The sound of a woman selling cosmetics on television burrowed its way into her aching head and she struggled painfully to push herself up off the back of the sofa. The throbbing soreness as she straightened up almost made her faint and her legs wobbled like rubber pipes. Moira pulled herself around the sofa and sank down, crying as the pain returned more sharply. She shifted until it was more bearable and finally opened her tear filled eyes. On the coffee table was a large tumbler full of scotch and a half filled bottle next to it resting on a hand-written note. She knuckled her eyes and tried to focus, lifting the note closer. It read:

Dear Moira, thanks for a wonderful time. You stood up rather well for an older dame. For a few minutes there I thought you were actually enjoying it, I know I was. But a guy can only do that so many times without a break and as it is I think we might have set a record. Sorry I had to run, I lost track of the time and I had another appointment to keep. This one is with good old Peter. I wonder how long he'll stand up. Too bad Myles can't be around to help you any more and after tonight, old Peter will be out of the picture too. We'll all be gone. Well, thanks again, I had a bang up time. B.

She sobbed aloud and tossed the note aside, reaching for the glass of scotch and gulping it down, immediately refilling her glass and swallowing again. Before the bottle was empty, Moira fumbled for the telephone and asked room service to send up another then she finished what she had and lay back in a fit of wracking pain and sobs, her head spinning and her vision blurred.

The young waiter tried the handle after knocking loudly several times, and entered the suite. He crept into the living room, calling out his presence. On the sofa he saw the woman lying flat with her gown open and her body exposed. One arm was over her eyes and she seemed to be asleep. He moved closer, setting the bottle on the table and discretely coughed into his hand. When she didn't move, he leaned down and looked at her bare chest, catching just the slightest rise and fall of her breasts; the strong smell of scotch hung on her like a mantel.

The waiter placed his fingers on her arm and gently shook her. Nothing. She was out cold, he concluded. His eyes traveled up and down her body, pausing on the red, raw looking welt across her stomach and the tops of her thighs. He straightened up and made a face then hurried to the door, slipping the latch and turning back.

"What the hell, when opportunity knocks you gotta do some knockin' of your own." The loud zip of his trousers caused the woman to stir and quietly mouth the words, "Brian no... please..."

•••

The dapper man pushed through the doors into the solemn looking foyer and cast about for a representative. An attractive young woman in a modest skirt and jacket approached, hands clasped down in front of her, resting on the front of her dark suit.

"May I help you, sir?"

"Mister Forbin?"

"Oh, I'm terribly sorry. Mister Forbin's viewing doesn't begin until tomorrow. It's from two until—"

"Has Mrs. Forbin been by today?"

The young woman checked her watch. "She's expected within the hour to make final arrangements... would you care to wait in our Remembrance Setting? There are modest refreshments and comforting literature to browse."

"How kind." He bobbed his head, indicating she should lead the way.

The limousine crunched to a halt on the gravel drive in front of the funeral home and Peter jumped out, handing Miriam carefully over the stones to the carpeted front steps.

"I'll wait—"

"No. Please. I'd like you with me, Peter. As much as we dreamed about this moment, I still did have a life of sorts with the man. I expect there might be some residual compassion in this moment and I'd rather not be alone while I finish the business dealings."

"Of course." He took her arm and entered the home, padding quietly across the soft carpet to the office.

"My dear Mrs. Forbin..." A caricature director rose from behind the carved desk and swept around to take Miriam's hand, enfolding it within both of his and gently pumping it up and down. "Heaven's Gateway is so terribly honoured to be chosen for your departed spouse's farewell. Please sit while I prepare the papers."

"Actually, Mister Dorn, I wonder if I might rest somewhere and perhaps get some tea? I just..."

"Not another word." Like a five star maître d', Dorn thumbed a large brass buzzer on his desk and then stood proprietarily by Miriam's shoulder until his assistant arrived. "Helen, take Mrs. Forbin and her friend to our Remembrance Setting Room until we have the forms ready for signature."

Peter led her from the room and they followed the young lady out of the office and up a wide, curving stairway to a gallery with several arched doorways leading from it. She stopped and turned, holding out a pale hand as if showing them to seats and waited until they entered the room before closing the door behind them and taking up a sentry position in front of the oak panels.

•••

"It's another one of those bloody cloned phones." Gil stamped about his office, hands jammed on his hips.

"My source says he might be able to trace it but he can't guarantee anything, Gil. Sorry."

"It's not your fault. Damn! So close, too."

"This source of yours, just where does he work?"

"Forget it, Mike. I'm not giving up that kind of info. Especially to a cop." Jarlayne flashed him a winning smile and patted his knee. They had spent the rest of the day using all of Jarlayne's people to try and get the name of the owner of the mystery number and were now ready to toss in the towel.

"What your friend is doing is against the law, Jarlayne."

"You think? Listen, Mike, a lot of what I do investigating people is over, under and around 'the law'." She made quote signs in the air. "You might as well rely on the cops if you let the letter of the law guide you. No offense, dear but I don't see your team coming up with the answer." Both men exchanged a glance at the designation. "Let's just wait and see what info we get, okay. My source is a real pro, you'll get every dime's worth, Gil."

"Oh Christ, more expenses." He waved away the comment and slumped down at his desk. "You know, something just occurred to me." He sat up with some excitement. "Tubbs must have run traces on the phones too; how else did he find out Moira was Janet Smith? I bet somewhere in the stuff he sent you is a record of everything he found."

"We looked through his laptop at the station. Our guys said he had some weird programs that they didn't understand but we didn't need anything else, so..."

"Get it for me, Mike. I'll bet my source can tell us what they're all about."

"It's evidence. I can't just help myself."

"Then give us a backup of his drive, Gil's client is entitled to copies of all the evidence."

"He's free! He's not entitled to any—"

"Only on bail. Please, Mike. For me." The air left the room, or so it seemed, and Mike's voice vanished with it. All he could do was fight to keep afloat in the depths of her eyes. Over, under and around 'the law' played through his head in an unbroken melody and he found himself nodding yes to her mesmerizing insistence.

Jarlayne's source bubbled with excitement as he transmitted his findings from Davis Tubb's hard drive to Jarlayne's computer.

"The guy was a genius! You have to know, Jarlayne, a copy of that program has already found its way into my archives. There's no way I could pass that up."

"Fine. Keep it to yourself and consider it payment for your work."

"Hey! I spent a lot—"

"I need the program disk back and all copies. Otherwise I'll be forced to reveal my source to the investigating officer."

"Shit. Okay, you win. Paid in full." The defeat was short lived as he bubbled up again with the eager thrill over what he'd found.

"I can't take time to listen now, lover." Jarlayne chuckled. "We'll get together soon and you can bombard me with all your techno-enthusiasm."

"Speaking of bombarding you—"

"Later, lover." She hung up and made her own duplicate of the information then popped out the memory stick and placed it in her purse.

"Peter Delacourte!" Gil slapped his forehead and tilted back in his chair, staring at the ceiling of his office. "What kind of people did this company employ?"

"The conversations, while not precise, were incriminating enough." Jarlayne leafed through the hard copies of the transcribed telephone calls. "He and Moira Weston were in cahoots and lovers to boot."

"And she was seducing Myles Forbin as part of their plan." Gil shook his head.

"Yeah, but somehow, he was also setting her up for a fall. How else would Myles Forbin know who to send Tillman to for the fake tapes? For that matter, how would Myles even know a Tillman?"

"That's not a solid question. He could have known—through Marvision for example. I'll bet somewhere in their past they've used the services of a Tillman type."

Jarlayne rolled her chair around to Gil's side of the desk and nudged him aside. "I doubt that Myles was the one dealing with Marvision. That gives me an idea," she said, typing away at his keyboard.

"I thought I was under attack." He shifted out of her way.

"That comes later." The jibe was in her voice but her concentration was on the screen. "Lookie here! Peter R. Delacourte. Address and telephone. Social Insurance Number. Driver's record and best of all, past employment records."

Gil pulled his chair back and read the screen. "How the hell did you get that?"

"Gil, you ask the most naïve questions. I'm a P.I. remember? This sort of thing is commonplace." She sat back and breathed on her lacquered nails, buffing them against a generous breast.