Myles handed her the obligatory glass of wine and took her coat before she could drop it on the chair. Things were changing. Moira was no longer the occupant of the seat of power; she was delivering her safety into his custody, believing that he was still her puppet.

"You wanted to talk, Myles, so what are we going to do about this?" She went straight to the sofa and sat.

"I have things in motion, but we need to discuss a different arrangement for my contribution in this matter."

Moira gaped over the rim of her glass. "I beg your pardon? You got me down here to talk about a new deal for you?"

"You may not have noticed, Moira dear, but I am the one who made your plan work and I am still the one covering your tracks."

"You're also the one that's responsible for this mess we're in now." She fumbled in her purse for a cigarette and lighter.

"I don't recall you blaming me when things went your way at the company, or when you needed your moments of sexual exercise right here in this suite." He trembled slightly over using his own weakness as an accusation.

Her face flamed and she set the glass down with a bang on the coffee table. This had been a potential problem that she deemed was risky but necessary and now that it had risen, she saw, with a feeling of raw exposure, just how vulnerable she was. "You know Myles, one word from me and the board would cancel your contract like that." She snapped her fingers and the sound exploded in the spacious room. "And what do you think you could do? Who would believe a poppycock story about faked tapes and unregistered phones...and what would dear Miriam say if she knew you spent as many hours as you do here with me?" Moira stood and went to the bar, pouring a real drink and tossing him a challenging look, her nerves twanging dangerously.

"Leave Miriam out of this... we have an understanding." Myles felt suddenly uncomfortable.

"An understanding. I bet you do. Dear Miriam understands that her husband works very late a lot and has business dinners and a number of weekends away for the company. Don't step out of your class, Myles, I may be on the ropes here but you are still stuck in my corner." She raised a shaking glass to her lips.

They both jumped when Moira's cell phone rang. The distinct chirp seemed to conceal a blanketing dread.

"Who's that?" Myles snapped.

"How should I know, you're the only one that has that number." Her heart stopped, wondering if it was Peter. It wouldn't be, not here, she hoped desperately. It rang again, insistently.

"Answer it."

"No! Let it ring, it's probably a wrong number." Moira gulped down her drink and quickly refilled her glass. She finally lit her cigarette and blew a noisy cloud of smoke at the ceiling.

"It isn't going to stop, answer it!" Myles picked up the phone and thrust it at her. "We need to know who has that number."

She took another gulp of her drink and snatched the phone from his hand. The ringing continued and she finally clicked the switch and answered. "Hello?"

"Hello, Janet Smith, what's shakin'?"

Moira staggered back against the bar, spilling her drink and dropping the phone on the rug. Myles reached to catch her, his face a huge question mark. She struggled onto one of the stools by the bar and buried her face in her hands. Myles picked up the phone and listened without speaking.

"Janet? You still there? Missed you at the Bellville but now we can conduct business in complete privacy, eh...room 684?"

Myles clicked the phone off and tossed it on the bar. "That had to be Davis Tubbs, the man who made the tapes."

"How did- how could he have..."

"We should have anticipated this, Moira. The man is a specialist and we hired him because he was just that, remember? Our Mister Tubbs is expanding his mandate." Myles cursed his direction to Tillman about the urgency.

"I didn't hire him. I don't know anything about the man. You have ruined our whole scheme, Myles."

He snorted and reached for the same bottle she'd used, pouring two more generous glasses. "Here, take this. I told you things were in hand and they are. I just have to make another call."

Moira tossed back her third drink and shook her head. "I don't want to be here. This place is finished, Myles. I'll call them in the morning and close the phone account. The same with this room. We can find another way to- to..."

"Fine. Get your things and go home. I'll handle Mister Tubbs from here."

Davis gave himself a mental pat on the back for a job well done, as he hung up the lobby phone and headed to the door. Moira Weston was Janet Smith and Janet Smith was the voice on the tapes. It would appear that the work they had him do was part of a frame-up to gain control in the WesCat empire. He climbed into his van and started for home, running various scenarios through his head as to how best take his own advantage.

The sudden memory of the black woman that had visited him caused him to slow down and when prompted by angry beeps from behind, he pulled over to the curb and killed the engine. The woman was fishing, he was positive. But why? How had she stumbled onto him? He ran over her story about a recommendation from Marvision but he couldn't figure out how she found them. The work Davis Tubbs did for Marvision was not the kind he used to promote his public image. Davis didn't know that Marvision did work for WesCat, all the legitimate projects he'd been given were technical problems, nothing specific to any particular person or business.

He felt around in his pockets and pulled out a crumpled card, the one Jarlayne had left with him, with just the number, no address. He tapped it against his palm, thinking then he flipped open his cell phone and punched in the number, waiting as it rang.

Moira burst out of the elevator and stepped quickly across the lobby. As she passed the front desk the clerk called her name and she blanched, gaping around before veering toward the counter.

"A message for you Miss Smith." The clerk handed her the piece of paper and went about his business. Moira unfolded the paper with trembling fingers and read the simple message. Her mouth dried and her heart quickened; the sooner Janet Smith disappeared the better.

•••

A misting rain began, driven by a brisk wind that drove the moisture underneath most of the umbrellas clustered at the intersection like a plot of black mushrooms. The light changed to green and the mushroom clump moved into the intersection in tandem with the traffic, which surged ahead in a mass of steamy exhaust and a swishing roar of rubber on wet asphalt.

Howard Tillman drove calmly with the stream of cars, intent only on moving forward with his purpose. His employer might have relented on the time but Howard knew that the longer things went the more he would have to do and he was already beyond his original contract. He slowed for a car turning left in front of him and waited patiently, humming to the thump of his wipers.

The beauty of Howard's profession was that he had no trouble collecting on his contracts—it was one way or another. He smiled as the car in front finally turned allowing him to continue on his way. He'd taken a lot of contracts in his time but this one showed a few twists that even surprised Howard. Miriam Spenser-Forbin was a tough broad and decisive to boot. Poor old Myles didn't know what he was in for down the road.

Davis had not returned home and he didn't know where he was so instead of wasting any more time, Howard decided to drop by the address he had for Jarlayne Brighton, P.I. and see what he might find out from her. It seemed a far better option than pushing poor Tubbs around; Howard had admired what little he'd seen of the woman when she left Davis's place and looked forward to chatting her up. Sometimes doing more could be worth the trouble. He turned onto a side street of old, highly renovated, narrow, three storey homes with postage stamp front lawns and licensed street parking. Unfortunately, there was little or no parking for visitors and Howard, after identifying the house and confirming that someone was home, had to find a spot several blocks away.

He approached the house with his shoulders hunched. The earlier rain had remained an intrusive mist that still was enough to soak his thinning hair and send tiny rivulets running down into his eyes. Howard slowed and scanned the street before turning into the front walk. He stepped quietly onto the porch and peered through the glass side panels next to the door.

Lace curtains spoiled any chance for spying and Howard stood silently, deciding on what approach he should take if she answered the door. He was about to knock when the ringing of a telephone sounded almost right inside the door. A shadow appeared in the hall and Howard stepped to one side, head cocked to the window to listen.

He couldn't hear everything but he did hear her say the name Davis and there was something about a meeting then a lot of mumbling and a promise to wait for something. The call ended and immediately he heard the phone being used again, this time he heard the woman's voice say the name Gil Petchorik. Howard stole back down to the street and used his phone to call Davis's number. When he heard the click of it being answered he hung up and made a beeline for his car. Davis first. The broad second.