Blake lost all concern for his economic future. When the bar of soap in Rebecca’s hand bumped along the ridges of his spine, when it plunged between his buttocks, his conscious mind shattered. It left his brain to imbed itself in the outermost nerves of his flesh. He dropped to his knees, forced his head between her thighs, accepted her grudging orgasm as his own peculiar triumph.
He wanted this emptiness, yearned for it when he heard her voice on the telephone, when she rang his bell. It helped him forget that he wouldn’t be seeing her for another week, that she’d go home, if not exactly to her husband, then to her husband’s life, the life of a man born to such wealth that his profession was no more than a hobby.
Blake knew that even if William Webber should somehow disappear, he, Marty Blake, son of a cop, could never be part of that life. He also knew that Rebecca would never leave it. That this was all it would ever be about—the feel of his cock inside her, the round balls of her ass beneath his fingers, the smell of her flesh driving him toward oblivion.
THREE
M ANHATTAN EXECUTIVE SECURITY, INC. hadn’t changed much in a year. The same gray, top-of-the-line, Karastan carpeting covered the floor. Cynthia Barret still sat behind her free-form, glass-topped desk, answering phones, greeting clients. Black-and-white photographs, all cityscapes, all signed, hung in their accustomed places on the wall. Only the stiff, leather couch was new. The old one, as Blake understood it, had been cut to pieces by what cops like to call a “disgruntled” employee.
The employee’s name was Vincent Cappolino and his very existence demonstrated the dual nature of Manhattan Executive. On one level, there was Cynthia Barret with her smooth smile, discount designer dresses, cinnamon skin, flashing white teeth. The offices directly behind her desk housed investigators, computer technicians, electronics experts, a forensic accountant, a part-time attorney. Joanna Bardo’s office was at the end of the hallway. Furnished with nineteenth-century American antiques, it was, as she liked to say, fit for a CEO.
As far as Manhattan Executive’s clientele was concerned (the ones who used the front door, anyway), Joanna was the end of the line. They knew nothing of the back offices. Or of the investigators who hunted bail jumpers for a percentage of the bond. The industry liked to call these detectives skip tracers, but Marty Blake preferred the traditional term, “bounty hunter.”
Blake had worked with these men when he’d first come into Manhattan Executive as a computer technician. Some, he knew, like Vinnie Cappolino, were as crazy as the criminals they hunted.
“Martin? You can go in now.” Cynthia’s smile was dazzling, as always. “It’s nice to have you back.”
“Is that a prophecy, Cyn? Or do you know something I don’t?”
Rumor had it that Cynthia Barret and Joanna Bardo were on-again, off-again lovers. Blake knew both well enough to be sure it wasn’t true. They were good friends, though. Good enough for a notoriously cheap Joanna to pay Cynthia a living wage, roughly twice the going rate for New York receptionists. What Joanna got in return was doglike devotion.
“You better go in, Marty.” The smile had disappeared, replaced by a slight widening of already large eyes, a quick downturn at the corners of the mouth.
I’m in trouble, Blake thought, as he made his way down the hall. I’m in trouble, and I don’t know why.
But he did know that Joanna liked to think of her business as a family, had actually made the comparison on several occasions. She, of course, was the mother, and she loved all her children, even the roughest, even Vinnie Cappolino who was still employed by Manhattan Executive, despite having destroyed Joanna’s two-thousand-dollar couch.
Blake, on the other hand, thought of Manhattan Executive as a medieval court with Joanna Bardo seated firmly on the throne. The despot, not the
He wanted this emptiness, yearned for it when he heard her voice on the telephone, when she rang his bell. It helped him forget that he wouldn’t be seeing her for another week, that she’d go home, if not exactly to her husband, then to her husband’s life, the life of a man born to such wealth that his profession was no more than a hobby.
Blake knew that even if William Webber should somehow disappear, he, Marty Blake, son of a cop, could never be part of that life. He also knew that Rebecca would never leave it. That this was all it would ever be about—the feel of his cock inside her, the round balls of her ass beneath his fingers, the smell of her flesh driving him toward oblivion.
THREE
M ANHATTAN EXECUTIVE SECURITY, INC. hadn’t changed much in a year. The same gray, top-of-the-line, Karastan carpeting covered the floor. Cynthia Barret still sat behind her free-form, glass-topped desk, answering phones, greeting clients. Black-and-white photographs, all cityscapes, all signed, hung in their accustomed places on the wall. Only the stiff, leather couch was new. The old one, as Blake understood it, had been cut to pieces by what cops like to call a “disgruntled” employee.
The employee’s name was Vincent Cappolino and his very existence demonstrated the dual nature of Manhattan Executive. On one level, there was Cynthia Barret with her smooth smile, discount designer dresses, cinnamon skin, flashing white teeth. The offices directly behind her desk housed investigators, computer technicians, electronics experts, a forensic accountant, a part-time attorney. Joanna Bardo’s office was at the end of the hallway. Furnished with nineteenth-century American antiques, it was, as she liked to say, fit for a CEO.
As far as Manhattan Executive’s clientele was concerned (the ones who used the front door, anyway), Joanna was the end of the line. They knew nothing of the back offices. Or of the investigators who hunted bail jumpers for a percentage of the bond. The industry liked to call these detectives skip tracers, but Marty Blake preferred the traditional term, “bounty hunter.”
Blake had worked with these men when he’d first come into Manhattan Executive as a computer technician. Some, he knew, like Vinnie Cappolino, were as crazy as the criminals they hunted.
“Martin? You can go in now.” Cynthia’s smile was dazzling, as always. “It’s nice to have you back.”
“Is that a prophecy, Cyn? Or do you know something I don’t?”
Rumor had it that Cynthia Barret and Joanna Bardo were on-again, off-again lovers. Blake knew both well enough to be sure it wasn’t true. They were good friends, though. Good enough for a notoriously cheap Joanna to pay Cynthia a living wage, roughly twice the going rate for New York receptionists. What Joanna got in return was doglike devotion.
“You better go in, Marty.” The smile had disappeared, replaced by a slight widening of already large eyes, a quick downturn at the corners of the mouth.
I’m in trouble, Blake thought, as he made his way down the hall. I’m in trouble, and I don’t know why.
But he did know that Joanna liked to think of her business as a family, had actually made the comparison on several occasions. She, of course, was the mother, and she loved all her children, even the roughest, even Vinnie Cappolino who was still employed by Manhattan Executive, despite having destroyed Joanna’s two-thousand-dollar couch.
Blake, on the other hand, thought of Manhattan Executive as a medieval court with Joanna Bardo seated firmly on the throne. The despot, not the
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