The Boyfriend by Thomas Perry

had gotten settled in his suite, he opened his laptop computer, signed into the hotel’s wi-fi network, and went down the list of Phoenix escorts to the advertisement he had found at home.
    The girl’s name was Kyra. She wanted three hundred roses for an hour, five hundred for two hours, or eight hundred for a whole evening. He looked at the photographs. She had exchanged two of the pictures since yesterday for two with better lighting and focus, but she was still wearing the necklace and the anklet in one of them. The ad said she would not respond to text messages or e-mails, and would answer no blocked calls. She began her phone number with *82, because dialing that code would unblock the customer’s number for caller ID.
    Till called her number on his cell phone and waited. A young woman’s voice came on. “Hello. This is Kyra.” At first he thought he was listening to a recording because she sounded so professionally cheerful, so he waited for the rest of the recording. Instead, she said, “Come on, honey. Don’t be shy.”
    “I’m sorry,” he said. “I thought I was going to be asked to leave a message. My name is Jack. I just got into town an hour ago, and I’m already thinking I could use some company. I saw your online ad.”
    “What’s your last name, Jack?”
    “Till. Jack Till.”
    “Where’s home?”
    “Los Angeles. I’m here on business, and I’ll be around for a couple of days.”
    “What sort of arrangement were you thinking of?”
    “How about this evening? Is your schedule clear for tonight?”
    “A full evening? Did you read the whole ad?”
    “Yes. I saw the numbers. But you’re a very attractive woman, and I find your voice appealing. I thought we could start with a nice dinner, and have a pleasant evening.”
    “Thank you, Jack. I’ve got to check my schedule. I’ll call you back in a few minutes. Can I reach you then at this number?”
    “Sure. I’ll be here.”
    She ended the call, and he wondered if she was checking some list of crazy men and thieves and bad customers to be sure he wasn’t among them. If he succeeded in getting to know her, he would ask. A list like that might very well include this killer.
    He supposed she would probably run his name through the big search engines. He knew she would find him, and she would turn up a few newspaper articles about his old cases. There were even some photographs of him. He had, for practical reasons, always tried to stay away from cameras. But there were a few shots of him coming up courthouse steps or emerging from a police station, where he hadn’t been able to avoid the photographer. If she learned he’d been a cop, she’d also learn he wasn’t one now.
    The pictures probably wouldn’t do him any harm with the girl either. He had regular features, and he was six feet three inches tall, and lean. His habitual dress—a dark sport jacket and oxford shirt with no tie—looked neat and well-fitted, even in the recent pictures.
    His cell phone rang. “Till,” he said.
    “This is Kyra,” she said. “I’ll be able to see you tonight. Please have the eight hundred in a plain white envelope with the word ‘Donation’ written on it. I’ll want it when I arrive.”
    “All right. Where and when?”
    “Where are you staying?”
    “At the Biltmore.”
    “I can come there if you like.”
    “That’s good for me.”
    “I’ll be there around seven-thirty, and I’ll call your room from the courtesy phone when I get there, so I hope you gave me the right name.”
    “I did. See you then.”
    Till pressed “End” on his phone screen. He called Wright’s, the hotel restaurant, and reserved a table for two for eight-thirty, then set the alarm on his phone, lay on the bed, and slept. The long drive through the desert had tired him, and he could tell he would need to be alert.
    He awoke at six-thirty, then showered and dressed for the evening. If Kyra was in a relationship with the killer, then it was possible he would