cheating on his taxes. But there is no statute against breaking hearts, an offense that only affects the innocent and does more damage than any other crime. Just because there is no law against it doesn't mean the criminal shouldn't be punished.

"How about Marcus Newton? His only crime was being born into the wrong family."

"I will readily admit that was a mistake."

"A mistake you rectified by killing his father?"

"If anybody deserved to die, it was Brightson Newton. You saw what he was doing to his maid Dorothy."

"What about me? What sin did I commit to justify you putting a gun to my head and pulling the trigger. And don't tell me it was all part of the plan. The bullets I took out of your Deringer this evening were the real thing. They weren't blanks. I replaced them with empty cartridges when you were in the ladies' room."

"The only sin you committed was getting too close to the truth," Charlene says. "You're too damn smart and too persistent for your own good. My actions tonight were a clearcut case of self-defense. I had to stop you before you exposed me. I'm not going to apologize for defending my good name, but I am curious about one thing. How in God's name did you get your hands free?"

Her question brought a smile to both of our faces.

"I'm guessing you were never a girl scout or a sailor. Because, if you were, you would know how to tie a proper knot. Your previous bedmates had no interest in getting free. I, on the other hand, like to keep my options open."

And there it was. Motive, opportunity, and enough evidence to convince even the most incompetent jury that Doctor Charlene McManor was a serial killer. Which brought up the question of what to do next? What should I do with the naked, recently sexually sated woman in my arms?

Practicing with Zelda the previous night, I mastered the art of removing silk scarf restraints with my eyes closed. But my technique only works with scarves securing my hands. Not so my feet. Which are still firmly attached to the lower bed posts. The obvious solution - bending over and untying the remaining scarves - is hampered by the naked, homicidal woman captured in my arms.

Letting her go isn't an option. She'd either skedaddle out the front door before I got my feet free or, even worse, get her hands on my trusty.45 which is hanging from a chair in the corner of the bedroom.

I politely suggest she turns around and unties my feet while I hang onto her legs. A request she refuses while openly laughing at my predicament.

The resolution to my problem is a no holds barred wrestling match. Positioning her sideways across my lap, I use one arm to keep the squirming girl from escaping while the other undoes the knots. Both of us push, pull, and squeeze body parts that we normally wouldn't. I shamefully enjoy our struggle, grappling with a beautiful naked woman is on many men's list of secret desires. She nearly gets the best of me when a tiny hand gets hold of a rapidly growing male appendage, but the threat of retaliation-in-kind diffuses the situation. In the end, brute force triumphs, and Charlene finds herself in my previous situation. Naked, flat on her back, with hands and legs tied to the bed. I, on the other hand, am fully clothed.

"Is this where you kill me?" a broken, panting Charlene asks. "I'll understand if you do. In fact, I'd welcome it. One shot through my heart with that big gun of yours will solve both my problems and yours."

"No, my dear. I can't do that. But I also can't let you go. You're going to have to make a choice. I've got enough evidence to convict you of at least seven murders. Four in New York, two in Boston, and one in Providence. There's probably more, but what I've already got should be enough to get you several death penalties.

"If I turn you over to the police, you'll spend the next several years in prison, only getting out to be paraded through courtrooms, condemned by the press, and rejected by your peers. They'll eventually kill you. Either via the electric chair, hanging, or firing squad. Depends on which state gets to you first. That's option number one.

"Option two is you take your own life. Tonight. In this room. Like I said, I'm not going to make it easy on you. You're going to have to pull the trigger. I'll let you think about it while I set things up."

To make option two available, to give Charlene access to a loaded gun without endangering myself, I have to improvise a time delay mechanism. Kind of like a ten-foot fuse on a stick of dynamite, giving the man lighting the fuse enough time to run away and avoid the blast. But I don't plan to blow up the house, so I get creative.

While Charlene lays on the bed, silently watching me, I take a needle and thread to her restraints, sewing the knots tight so she has no chance of escape. That task complete, I climb up on the bed with her Deringer, this time loaded with real bullets. Attaching the gun to a length of cotton thread, I slide the needle through the dead center of a cigarette, pull the thread through, and then tie the other end to the chandelier hanging above the bed. When I'm done, the loaded gun is poised several feet above, and slightly to the side of my former paramour. Freeing her right hand from the silk restraints, I activate the time delay by lighting the cigarette.

"It's going to take a few minutes for the cigarette to burn through the thread," I say. "Once it does, the pistol will fall to your side where you can get to it with your free hand. I'll be gone by then, well down the road towards the city. On my way home, I'll find a phone booth and make an anonymous call to the police alerting them of a possible break-in at this address. The choice is yours. Use the gun or wait for the cops."

She doesn't beg for forgiveness, bribe me with the promise of carnal delight, or threaten to implicate me as a partner in her life of crime. She just lays there, watching me; looking like the fallen angel she is.

"How long," she asks as I turn to leave. "How long have you known I was the woman you were looking for?"

"Since the day we met".

***

Monday

Matt didn't call until 9:30 the next morning.

"She's dead, Mick. The shrink, Charlene McManor. Killed by a single shot to the head."

"What caliber?" I ask.

"Twenty-two. Same as the others. She was also naked and tied to a bed when they found her, but that's where the similarities end."

"How so?"

"She's the first woman, all the rest were men. And she wasn't completely tied up. Her right hand was free. They found a half-filled glass of wine on the bedstand, a burned-up cigarette butt next to her on the bed, and here's the kicker; the gun was still in her hand."

"A Deringer?"

"Yep, you guessed it."

"What are you thinking? Murder or suicide?" I ask.

"Schools still out on that. That's why I'm calling you. Is there anything you'd like to disclose?"

"Matt, how would you like to make Captain?"

"Sure, I'd like to get promoted. But what's that got to do with the price of whiskey? "

"Suppose you solve this case, and Tom's murder, and all the other similar cases, to include a half dozen more in other states. Some that go back nearly a decade. If you did, would that be an express ticket to the top floor?"

"There's a good chance a coup like that wouldn't hurt my career. But you're not answering my question. Do you know anything about Doc McManor's murder that we don't?"

"Zelda's going to send you everything we know about Charlene McManor and all the other people who were shot by a Deringer while tied naked to a bed. I suggest you compare the ballistic reports on all the bullets found in the victims and check them against the Deringer you have in your evidence locker. You'll also want to interview all the male victims' ex-girlfriends. Don't accuse the girls of the murders but ask them the name of their therapist.

"And one last thing. I usually don't make wild ass guesses about a case until I've had a chance to do some proper investigating but, from what you've told me, I'd say Doctor Charlene McManor's death is a classic case of suicide."

THE END