O’Melissokomos
The Bee Keeper

White Noise 4

by z119z

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I. Monday, 9:30 a.m.

“There are too many Fosters in this case. Is this Kenneth Foster related to Senator Foster?”

Detective Inspector Dell’uomo had just finished summarizing the investigation to date of the David Spier case for Captain Jillson, the head of Homicide, and Jessica Lange, the lawyer from the DA’s office assigned to the case. Also present were Officers Trent and Robert Samuels, Dell’uomo’s assistants on the case, and Inspector Davis Marks of the Business Fraud Division.

“We don’t know yet, Captain. I plan to interview Kenneth Foster later this morning to ask about the substance that was sprayed on the Albertson kid’s face, and I will probe for a connection.”

“Are we certain that the man in the drawings is Scott Foster?”

“We’ve had positive identifications from Smith and Michael Sorenson. We compared the drawings with his driver’s license photo and some photos we found by searching the archives of the Chronicle. The resemblance is unmistakable. Of course, we have just begun the investigation. We have yet to find any connection between Spier and Scott Foster.”

“This will be a political mess.” Jessica Lange looked up from the notes she had been making. “Senator Foster will call the mayor and the DA as soon as gets wind of any questioning of his son.”

“Inspector Dell’uomo is noted for his tact, Jessica.”

“Thank you, Captain. But I’m afraid it may not be much help in this case. We won’t approach Scott Foster until we have more to go on. So far there is nothing to link him to the case other than Albertson’s recollection under hypnosis and Sorenson’s and Smith’s identification of the drawing.”

“The hypnosis testimony won’t be admissible in court,” Lange interposed. “Even if Albertson could testify that he had seen Foster in Spier’s room, it would only show that the two knew each other and not that Foster had a role in Spier’s murder. And any facts recalled under hypnosis would be challenged on the grounds that suggestions had been implanted in Albertson’s mind.”

“Does Scott Foster have any record?”

Susan Trent pulled a file from her briefcase and handed it to the captain. “There have been three complaints of physical abuse. Two were dismissed when the complaint was withdrawn. In the other case, the DA declined to pursue charges.”

“So we have some history of violence.”

“Yes, plus Smith said that he and Foster had jointly engaged in beatings.”

“Would Smith be a reliable witness, Jessica?”

“No, it wouldn’t take much to challenge him on the grounds of reliability and also to suggest that his testimony is based on malice. He wouldn’t be worth putting on the stand.”

“Well, Foster is the only suspect we have so far. We will have to keep digging. Digging carefully, Matt. Until we have more to go on, let’s not arouse the Senator. What else do we know about Scott Foster?”

Dell’uomo signaled to Susan Trent to present the information. “Foster is 34, Sir. He is the third and youngest child in the senator’s family. His old brother, William--by the way he is William Foster V, the senator is William the Fourth, hence his nickname “Ivy”--is president of Foster Enterprises. He lives in Westport in the family’s compound out there, has an office here in the city in the Foster Building. There is a sister who is married and lives in San Francisco. The children’s mother died several years ago. The senator remarried two years ago. Scott Foster bills himself as a consultant. He also has an office in the Foster Building. We have not been able to find out what sort of consulting work he does. Scott is unmarried, lives alone in the penthouse in the River Towers. Motor Vehicles shows one car licensed to his name. Unlike his brother and sister, Scott Foster is not active socially. He appears only at family gatherings or at celebrations of his father’s re-elections. There is some talk that he and his father are not close. Other than the three charges of assault I mentioned earlier, he has received four parking tickets over the course of twelve years.”

“So on the face of it, nothing to arouse suspicion other than the assault cases. How recent are those?”

“The last complaint was made five years ago, Sir. We will keep digging.”

The captain directed his next question at Inspector Marks. “What do we know about this Sandman business?”

“I didn’t have much time to research it this morning. I only have what I could pull off the computer. The state has listings for four different limited corporations operating under the Sandman name. The first is Sandman Enterprises, which ‘is a closely held corporation set up to distribute self-help and self-development aids.’ Among its assets are this Foster’s Sandman Shop. To judge from the business statement, it not only runs this shop here but sells similar goods wholesale throughout the country. Kenneth Foster and his wife are listed as owning 80 percent of the stock in the company. Jeff Ange and Michael Sorenson each own 10 percent. Then there are three businesses involving mainly Foster and his wife, but Ange and Sorenson play a role in all of them. Sandman Investments, Sandman Personal Development Consulting, and Sandman Personal Assistants. The first seems to be an operation to manage the group’s financial assets. It appears to be a company that allows them to make investments and reinvest the income from them without taking it as taxable personal income. The consulting operation is set up to give lectures to businesses. The third is an employment agency that provides ‘highly qualified and trained personal assistants,’ according to the prospectus. All of them operate from the same address, 1010 Canal Street. Since none of them is publicly traded, there are no filings of yearly income statements. Just the pro forma statement for the state’s Business Licensing Office. We would need a subpoena to gain access to the tax records. I don’t think we have enough to go on to ask for that yet. There’s no suggestion that these are anything but legitimate businesses.”

“I would appreciate it if you would look into this further, Davis. Find out what you can about Sandman. See if there are any links to Scott Foster there. And let’s find out if all these Fosters are related.” The captain nodded and shifted his attention back to Dell’uomo. “Matt, what about this hypnosis angle? Is there anything in that?”

“It may just be a coincidence, Sir. David Spier definitely had an interest in hypnosis. I initially contacted Jeff Ange for information and for help with the Albertson kid, but now there seem to be more links. Albertson appears to have been hypnotized and instructed to forget seeing the man in Spier’s room. That alone would make the man’s visit suspicious. This stranger was definitely taking a risk by attempting to hypnotize Albertson, according to Ange. It worked, but he couldn’t have known that when he tried it. Plus there’s this stuff that the man sprayed on Albertson’s face. Ange wouldn’t speculate what it might be. All he would say is that perhaps it was a device to focus Albertson’s attention, but that didn’t make sense to me. I mean if someone sprays something on you, it will get your attention but it would make you angry and upset rather than dizzy. I asked the lab if they knew of any substance that would cause this. They emailed back they didn’t know of anything specific but that there were, in their words, ‘several candidates--narcotics, anesthetics--that might be used alone or in combination to lower resistance to suggestion.’ ”

“You said you would ask Kenneth Foster about this. Why him?”

“He told me on Friday that he had heard of such drugs. I’ll see if he knows more and can give me more information.”

“Are there other links with hypnosis, Inspector?” Jessica Lange had filled several sheets of yellow paper with notes.

“Well, Ange is an expert on hypnosis, and the first time I met him he was using hypnosis to help Michael Sorenson recover from his beating at Smith’s hands. Then Sorenson identifies the man in the picture as a friend of Smith’s. Then Smith gives us a name and says that Scott Foster shares his interests. Also, the one item odd item in Spier’s room turns out to be a white noise machine manufactured and sold by Kenneth Foster’s Sandman company, an operation that deals in hypnosis. So everywhere we turn in this case, we run into hypnosis.”

“I grant you the coincidences are there, Matt, but I own a white noise machine--in fact, it’s a Sandman machine like the one you have here.” Lange pointed at the white noise machine in the center of the table. “And I can assure you that it has nothing to do with hypnosis.”

“You own one, Jessica? What for?”

“Oh, it’s terrific. I turn that on, and all the noise from outside disappears. I wouldn’t try to go to sleep without it. That’s probably the reason that the Spier kid had one. The dorms at City University must be noisy. He bought a machine to cover up the noise.”

“Ok, people. I think we’ve gone about as far as we can go. Let’s follow up on these leads and work the Foster angle to see how that develops. But let’s keep a low profile for now. There is to be no contact with Scott Foster or anyone in his family until we have more information. Anybody got anything else?”

“Ah, Captain.” Susan Trent tentatively raised a hand. “I was there when Jeff Ange hypnotized Albertson. It was very impressive. I know that Ms. Lange has said that we can’t use testimony from hypnotized people in court, but it did provide the only lead we have in this case. I was thinking that having Ange as a consultant might prove useful in other cases. Also, I was thinking about checking out courses in hypnosis myself. There are possibilities here for police work.”

“Well, I don’t know. What do you think, Matt? You want an assistant who could put you in a trance and get a good performance review?”

Matt Dell’uomo joined in the laughter. “Susan’s work is already excellent, Captain. Plus, I don’t think I would make a good subject. Jeff Ange says that no one can be made to do things through hypnosis that they aren’t inclined to do anyway.”

 

II. Monday, 1:15 p.m.

“Thank you for seeing me, Mr. Foster.”

“Please, Inspector, call me Kenneth. I’m happy to help out.”

“I won’t take much of your time. I just wanted to follow up on some remarks you made the other day.”

Matt Dell’uomo faced Kenneth Foster across his desk at Foster’s third-floor office on Canal Street. The directory on the wall of the lobby of the small building had listed only a few businesses. The fourth and fifth floors seemed to be empty, and Sandman Enterprises was the only occupant listed for the third floor, but only one of the three doors along the corridor on that floor was labeled “Sandman Enterprises.” The outer office was a reception room, filled with filing cabinets, a table with a small photocopier and fax machine and a coffee maker, and an empty desk. Mr. Foster had ushered Dell’uomo into the inner office. It, too, was simply furnished--a desk, two chairs, a computer table behind the desk. The only window looked out on the brick wall of the building in back. There was little to suggest a prosperous business.

“Could I get you a cup of coffee, Inspector. It would just take a minute to make.”

“That’s ok. I won’t be long. I don’t know if Jeff Ange has told you anything, but he helped us with the young man who saw a stranger in the dead boy’s room.”

“Yes, he told me that Michael Sorenson knew the man.”

“He provided us with a clue that allowed us to identify him.”

“Do you have one of the drawings, Inspector? I’m curious to see it.”

Dell’uomo reached into his briefcase and pulled out the manila envelope with the drawings. He unfastened the clasp and gave Foster the stack of drawings.

“Oh!”

“You know this man?”

“Yes. His name’s Scott Foster. Actually we’re related--distantly. One of my grandfathers and one of his great-grandfather were brothers. Our fathers are first cousins, once removed. Or something like that. I can never keep that terminology straight. But I imagine you already knew this, Inspector. Is that the reason for your visit here today?”

“It’s one of the reasons, Kenneth. We were curious about the presence of so many Fosters in the case.”

“I’m afraid I can’t tell you much about Scott Foster, Inspector. I know his father, Senator Foster, of course, and I have met Scott. But I come from the poor branch of the Foster family. My grandfather and father squandered most of the money they inherited from my great-grandfather. That’s William Foster I, by the way. The robber baron, defrauder of widows and orphans, destroyer of forests, etc. Senator Foster’s branch of the family was more careful with their money. They are the sober Fosters; my ancestors were the drinkers and gamblers, I’m afraid.”

“When did you last see Scott Foster?”

“Scott and his family aren’t much interested in knowing their poorer relations, Inspector. It’s been years. Six, maybe seven years. It was at an alumni day at Chesterfield. Both Scott and I went there. I was at Chesterfield twenty years before Scott, of course--there was still enough money in the family coffers to send me there. But I doubt if Scott and I have exchanged a hundred words over the years. I don’t have a good impression of him, by the way. Nothing solid. Just a feeling. I also have the impression that he’s not in Senator Foster’s favor. William Vee is definitely the favorite in that family. But that’s all that I can give you, Inspector.”

“William Vee?”

“William Foster the Fifth. He’s called “Vee” from the roman number. It started as a joke at Chesterfield with his father. He’s William Foster the Fourth--I, V in roman numerals and hence “Ivy.”

“Oh, I’m afraid that type of humor is over my head. You said the two branches of the family are not close.”

“Not particularly. I don’t know if you’ve met many rich people, Inspector, but they are always on the alert against poor relations who want money from them. Senator Scott is friendly, but then he’s a politician, isn’t he? Friendliness is part of his public act.”

“It doesn’t carry over into his private life?”

“I really couldn’t say, Inspector. I’ve rarely seen the senator in private. I can assure you that he doesn’t want to know someone who once made a living as a stage hypnotist.”

“But you’ve become more successful now.”

“Yes, but not by Senator Foster’s standards. It would take far more success than I have achieved to reach those heights. I hope I don’t sound bitter, Inspector. When I was younger, I was jealous of their wealth and resentful about being the poor relation, but I make a good living now. I’ve made my peace with the situation.”

“You were able to identify Scott Foster readily. He must not have changed much since you last saw him.”

“And so you suspect that I saw him more recently than I claim, Inspector. Very astute of you. But Jeff told me that Michael had identified the man as ‘Scott.’ And Scott has inherited his father’s looks. So with the various clues, I was able to identify him. Perhaps it was merely the results of mistaken inferences, however. The suggestions were there. I just followed up on them and came to the wrong conclusion. Is that possible, Inspector?” Kenneth Foster leaned back in his chair and peered at Dell’uomo over steepled hands, a look of bemusement on his face.

“I suspect you seldom make ‘wrong inferences,’ Kenneth.”

Foster smiled. “You said that the Foster connection was only part of the reason you came here, Inspector.”

“Yes. I also need more information about hypnosis. The other day you said something about rumors of drugs used in hypnosis. Mike Albertson, the boy who saw the stranger in the dead kid’s room, said that the stranger sprayed something on his face and then hypnotized him. Is there some something that can do that?”

“There are various drugs that will make you drowsy and more suggestible, Inspector. Some of them are readily available. Alcohol, for example, lowers resistance in many people. Over-the-counter cold medicines are rumored to work on some people. There are also the various substances known as ‘rape drugs.’ They make the person who ingests them incapable of movement and open to sexual assault. There are other substances with similar effects. I’ve never heard of a substance that works by being sprayed on the skin. Or did this spray take affect after it was inhaled?”

“We don’t know. Albertson just said that his face was wet and then he felt dizzy. The man then hypnotized Mike to forget that he had seem him.”

“The drugs I mentioned don’t make people forget or make them susceptible to hypnosis, Inspector. They either knock the victim out or make them unable to move. But I don’t know of any drugs that produce a hypnotic trance.”

“If there is such a drug, could it be used to change a person?”

“Perhaps, Inspector. I really don’t have any information on it, and so I can’t say. As I said the other day, you can’t really use hypnosis to make a person do something they are not inclined to do. It would take a lot of conditioning to achieve that and several months, maybe even years, of work. And it wouldn’t be worth the investment of time. As I am sure you know from your work, you can always find someone to do what you want. You don’t need to change someone.”

“You speak from experience?”

“Many people have desires, Inspector, but are held back by convention. They come to me and other hypnotists wanting help to overcome their inhibitions. They have great expectations of hypnosis. They want to use it as an excuse for acting out their fantasies.”

“And do you help them?”

“No, I do not, but I would be very surprised, Inspector, if there weren’t people who do help them, or attempt to help them.”

“Are there people who are more easily hypnotized than others?”

“Oh, yes. There are also those who have misconceptions about the power of hypnosis and play along in the expectation that they are truly being controlled by the hypnotist. A lot of stage hypnosis relies on that. People act in a certain way because that is how they have been trained to expect to act. But to answer your question, yes, there are people who are easily hypnotized. If I were looking for a likely subject, I would choose someone who is an avid reader of fiction. Fiction depends so much on the reader mentally constructing the scene of the novel. The ability to envision the scene being described is usually a good sign that the person has a good imagination and will respond readily to the hypnotist’s suggestions. You’re smiling, Inspector. Are you such a reader?”

“I don’t get much chance to read because of my work, Kenneth.”

“That doesn’t exactly answer my question, Inspector. Here, let me show you something. Maybe this will help answer your questions.”

Foster reached into a drawer and set a small box in the middle of his desk. “Let me dim the lights and pull the shades. This works best in a dark room. Ok. Now make yourself comfortable, Inspector. Feet on the floor. Arms resting on the arms of the chair. Lean back and let the chair support you. Now just watch the box.” Foster turned a switch on the side of the box, and it began to pulse slowly with a red light, growing stronger and then fading out.

“Just watch the light, Inspector. You don’t need to focus. Just let your eyes rest on the box. Take a deep breath in and just relax. Another slow breath in. Hold it for a few seconds, and then let it out slowly through your mouth. Very good. Let’s do one more. A deep breath in. Fill your lungs. Good. Hold it for a few seconds. Now let your breath out slowly through your mouth. Continue breathing deeply and slowly. Just watch the light and listen to my voice. The red light is so warm and comfortable. It is so relaxing just to watch it and let your cares drift away. Your cares just fade away as the light fades. And as the light strengthens, its warmth spreads into your mind and body. The warmth gets stronger and stronger, as your cares and concerns fade away. It feels so good just to watch the light. Your eyes are so focused on the light. It feels so good just to watch the light and let yourself drift. Just so comfortable and warm, Matt. So relaxed, so warm, so comfortable, so peaceful.”

Kenneth Foster continued to talk about the warmth and the light. When he began to suggest that Dell’uomo felt tired and his eyes were heavy, so hard to keep open, Dell’uomo’s eyes drifted shut with only a few flutters. Even Foster was surprised at how little resistance he found in the inspector. Either the inspector was a natural subject or a great actor. All the tests revealed him to be deeply entranced, however. Foster took him deeper and deeper.

“Matt, you are now deeply asleep. Your conscious mind is asleep. Your unconscious mind hears what I am saying. You feel so wonderful. Being this deeply asleep is so pleasant. Your mind and your body feel so wonderful. So free. Just floating in a sea of well-being. You have no concerns about hypnosis. Only hypnosis can make you feel so wonderful. You want to go into a trance as often as you can. I can help you. The more you trust me, the better I can help you feel. You want to feel this good all the time. I can help you, Matt. Shortly I will take you toward a more alert state. You will remember none of what I have been saying to you. You will remember only that you were watching the red light and that we ran a test that proved to you that hypnosis is harmless. You will remember only that we ran a test that proved to you that hypnosis is harmless. You will forget everything else. But the feeling of well-being and trust will remain with you, and you will come back again. If you understand, your right arm will float into the air. Oh, very good, Matt. I am very pleased with you. Your right arm will now float down onto the arm of the chair. Very good.

“Now, Matt, I am going to count from one to three. With each number you will become more alert, and after I say the number three, you will be in a light trance. Later, after I return you to full consciousness, you will remember only what happened after I said the number three. Ok, let’s begin. Imagine you have dived into a swimming pool and you are rising toward the surface. One, you drift slowly to the surface. Let the water lift you upward. Two, closer and closer to the surface. Three, you reach the surface. Take a deep breath and just let yourself float on the surface of the pool of warm water. It is so comfortable just to relax and let yourself float.

“Now, Matt, I want you to be aware of the room in which we are sitting. There is a window in the wall to your left. We are on the third story of the building. Anyone who jumped from that window would injure himself badly. I am going to open the window. Feel the cool air coming in. Stand up, Matt. Good. Now walk to the window. Good. Now look down. Good. Now climb up on the windowsill and jump out.”

“What?”

“You see, Inspector. You were in a trance, and you were willing to follow my suggestions as long as they were harmless. But when I suggested you do something that would have injured you, you immediately woke up. Your mind immediately overrode the trance. Can you imagine what it would take to get a person to actually jump out a window?”

“You wouldn’t have let me jump.”

“No, but your mind didn’t take any chances.”

Dell’uomo closed the window. “If this was a joke, it wasn’t funny.”

“No joke, Inspector. You wanted to know if a person could be made to do anything under hypnosis, perhaps even harm himself. I just showed you that it’s not possible. I apologize if my methods seem risky, but I can assure you that you were in no danger.”

“Yes, but you’re trustworthy. What if the hypnotist had no scruples?”

“Inspector, the subject would have to be suicidal to follow such an order. You obviously are not.”

“I am relieved that you have such confidence in me.”

“It is you, Inspector, who has the confidence in yourself.”

“Did I make a good subject?”

“Better than average.”

Matt Dell’uomo smiled with satisfaction. He felt good. It had been a very useful conversation. He didn’t even think to ask what the other rooms on the floor held or about the vacant floors above him.

 

III. Monday, 2:30 p.m.

As soon as he heard the elevator doors open and close, Kenneth Foster opened the door to the corridor and looked out. When he was satisfied that Dell’uomo had left, he unlocked the door across the hall that led into his real office and walked over to the window. He waited until he saw Dell’uomo emerge from the building and get into his car and drive off. He then sent an email message reading: “We have a question about your order. Please call us at the phone number below. Your reference number is 53-421.” The 800 number given at the end of the message would ring at Foster’s Sandman Shop, and most likely Cindy would answer it. If someone did call and Cindy looked the reference number up, the computer would show that there was a question about the quantity of Sandman units being ordered. But no one ever replied to the emails sent to this particular address by calling the 800 number. Instead, as always, his secure phone rang a few minutes later. He turned on the scrambler and spoke: “I need to talk with the Director. Something has come up that requires his attention.” The voice on the other end said, “He will call you in fifteen minutes.” The connection was severed.

The phone rang again in fifteen minutes. Foster activated the scrambler. “Kenneth, I was told there is a problem.”

Foster quickly summarized what he knew of the case. “So, it appears that my cousin’s little games have taken a more deadly direction. We will have to watch him more closely.”

“He will be put under more active surveillance. Let me just check his files. He sent his last report on Wednesday. He mentions this David Spier and discusses his reactions to the drug. Quote ‘As instructed, the subject has received the number of dosages of the new version of the drug prescribed. He continues to follow all orders and commands immediately and without hesitation. He exhibits no signs of resistance and has become impervious to pain.’ Unquote. Etcetera, etcetera. The report details the experiments conducted on Spier. No mention of murder, however. But, of course, he might not reveal that.”

“As far as I can understand from the few details given in the news, Spier would have been dead for two or three days by the time that report was written. Scott will have to account for the disappearance of his test subject somehow. He can’t just not mention him.”

“His next report should be interesting, then. What about the police? Do we need to derail this investigation? How far has it gone?”

“My cousin seems to be a strong suspect. My main assistant here--that’s Jeff Ange, you have his details on record--has been co-opted by this Inspector Dell’uomo. The police are asking questions, as they always do. I get the impression that this inspector has suspicions about the Sandman shop but nothing more. He is interested most in solving the murder. He is also susceptible to hypnosis, and he personally can be steered away from us. But then there are the rest of the police. If they are satisfied that we had nothing to do with the murder, they will leave us alone, I think, but we need to monitor this investigation. If it doesn’t get too close to the project, we can let it take its course.”

“We can always intercede and take over the investigation on the grounds of national security.”

“That might arouse their curiosity even more.”

“What if your cousin is arrested?”

“We can’t let it come to that.”

IV. Monday, 3:00 p.m.

When Dell’uomo returned to his office, he was greeted by a smiling Susan Trent, who carried a folder bulging with notes. “Got a minute, Matt? We’ve uncovered some information.”

“Let’s hear it.”

“Ok, some history. The Sandman Foster is a distant relative of Senator Foster. We haven’t been able to find evidence of contact between the two of them yet. As far as we can see, the Sandman Foster doesn’t associate with Scott Foster at all.” Dell’uomo didn’t interrupt to tell Susan that he already knew this.

“Inspector Marks says that he can’t turn up any details on the Sandman Enterprises or on Scott Foster’s consulting business without getting into their business records, and that would take a court order. Scott’s business license application stated that he is an ‘estate planner.’ Robert talked with the lobby security guards at the Foster Building. They say that Scott Foster makes an appearance every Wednesday and is there only briefly. He has no secretary in his office. It’s just a one-man operation, and not much of an operation at that. Robert is guessing that it is just to be a front to give him some sort of occupation. Robert also spoke to the doorman and the security office at the River Towers. Foster rarely leaves his apartment during the day. It was the doorman’s impression that he goes out mostly at night. There is a private elevator from the penthouse to the parking garage. Unless the security office happens to be watching the security camera feed from garage, they would not notice Foster leaving or coming back. He also takes a lot of cabs, but again if he goes through the garage, he can take an elevator to the penthouse without going through the lobby. No one has any idea where he goes. He seldom has visitors, at least anyone who stops at the desk in the lobby. No one could recall ever seeing the Senator visit. Rarely gets packages, no unusual amount of mail. He speaks to the staff at the building only if there is a problem that needs to be fixed. Two maids from a cleaning company come in every Wednesday morning to clean up his unit. Security takes them up to the penthouse in the freight elevator. They spend about three hours there. Foster is never there when they are. Evidently he visits his office just to avoid them.”

“Hmm. We might be able to get someone to replace the cleaners on Wednesday and get in there to look around on.”

“They would have to clean the place, Sir. Who do we have that can do that?” Susan gestured at the clutter that obscured every desk in the Homicide Division.

“You have a point. Let’s start by questioning the cleaners. You didn’t hear me say this, but maybe we can join them for a look around while they’re cleaning.”

“Ok, I’ll have Robert take care of that.”

“We’ll have to risk that they don’t talk to Foster.”

“I don’t think that will be a problem, Matt. The doorman told Robert that Foster never talks to anyone. He doesn’t even chat with the other owners in the building. And he never sees the cleaners. He’s never there when they are.”

“Ok, let’s do it.”

“What did you find out from Kenneth Foster?”

“He was very helpful. He says a drug like the one Albertson described is possible, but thinks it unlikely to have a reliable affect.”

“What about talking to Michael Sorenson about Sandman enterprises? He’s listed as the financial officer for all four of the companies.”

“I think Sandman’s a dead end as far as the Spier murder is concerned.”

“I could talk with Sorenson if you don’t want to. He apparently works from the apartment that he and Ange share.”

“That’s not necessary, Susan. I’ll drop in on him. I’d like to talk with him alone without Ange there and see if he will say more about Scott Foster when Ange isn’t there.”

“We’ve also found Scott’s three victims who lodged assault complaints against him. We’ve arranged to talk to them tonight after they get home.”

“Good work, Susan. It feels like things are moving, doesn’t it?”

“Moving in the right direction, Matt.”

V. Monday, 4:00 p.m.

“Michael Sorenson speaking.”

“Michael, this is Matt Dell’uomo. I’m in the neighborhood and I wondered if I might drop in.”

“Jeff’s not here.”

“That’s ok. I want to talk with you.”

“With me? Ok. I guess. Sure. Give me five minutes.”

* * *

Michael Sorenson had evidently used the five minutes to clean up. Nothing that was visible to Dell’uomo suggested that Michael had been working at all. He and Dell’uomo sat in the living room facing each other across a coffee table. The furnishings had been chosen for comfort rather than style, Dell’uomo decided. His chair was easy to sit in. The room was bright, warm, sunny. Either Michael or Jeff was enthusiastic about plants. Several pots lined every windowsill.

Dell’uomo leaned his head back against the top of the chair and gazed at Michael. “I’m sorry to intrude, but I had a few follow-up questions about Scott Foster.”

“Foster? Is that Scott’s last name?”

“Yes. He’s Senator Foster’s son. It turns out that he is a distant relation of Kenneth Foster.”

“Kenneth is related to Senator Foster? I never knew that.”

“Kenneth says that the relationship is not close.”

“Well, Kenneth seldom talks about his personal life. At least to me. Jeff’s known him a lot longer.”

“How did the two of them meet, do you know?”

“Jeff began working in the shop when he was in high school. So they’ve known each other around fifteen years. Kenneth taught him hypnosis. After Jeff graduated from college, he kept on working there. He helps Kenneth with the motivational seminars and makes self-help recordings, manages the shop, that sort of thing.”

“How long have you been working there?”

“About five years now. It started out as just something to keep me busy and occupied after I got out of the hospital. Jeff thought--rightly it turned out--that giving me something to do would help me to recover. It’s gradually grown into more work. I work out of the second bedroom here. So I don’t have to go out. It’s hard for me to get around, and my leg often bothers me, and I need to lie down. Sandman’s not a big operation. I can handle the accounts in a few hours every day.”

“But there are four Sandman companies. That must keep you busy.”

If Michael was surprised that Dell’uomo knew something about Sandman, it didn’t show on his face. “Except for the mail order business, none of them is large. And with the order fulfillment and accounting software available now, it’s not a lot of work.”

“How long have you known Jeff?”

“About ten years now. We met in a bar and had a few dates. We ended up as friends rather than lovers. Then I took up with Smith. You know how that came out. Jeff came to the rescue, and then we developed stronger feelings for each other.”

“He is very protective of you.”

“Yes. That’s part of the history, Inspector. There was a time when I needed protection and help, and he supplied them. He finds that a satisfying role to play, and he wants to keep on playing it.”

“Do you find it satisfying?”

“I am trying to wean him away from it, Inspector, while preserving the relationship. I value that, and I’m not about to destroy it. If the price of the relationship is allowing Jeff to be protective, it is a small price to pay. Does that satisfy your curiosity, Inspector? We seem to be straying into a rather personal conversation here.”

“The curiosity is professional. The two of you have a strong relationship. My question is does it affect the types of answers you give to questions? Would each of you lie to protect the other?”

“You sound envious, Inspector. And the answer to your question is yes. At least I would answer yes, particularly when Jeff is present.”

“And when Jeff isn’t present?”

“That would depend on the question, Inspector. As long as it didn’t touch Jeff, then my answers might be more reliable. Why don’t you ask your questions and see how I answer them?”

“Were you being truthful when you said you didn’t know Scott’s last name?”

“Yes. As I said, it was not the type of information Smith would have given me.”

“The beating that landed you in the hospital--that wasn’t the first?”

“No, it was simply the worst and, as it turned out, the last one. The previous ones were part of our sexual rituals, Inspector. There was a time when I had to have pain and Smith needed to give it. Things escalated, and Smith needed to give more pain than a body can endure.”

“Did Scott Foster ever join in?”

“Yes. Jeff doesn’t know that. Scott liked to direct things. He would egg Smith on. Then he began to participate actively. He had a lot of influence over Smith. He is, was, the more domineering personality. I think Smith needed his approval. They went to school together--they were both at Chesterfield. I think their families have known each other for a long time.”

“Did Foster participate in the beating that sent you to the hospital?”

“Yes. Again, Jeff does not know that.”

“Why didn’t you tell us that at the time?”

“Smith had already confessed to the beating. It’s hard to explain, but I still felt a great deal of loyalty to him. Even when I was in so much pain in the hospital, I was still thinking about returning to him. I was embarrassed to discuss what had happened with you, anyone really. It’s not something I was proud of or wanted to brag about, Inspector. My deepest wish was that you would all go away, and I could forget about it.”

“Did Smith or Foster ever use hypnosis on you?”

“Not that I am aware of. Jeff’s the only person I know who uses hypnosis. Well, Kenneth Foster, too, of course.”

“Has either one ever hypnotized you?”

“Yes, Jeff used it as part of my ‘therapy.’ ”

“He’s very good at it.”

“Is that a statement or a question, Inspector?”

“He dealt with Mike Albertson--the young man who saw the stranger in the dead boy’s room--very efficiently. And the young woman in the shop sold me a CD with several files on it by Jeff. I’ve been listening to the first file for the last few days. It has helped me relax and sleep better.”

“Which file?”

“It’s the relaxation/concentration series. It has a red label.”

“The red label CD? Oh, yeah, I know the one. Have you progressed beyond the first file yet? The real training doesn’t start until the second and third files. The first file is just to help you relax and get used to going into a trance.”

“The directions say not to listen to the other files until you ‘notice results.’ I’m not sure what that means.”

“There is a simple test. Let me show you.”

“I don’t want to take any more of your time.”

“It won’t take a minute. Just sit back and relax. Lean your head back against the chair. Now close your eyes. Pinch the webbing between the thumb and forefinger of your right hand between the thumb and forefinger of your left hand. Just hold it lightly. Imagine that you are lying in the hammock again. Just swaying back and forth gently in the breeze. Focus on lying in the hammock, the warm sun, the fresh air, the wind blowing through the trees. Just relax and let the hammock support you. So comfortable and relaxed.”

Dell’uomo’s body sank into the chair. His head dropped forward onto his chest. Michael was astonished at the speed with which the inspector entered a trance. Under his guidance, Dell’uomo quickly fell into a deep trance. All the signs were there. “If Jeff or Kenneth ever sees this, they’ll turn him into a unit right away,” he thought.

“Matt, just relax completely. Just be guided by my voice. Focus only on my voice. You hear only my voice. Just relax. My voice is so relaxing. Just listening to my voice fills you with pleasure. You are now in a deep, deep trance. Remember this feeling. You love this feeling. You love being in a trance. You feel so wonderful. So comfortable and secure. Only being in a trance can make you feel like this. You enjoy being in a trance so much. And the deeper you go into a trance, the better you feel. Just relax and go deeper and listen to my voice. You are ready to listen to the second and third files on the CD. You will listen to them as soon as you can. And you will listen to them repeatedly. And you will come back to me. You want me to put you in a trance again. You want to experience this wonderful pleasure again.”

Michael repeated the commands several times. When he was satisfied that Dell’uomo had absorbed them, he had the inspector relax for just a few minutes and focus on the swaying of the hammock. The inspector was handsome. And it was a pleasure to look at him and fantasize what could be done with him. He had to resist the urge, however. It would be unwise to rush things. Better to wait. And he wanted to think through how he would fit Dell’uomo into his plans before he made his move.

“I am now going to count to five. And when I reach five, you will awake. You will remember nothing of what happened. Only that we spoke about police business. You will not remember being put in a trance. One, beginning to wake up. Two, . . . .”

Dell’uomo’s eyes fluttered opened when Michael said, “Five.”

* * *

“Well, that’s all for now. I thank you for being so candid with me. I may have further questions. I hope you won’t mind if I call again.”

“Not at all, Inspector. I look forward to seeing you again. Our conversation has been almost . . . therapeutic. It helps to talk, don’t you think?”

“Please call me Matt.”

“Matt it is. Thank you.”

“It’s odd.”

“What?”

“I feel good.”

“Is that unusual, Matt?”

“Yes.” Michael really was a very pleasant person to be with, Dell’uomo decided. Easy to talk with. Open. Warm. Friendly. Under different circumstances, he would make a good friend. A pity that for now he could see Michael and Jeff only officially, as part of the ongoing investigation. Perhaps after all this was cleared up, it might be possible to see them unofficially.

VI. Monday, 5:30 p.m.

“Susan? This is Matt. I just finished talking to Sorenson. He confirms that Scott Foster has a violent streak. So we have another bit of evidence pointing toward Foster. If there’s nothing further, I’m going to get some dinner. I’ll see you tomorrow morning.”

“Ok, Matt. Have a good night. We’re interviewing Foster’s three victims tonight. I’ll talk to you about them tomorrow.”

VII. Monday, 9:15 p.m.

The pizza delivery man walked down the corridor in the dorm, carefully checking the layout of the hallway against the instructions he had been given. His passage down the hall was noted by several hungry students who eyed the extra-large-size box hopefully. He quickly identified David Spier’s room from the number he had been given. The police tape across the door and the “no entry” notice further identified it. He had been instructed to deliver the pizza to the room across the hall and to note the name on the door.

The card in the name plate read “Mike Albertson.” He knocked. When the door opened, he mentally compared the description he had been given against the person standing in the door. It was a match.

“Delivery for Albertson.”

“I didn’t order a pizza.”

“There’s no charge. I was told to deliver it to Albertson. There’s a message. ‘Thanks for your help. Enjoy the pizza. Chris.’ ”

“Chris who?”

“Hey, buddy. I just deliver the things. I just do what I’m told. You don’t want it, give it away.”

“Ok, ok. It’s cool, man. I’ll take it. Hold on. Let me give you a tip.”

“It’s been taken care of. Enjoy.”

“Hey, thanks.”

“You’re welcome, Mike.

“Ok, Mike, time to share.” Several people poured into Mike’s room. The pizza was gone in ten minutes. They talked for fifteen minutes or so, most of the conversations devoted to David Spier’s murder. Mike had a paper due the next day, and when he mentioned that, everyone left. His room emptied as quickly as it had filled. No one else heard the phone in Mike’s room ring a few minutes later.

“Mike?”

“Yes, who is this?”

“This is Chris. The guy who sent you the pizza.”

“Thanks. But Chris who? And why send me a pizza?”

“Did you eat it?”

“Yeah, I had a couple of slices. I had to share with everybody. So I didn’t get much.”

“But you ate a couple of slices? That’s good. I suppose everyone’s still there celebrating.”

“No, I’m alone. Who is this?”

“This is Detective Chris Daniels. We wanted to thank you for all your help with the Spier’s investigation. You’ve played a major role in breaking the case. And you can help us with one more thing. You want to help us out, don’t you, Mike.”

“Sure. Anything.”

“Good. Get your coat on and come out front. But don’t tell anyone what you’re doing. Carry a couple of books so that it looks like you’re going to the library. We want to keep a lid on this. We don’t want reporters to hear of this and your role in solving the case until we have things completely wrapped up. I’m sitting in an unmarked blue van parked across the street from the entrance. I’ll flash my lights when I see you.”

Mike felt a little lightheaded and dizzy. It had been a long day, and for some reason the pizza hadn’t restored his energy as food usually did. The other guys had seemed tired too. Ordinarily they wouldn’t have left just because he said he had work to do. But as soon as he had mentioned that he had to get busy, everyone had trooped out. The corridor was quiet too, strange for this time of night. It was almost as if everyone had gone to bed. It wasn’t until he reached the lobby that he ran into other people. No one paid any attention to Mike. It wasn’t unusual for students to come and go until the dorm doors were locked at midnight.

The blue van was parked exactly where Chris had said it would be, its engine already running. As Mike walked across the street, the driver’s window rolled down. “Hey, Mike. Over here.”

“Chris?”

“Yeah, buddy. Hop in the other side. The door’s open.”

Mike opened the door and got in. It was cold out, and the van was warm. He quickly closed the door. The shoulder restraint automatically slid across his chest and held him tightly against the seat. The man in the driver’s seat shifted the car into gear and pulled out into the street. “You look familiar. Do you work with Officer Trent and Jeff?”

“Fasten your seat belt. We wouldn’t want the police to stop us on a traffic violation.” The door locks on the van automatically depressed as the car speeded up.

Mike fastened the belt across his hips. “Aren’t you the police?”

“No, I’m the bad guy.” The man called Chris held out an aerosol can and sprayed Mike briefly in the face. The kid had already ingested some of the drug. He wouldn’t need much more. Mike gasped and inhaled the fumes into his lungs, where it quickly moved into his bloodstream. The drug also penetrated the surface of his skin and was circulated quickly into his brain. It took effect within a second or so. Mike barely had time to register his surprise before his mind clouded over.

The man drove sedately north along Harbor Parkway, keeping pace with the flow of traffic. Mike stared fixedly ahead, totally unaware of the surroundings as the man spoke quietly to him. His instructions were succinct. Mike was to listen and to obey. Under the influence of the drug, Mike had no resistance. His mind, his body, complied.

The first order of business for the man was to discover what Mike had told the police, this Officer Trent and Jeff. He soon found out that Mike had been hypnotized twice and worked with the police artist. Officer Trent was a policewoman. “Jeff” turned out to be not another police officer as he had surmised at first but Jeff Ange, a hypnotist who worked with the police. The man knew of Ange. He would be easy to find if it became necessary to deal with him.

“Mike, I want you to look at me. The second set of pictures the police artist made--do they look like me?”

“Yes.”

“Close your eyes, Mike. Go to sleep.”

Mike slumped into the seat, held in place by the shoulder strap. After a few minutes, the van turned west off the parkway into a district of dark warehouses and small factories. The area was busy during the day, with lots of trucks and traffic. At night, it was much quieter. One could drive for blocks without seeing another vehicle. The few pedestrians tended to be people working late who moved quickly between their workplace and their car. It was not an area where one lingered on the street. The man punched the button on the door opener attached to the sun visor over the window. He waited briefly while the well-oiled door rose quietly and swiftly up. As soon as he could, he drove under it and into a dark garage. Another push of the button and the door descended. He turned off the engine and sat in the dark. The only noise was the ticking of the engine as it cooled.

“Take him upstairs and get him undressed.”

The pizza delivery man opened the rear door of the van and got out. As he opened the passenger side door in the front, the shoulder restraint moved smoothly away from Mike’s body. The delivery man unbuckled the seat belt and led Mike away. The drug had worked its way throughout Mike’s system by this point, saturating his mind. He docilely followed the delivery man upstairs. When told to do so, he undressed and stood waiting, calmly and without curiosity. The room was chilly, and goosebumps formed on his skin. Mike did not notice.

The delivery man also removed his clothing and put on the black zentai suit he customarily wore. Distantly in his mind he felt that he had returned home again, but he gave no thought to what he had just done. He had been told to do something, he had done it. The thought that he might not do it would not have occurred to him. Nor did it occur to him to feel satisfaction in doing the job. He was beyond the point of reacting with anything but mindless obedience to orders. He was property. Property obeyed the owner. Nor did he speculate on what the owner would do with Mike. His mind was blank. Without the owner there, he lapsed into a state of semiconsciousness, waiting for further orders.

Downstairs, Scott Foster sat in the dark. So Jeff Ange had been able to get around the effects of the drug. Well, he had been told that it took several applications to build the concentration in the body and brain up to the point where it worked permanently. His experiments with subjects had demonstrated that point. One application rendered the subject compliant, but it took several before it became completely obedient. He had been careless. Now the police had his picture. But what did they have? A face they might not be able to identify. And even if they did, there was no connection other than this kid’s word that he had been in David’s room. But he was letting his appetite for danger expose him to risks he should not take. The others had been street kids. No one had missed them when he had harvested them. But David had been different. He thought David’s disappearance would be noted immediately if the boy were removed too precipitously. He had been too careful with David, and that had put him in danger. It had thrilled him to visit David in his dorm room. There had been a wave of satisfaction when he had dealt with Mike’s surprise visit so quickly and efficiently. But he had learned a lesson. The harvesting was best done as he had done it tonight. A quick, surgical removal. The indifference of the city was his ally. No one saw anything. He would deal with the police when, if, they came. For now, he had work to do and rewards to be enjoyed. He stepped out of the van and mounted the steps leading up to the loft.

VIII. Monday, 10:00 p.m.

Matt Dell’uomo settled himself into bed and turned out the light. He placed the earphones over his head and turned on the CD. Even before the first file began, he started to relax. By the time Jeff had finished the introduction, he had already sunk into a trance. Soon the swaying of the hammock took him deeply under. When the first file finished, his mind ignored the instructions to wake up and he continued listening. The second file reviewed familiar ground, going over the same concentration exercises but strengthening his reaction and making him more and more focused. Following Jeff’s suggestion, he watched a white light shrink to a point.

“The circle of light grows smaller and smaller. Focus on it as it grows smaller and smaller, dimmer and dimmer. Your mind is watching it intently as it fades. Just let it your thoughts fade away as the light fades. Follow the light down, down, down as it grows smaller and smaller, dimmer and dimmer. Your thoughts fade as the light fades. Sleep. Total sleep. You are so comfortable, so warm, so empty. You have no memory, no thoughts. It is so peaceful to be so empty, so deeply asleep. You have never been so deeply asleep before. You feel so good, so free, so peaceful, so calm. Just listen to my voice and follow what I say. When you do what I tell you to do, you feel so good. When I tell you to do something, you will do it because it makes you feel so good. Just relax. Relax deeper and deeper into sleep. Sleep is a warm deep safe comfortable cocoon. You hear nothing but my voice. My voice fills your mind. You love to feel like this. You love to listen to my voice and do what I tell you to do. When I say the words ‘Red Dragon,’ you will revert immediately to this state. No matter what you are doing, your thoughts will cease, your mind will sleep, and you will listen to what I am telling you, and do what I tell you to do.” Jeff’s voice repeated the instructions several times, reinforcing the commands.

“When you awake, you will remember none of what is said on this file. Your powers of relaxation and concentration will improve every day. You will listen to this file every day. Now focus on the space straight ahead of you. There is a dim light. A point of light in the darkness. It slowly begins to grow larger and larger and brighter and brighter. In a while, I will wake you up. When you wake up, you will remove your earphones and turn off the player. Then you will go to sleep. When you wake up tomorrow, you will feel wonderful. Strong and refreshed and ready to tackle every challenge the day throws at you. Tackle them with concentration and success.”

IX. Tuesday, 8:30 a.m.

“Inspector, you’re looking good this morning.”

Susan Trent and Robert Samuels set in Dell’uomo’s office, ready to go over the previous day’s activities and plan their work for that day.

“I’ve been sleeping well lately, Susan. That helps.”

“Hmm, I would have guessed that the inspector has fallen in love.” Samuels addressed the last remarked sotto voce to Trent.

“You’re such a romantic, Robert.”

“Well, call me a fool, Susan, but the power of love is not to be underestimated. I mean, you women have only one thing on your minds, it’s just sex, sex, sex, with you guys, but, take a man’s word for it, love does make the world go round.”

“You’re a fool, Robert.”

“Ah, Suze, Suze, that hurts. How can you deny the power of love?”

“Ok, you two. I hate to interrupt your flirting, but let’s get down to work. Michael Sorenson confirmed Smith’s story that Scott Foster likes to beat people up. So we have more evidence of violence connected with him. How did your interviews with the three complainants go?”

“The two who eventually withdrew their complaints claimed to have overreacted at the time. It was just a misunderstanding. When they had a chance to think about it, they decided that Scott Foster was really a hell of a nice guy, none better. The officers who investigated the charges noted that both of them seemed to have come into a great deal of money just before their impression of Scott Foster improved.”

“So the Fosters bought them off.”

“Looks like it, Matt. The third guy was more interesting.”

“What did he have to say?”

“Well, the DA told him that there was no case and refused to prosecute Foster. That much we already knew. What we learned last night is that he also had been offered a bribe but refused it. He also said something more.”

“Are you going to tell me or are you going to draw out the suspense?”

Susan Trent took over. “We were asking him questions about Foster and what had happened. I asked if they had met at his place or at Foster’s condo in the River Towers. And he said, what condo? Foster has a loft in some old building. Turns out Foster has a well-equipped playpen somewhere in the city. The guy doesn’t know where. He was acting out some sort of kidnapping fantasy. Foster picked him up in a van, tied him up in the back, and blindfolded him. They drove around for a bit, and then he hears a garage door opening. The next thing Foster’s opening the back door of the van and hauling him up what he thinks is several stories in a freight elevator. When the blindfold comes off, he’s tied up to some sort of frame. The light isn’t so good, and all he can see is a wooden floor. Ceiling isn’t visible. No windows as far as he can tell. He has an impression of a large space because their voices echo a bit and it’s cold. The space is too big to heat. No hypnosis stuff, though. We asked about that.”

“So Foster doesn’t use the River Towers. That explains why the staff there hasn’t seen anything suspicious. But how can we find this other place?”

“Search property records for other buildings owned by Foster?” Samuels suggested.

“It could be owned by any of his family’s companies,” countered Susan.

“Too dangerous. The wrong person might come to check on it. It’s got to be owned by Foster, or at least under his control.”

“We could put him under surveillance. Put a tracking device on his car. Follow him when he leaves at night.”

“Does Motor Vehicles show a van registered to him or to this consulting firm of his?” asked Dell’uomo.

“No. Just the one car. A Mercedes sedan. But he usually takes a taxi, according to the security guys at the River Towers. They know because the battery in the Mercedes went dead because it hadn’t been run for several months. They had to call a service truck to come and recharge it.”

“So we put one of our guys in a taxi, and Foster hires him. We can put a tracing device on the Mercedes in case he takes that.”

“He’s not very popular with the staff at the River Towers, Matt. I think I can get into the garage. Plus I talked with the cleaning ladies. They’re PO’ed because he never gives them a tip at Christmas. For a small consideration, I think they’d be willing to do their civic duty and assist the police with their inquiries when they clean Foster’s condo on Wednesday.”

“I’m not hearing any of this, Robert.”

“You see, Suze, it has to be love. What else would make the inspector hard of hearing?”

“Love makes you blind, Robert, not deaf.”

“That too, Suze, that too.”

X. Tuesday, 9:15 a.m.

“Matt, how’s it going? This is Davis Marks. You got a minute?”

“Morning, Davis. What’s up?”

“I think I found something. If you’re going to be there for the next hour or so, I’ll bring it over.”

“No, stay where you are. We’ll be right over. Can I buy you a cup of coffee and a bagel on the way.”

“Make it a cheese danish and a dark roast, no cream, no sugar, from Feinschmecker’s. I’ll meet you there in half an hour.”

Dell’uomo grabbed his coat from the back of the door and shouted at Susan and Robert on the way out. “Come on. Marks has found something. It’s going to cost us a cheese danish and a cup of coffee. Either of you ever heard of a place called Feinschmecker’s?”

“It’s on Fourth just east of the Parkway. We can go down Fulton and then turn on Fourth. How could you grow up in this city and not know Feinschmecker’s? Didn’t your family ever eat anything but mom’s cooking?” Samuels mimed stunned disbelief.

“Sure, we ate at her mother’s on one Sunday, and my dad’s mother on the next Sunday. Occasionally we ate at an aunt’s. It’s called an Italian family, Samuels. We eat at home. Food prepared for us by women who love us and have spent all day proving they love us by laboring over a hot stove to make us feel guilty for making them work so hard. I should insult my mother and my grandmothers by eating out--some food a stranger who cares nothing about me has prepared? Food that will make me sick and stunt my growth and ruin my teeth? What? You want I should kill them? Sheesh. What kind of a monster are you?”

“My mother’s the same, Matt.”

“With all due respect, Robert, your mother is fine woman, but she is an amateur in the guilt department. When I was six, my mother told me my behavior was making the Virgin Mary very unhappy. Six years old, and I’m responsible for the mental health of the Mother of God. This is Jesus’ mother, for Christsake. I got down on my knees and prayed for days.”

* * *

Half an hour later, the four of them sat around a small table in a crowded deli. Four cups of coffee and Mark’s danish took up most of the space on the table. The crowd was making so much noise that they were guaranteed privacy. No one paid them any attention.

“It started about ten years ago. Up to that time, Sandman was just small beer. There was the shop, Foster ran that. He and his wife lived in a modest apartment up near St. Mary’s. Wife’s a clerk at a supermarket in the area. Kids in public schools. He did shows--stage hypnotism--and gave small seminars to businesses. Nothing elaborate. No mail order business. He had this patent on the white noise machine, but that wasn’t going anywhere, a few hundred of these units every year. Then suddenly, he’s branching out. He stops working in that shop. In a year or so, he moves out to Westhaven. Buys a house for what is considered a modest amount out there--i.e., only a couple of million. It’s not the Foster family estate in Westport, but it’s not a walkup apartment in the city either. He buys that building on Canal Street and moves into it. Suddenly the guy’s got money and he’s spending it. Nothing flashy. He keeps his purchases modest. But they’re there. And Sandman has grown into four businesses. But the sales he got don’t generate enough money for what he’s doing. At least not the visible business. So this makes me suspicious. What is the guy doing?

“Then there are these two helpers of his. They’ve got cash to spend too. But they’re more cautious about spending it. This Sorenson guy--he was some sort of whiz-kid on Wall Street before he ran into trouble. He hasn’t lost his touch. Suddenly the word is out that he’s investing major sums and doing well at it. Again this makes me suspicious. Where’s the money coming from?

“There’s has to have been some seed money in the beginning. The business grew too fast, and there isn’t enough income from the Sandman shop sales or from this guy’s seminars to generate that kind of money. So where did it come from? Well, Sandman’s not traded publicly, so it doesn’t have to file statements for the shareholders. But Foster Enterprises is, and it does file statements. And there in the report ten years ago is a small item. A loan to Sandman Enterprises for $3 million. Not much by Foster Enterprises’s standards but, I’m guessing, it was a lot for Sandman, at least at that time. And the loan’s repaid with interest in three years. The total with interest runs close to $4 million.”

“He said rich relatives didn’t like poor relatives around because they were afraid of being asked for money.”

“Who?”

“Kenneth Foster, the head of Sandman Enterprise. I spoke with him yesterday, and he denied any connection with Senator Foster’s family. He said--wait a minute, I’ll get it.”

Dell’uomo pinched the webbing between the thumb and forefinger of his right hand with the thumb and forefinger of his left hand. His gaze turned inward on something. “Kenneth Foster said, ‘I don’t know if you’ve met many rich people, Inspector, but they are always on the alert against poor relations who want money from them.’ He said that Senator Foster and his family were wary of being touched for a loan and kept their distance.” But he lied to me. Kenneth lied to me, thought Dell’uomo. But even as he thought it, Dell’uomo felt guilty. He trusted Kenneth. There had to be some explanation for this. Kenneth Foster would not have misled him. He was so lost in thought that he barely heard the rest of them talking.

“So Sandman is doing something more than sell New Age junk, Davis?”

“There has to be some other source of income, Susan. These people have too much money. I don’t care how many motivational tapes and white noise machines you sell--you’re not going to make that kind of money. And there are only a few ways to make so much money so quickly. And we all know that none of them are legal. Sandman may not be connected to your murder, but something illegal’s going on there.”

XI. Tuesday, 11:00 a.m.

“Matt, I’ve been thinking.”

“What, Susan?” They were stuck at a traffic light on the way back from meeting Marks. Samuels was driving and Dell’uomo was sitting in the passenger’s seat in front. Both of them twisted around in their seats to look at Susan Trent.

“Smith talked a lot, but when I thought over the conversation later, I got the impression that he was covering something up by chattering a lot. You know how he tried to get under my skin. And he kept calling you ‘sergeant.’ I think he was trying to distract us. A lot of what he was saying was just an act. I think the drawings surprised him. He thinks that Foster betrayed him, and his anger boiled over when he first saw the pictures, and he identified Foster before he could think about what he was saying. But then he got himself under control, and he never gave us anything more. Just lots of nonsense that appeared to be revealing but wasn’t.”

“So you think we should have another chat with Smith?”

“Maybe not you. He doesn’t like you. Me and Robert.”

“Yeah, we have a history. Ok, I’ll catch up on paperwork. You two pay a visit to Smith. Drop me off at the next corner. There’s a subway stop there. The train will be faster than this traffic.”

* * *

Two miles away, a street person named Old Will woke up. He was lying in a small space between two buildings. A narrow passageway connected the space to an alleyway. There was just enough room for a lean-to constructed of flattened cardboard boxes against one wall in the space. He had found the space several weeks before and had been able to claim it as his own. Several years of drugs and alcohol had dulled his mind, but he dimly recalled an odd dream. Even stranger than most of his dreams. Two people dressed all in black had left a large bundle wrapped in sheets of clear plastic in the passageway. Inside the plastic, he could see a face of a young man. The man’s head was hairless, and his eyes stared fixedly ahead. Old Will dragged a word up out of his past. It was a mannequin, one of those store dummies. Soon after the guys in black had left, another pair had picked up the package and taken it away. Some lucid corner of his mind thought it was an odd way to deliver a package, but he soon forgot about it. Old Will didn’t dwell on his dreams. He had to focus on staying alive for another day.

XII. Tuesday, 12:45 p.m.

“OOO, Officer, I see you have taken my advice and returned to get an introduction to the wonderful world of domination. And you have brought your first ‘client’ to meet me. How sweet.”

“This is my colleague, Officer Robert Samuels, Mr. Smith. May we come in?”

“You want to borrow a whip. I understand completely, my dear. It’s not as if the police department supplies these things. But is it wise to ply your new trade so close to home? Officer Samuels looks like he belongs to the vice squad. Granted, I have known members of the vice squad to lower their trousers and bend over. Although I have never met one with so attractively developed a butt before. Or perhaps I should say a butt aft. You are to be congratulated on your taste, my dear.”

“Alas, Mr. Smith, Officer Trent will not heed my pleas. I waste my words upon the air of her indifference to the pleasures of life. She remains, Sir, impervious to my charms, glutteal and otherwise. I try, Sir, but to no avail. I wear tight pants to display my assets, but does she pay attention? No, Sir, she does not. But such is life. Has it not been your experience that those we love love us not?”

“My dear Officer Samuels. Do come in. Sit down. Whoops. Pardon the mess. A little party last night. Haven’t had time to clean up yet. Let me just move that . . . item out of your way. And where is the broad-shouldered inspector today?”

“So the other day when you kept calling him a sergeant, you knew that he was an inspector.”

“He did mention that fact, Officer Trent. More than once, as I recall. Was it too naughty of me to refer to him as a sergeant?”

“We have been known to call him names as well, Mr. Smith.”

“Oh, I do like this man, Officer Trent. Do tell, Robert. But where are my manners. I haven’t offered you anything to drink. Is it true that the police never drink on duty?”

“Never, Mr. Smith. We cultivate dry throats so that we sound hoarse and threatening. It’s in the police manual.”

“Robert, you must call me John. Now, let me guess. You’re here to ask me more questions.”

“You are a mind reader, John. Susan, stop pacing and sit down.”

“Well, Robert and Susan, what can I do for you kids today?”

“John, we have come to ask you to help us.”

“My dear Robert, how could any upstanding, civic-minded inhabitant of this fair city of ours refuse you? Is there anyone so perverse as to say no to one of your requests?”

“John, we have reason to suspect that a former friend of yours is behaving badly, very badly. I mustn’t joke about it. That’s why we’ve come to you for information.”

“And the former friend in question is Scott Foster?”

“Yes, John, it is.”

“Well, Robert, I can’t claim to have always behaved myself. In fact, I seldom behave myself. But Scott was a bad influence on me. I did some very bad things because he encouraged me.”

“We have heard from others that he likes to provoke people to violence.”

“Yes, he once sat in that very chair you’re sitting in now and gave me explicit instructions on how to . . . Well, let’s just say ‘cause damage.’ A lot of damage.”

“John, we’re not concerned with what you did. That’s history. You’ve paid for it. We’re just interested in stopping Scott Foster.”

“Robert, whatever I can do to help.”

“Thank you, John. Now I believe that you have known Scott since the two of you were young?”

“Oh, yes. Our families have been close for several generations. Scott and I both went to Cairnbrook Country Day when we were lads and then we went up to Chesterfield together. Our fathers were at Chesterfield together too. My father and the senator--well, he wasn’t the senator then of course--and Kenneth Foster--he’s some sort of cousin of the senator--were inseparable. My father was the one who gave the senator his nickname Ivy. So Scott and I were fated to be close. We were practically brothers.”

“Did Scott misbehave when he was young?”

“Scott could be bad, Robert. But I don’t think you would say it was out of the ordinary badness. He wasn’t evil or anything like that. Just adventuresome. He liked to take risks. He was always the first one to try something out and then egg the rest of us on to follow him.”

“What sorts of things?”

“Let’s see. There was a barn at Cairnbrook with a steeply pitched roof. He got up on the roof one day and climbed up to the ridgepole and walked along it. Like an acrobat, you know. Then he bullied another kid into trying it, and the kid fell. Broke his collarbone and a few ribs and other things.”

“And he continued to behave this way?”

“No, that stopped. At least the overt behavior stopped when he was ten or so.”

“What happened?”

“Well, his father was becoming involved in politics at that point. It was during his first campaign for the Senate. Scott’s parents couldn’t look after him, and so they asked Scott’s Uncle Kenneth to watch him. He seemed to have a calming affect on Scott. Scott was very different after that. Much quieter on the surface.”

“So his behavior improved?”

“No, that got worse. It just wasn’t as public. It was as if he had learned how to channel it better. He became more manipulative. He was more skilled in using people. He was even more indifferent to them. It was as if he was the only person in the world who mattered.”

“And you remained friends?”

“Oh yes. How can I put this? I was susceptible to his influence. He was like a what do you call them--a mentor. Yes, a mentor in misbehaving. He taught me how to look like an angel while being a devil.”

“What did you do?”

“Now, Robert, I don’t think I will tell you that. At least not without a lawyer present to protect my rights.”

“But will you confirm that you did things that might require the presence of a lawyer if you were willing to talk about them?”

“I would not deny that there is a certain truth to that proposition, Robert.”

“And later, when you became an adult?”

“A lawyer would also need to be present for that discussion, Robert.”

“And if, say, you were to testify in court to what Scott Foster had done, would he need a lawyer.”

“He would need a team of lawyers, Robert. A very large team of very talented lawyers.”

“Do you think this cousin had an influence on his behavior?”

“That was the impression I had at the time. I didn’t see Scott for three months because we were traveling in Europe. But when I came back, he was always saying ‘Kenneth says this,’ ‘Kenneth says that gentlemen never wear argyle socks’--things like that. He was full of Kenneth for a couple of years.”

“Was there a rift?”

“No, I don’t think so. I think Scott just got old enough to take care of himself.”

“Do you know much about this cousin?”

“I only met him a few times. He was a friend of my father’s, but we didn’t see him socially. He didn’t have much money, at least not enough to keep up with the Smiths. He had to work for a living. I mean really work. But my father used to see him occasionally, maybe he still does. Dad always said that Kenneth Foster was the smartest man he knew. Oddly enough, he popped back into my life briefly. He was the one who introduced me to Michael Sorenson. I’m sure that episode is part of your file on me, Robert. Kenneth Foster was the one--well, he was another person who betrayed me. I have not been lucky in my friends, Robert.”

“No, John, I don’t think you have. Have you seen Scott Foster lately?”

“No, not for years.”

“Based on your knowledge of him, do you think it’s likely he changed?”

“Are you asking if I think that he’s become a nice man? Helps old ladies across streets, volunteers to feed the homeless?”

“Something like that.”

“No, Robert, I don’t think he’s become a nice man. If he helps old ladies across the street, he’s planning to steal their life savings. If he feeds the homeless, he experimenting with ways to give them food poisoning.”

* * *

“How do you do that?”

“What?”

“Get people to open up like that?”

“It’s all in the hands, Suze. It’s like magic. You distract them with one hand while you put the rabbit in the hat with the other.”

“He patted my butt as we were leaving.”

“Hmm. He patted mine twice, once on each cheek.”

“So you had twice as much fun as I did.”

“Which cheek did he pat? I’ll pat the other one, and then we’ll be even in the fun department.”

“Actually, Robert, if you were to pat either cheek, I think I would be ahead in the fun department.”

“Suze?!”

XIII. Tuesday, 3:00 p.m.

He awoke slowly, gradually surfacing to consciousness. He had had a wonderful dream. He felt so calm now. Violence always left him drained and satisfied. And now that he had found this new level of violence, he felt even better. Why hadn’t he thought of it before? He would have to space the acts out, however. Repetition might dull the sensation. And then, too, the act was rather irrevocable, and the supply of “volunteers” for . . . “Well, what should I call it?” he thought. There were the simple, direct equivalents, of course. Murder, killing, execution--but they lacked that certain detached je-ne-sais-quoi amusement that he sought to bring to all his acts. They had no panache, no sprezzatura. The Japanese had the right word to characterize the deeds of an aristocrat--asobi, to play--every act of an aristocrat should be an asobi. And there the word was--his volunteers for asobi. How filled with joy the act of asobi would be. How glad his pets would be to volunteer for it. But he would have to pace his pleasures, anticipate them in advance. The first two times he had become excited and caught up in the act. The pets’ helplessness and obedience, their joyful anticipation of asobi, their willing acceptance of his grace and favor, had led him to push too hard too soon. How long could one extend asobi? It would depend on the volunteer, of course, but he would have to exercise greater discipline over himself. The Chinese had had the death of a thousand cuts. Was that possible? Could the body survive anywhere near that much pain and loss of blood? Suppose one were to make one cut every minute, pausing after each to watch the flesh part and the thread of blood to appear on the skin, and then slowly to swell into a red bead that would flow down the flesh. But not just any flesh, hairless, white, pale flesh, a thin body, tranced by the drug into complete immobility. Standing unsupported, out in an open room, standing on a white cloth that would gradually become stained red with the blood. One cut a minute, 60 every hour, a thousand cuts would take nearly seventeen hours. Would that satisfy? Or was it too fast. Well, he wouldn’t know until he tried it. One had to keep experimenting to find new routes to pleasure.

He stretched out on the black sheets. The mirror on the wall opposite the foot of the bed reflected the image. His black zentai suit and the dark lighting made him almost invisible against the sheet. If he kept quite still, he could fade away, become a piece of furniture. Achieve nonduality. The purity of his being quite dazzled him. To be only a thought unencumbered by the body. A bodhisattva of mercy releasing souls to their next stage of being, helping them achieve nirvana. Even his father would be pleased. He would be ridding the streets of the vermin and inferior beings that his father despised.

But last night he had been in too much of a hurry. The frenzy had come upon him and he had acted in haste. He must not make that mistake again. The pet had been . . . delicious in his helplessness though. A few droplets of the drug on the pizza, a second spray of the aerosol, and he had been quite docile. And what a luscious body had awaited him when he had climbed the stairs. It was almost naturally hairless. At his command, the pets had quickly and efficiently removed the hair from the boy’s armpits and groin first and then his head. The fine down that covered the boy’s arms and legs had been next. The flesh was almost perfect. So white. The body so thin that the ribs had shown through the chest wall. The genitals with their ugly swelling had been covered with the white plastic protector, leaving only the pleated curves of the plastic shell. He had chosen wisely. The white scallop shape was much better than the ‘sexe.’ If he had kept the pet longer, of course, he would have had it fixed. That doctor was so obliging. One would think he enjoyed castrating pets. Perhaps he did. Sometimes, the human animal was unfathomable in its cruelty. The nipples had been too large and dark, though. Even when the pet had been encased in the silvery zentai suit--a pity it was ruined, that metallic sheen was becoming a favorite of his. So suggested of the mechanical robot he wanted. Well, he could always buy another. But the new pet’s nipples had been so hard that they marred the smooth surface of the suit. Tape hadn’t made them protrude less, and the edges of the strip had been visible. He hadn’t had a choice really. They had had to be removed. Perhaps it was the sight of the blood flowing down the body, curving as it flowed over every rib and across the abdomen. It had been mesmerizing to watch. And then the temptation had come over him to see another rivulet of blood. So entrancing. All three pets had behaved admirably. The new pet so calm and accepting, even joyful, about the asobi. And his two pups following orders so obediently. But now, once again, he was back to only two pets. And he had meant to ask the new pet about Jeff Ange and what it had revealed to the police. He really had to exercise more control over himself. Perhaps he should interrogate Jeff. The drug would make it easy to do, and then once Jeff had “spilled his guts,” as it were . . . he shivered with anticipation. Jeff was not his type, of course, but it wasn’t as if he intended to keep him any longer than necessary. And it would serve Jeff right for interfering. Uncle Kenneth might be put out, of course, but he could always make himself a new helper. Uncle Kenneth would thank him for ridding him of such a poor assistant. Really, the inconvenience to him would be minimal, and besides Uncle Kenneth had always been so forgiving of his star pupil. But was the satisfaction of punishing Jeff worth lowering his standards? Well, there was no hurry. He had time to think about it. At least he had been able to sleep in today. Tomorrow he would have to clear out before the cleaners came and then go to the office to write his weekly report. The senator was being so stingy with his allowance. He needed the income from his consulting work, and the money was so generous. Other than the tedium of writing the report, he found the work quite enjoyable. And if he did say so himself, his experiments with this drug were really quite thorough. He was really putting it to the test. Uncle Kenneth would find it difficult to find anyone else with his skills.

XIV. Tuesday, 3:15 p.m.

“He is insane, Kenneth.”

“Yes, I am afraid that he is.”

“The men who are trailing him watched him pick up a kid and take him to that warehouse of his. We were able to install cameras in the warehouse yesterday afternoon when he was out. Those subjects of his didn’t even notice our men, by the way. Absolutely no reaction, I am told. The drug is working admirably in their case. But, anyway, we were able to watch him murdering the kid. We also have it on tape in case we need the evidence later. I’m told that he devoted several hours to the task. Then he leaves, and those helpers of his clean up the body and wrap it in plastic sheeting and load it in a van and dump it in an alley. Luckily our people were able to remove the body before it was discovered.”

“So the police don’t know about it?”

“No. That’s been taken care of. We’re watching Scott around the clock now. Tomorrow when he pays his weekly visit to the office, we’ll install cameras in his home. Unfortunately, we do not have many resources locally, and I have been unable to watch the police operation as closely as I would like. I am having more people flown in. By tomorrow, we will have full access to their investigation. We will know everything that they know. And we will decide what to do. We should be able to guide their investigation. We will see. Perhaps we can use a minimal dosage of the drug on them to persuade them to drop the investigation.”

“We can’t count on that working yet. The latest versions are much more effective than the earlier ones, but still a small but significant number of subjects are able to resist one or two doses. We can’t risk having anyone remember, and we aren’t ready yet to dose civilians completely. Their behavior would stand out, and other people would notice. But one thing we should think about is cutting off Scott’s supply of the drug. I only gave him enough of the latest version for about fifty doses. He must have used up a lot of it by now. His two long-term subjects are fully doped. So he wouldn’t have to use the drug for them. He must have used about twenty doses for Spier. How long did he have last night’s subject? A few hours? Say maybe another five doses there. So he still has quite a supply left. Still enough to do at least one more subject fully or several more subjects only partially. Plus his own supply of the antidote to keep him from being susceptible to the hypnodrug. Unfortunately Cousin Scott can still do a lot of damage.”

“Kenneth, as long as the police have nothing to go on, I think we should let him continue with his experiments. He is providing valuable information, and many of our own investigators would hesitate to conduct his kind of experiments. If the police get too close, we can always remove Scott to a safer place. That might he even be better. He could work in more closely controlled conditions.”

XV. Wednesday, 6:30 a.m.

Dell’uomo’s first thought upon awakening was that he was listening to Jeff and Michael talk. Had he been dreaming about them? His second was that he was aroused. Very aroused. He had listened to the files on the CD last night before going to sleep. He thought he had played only the first two, but he wasn’t sure. Perhaps he had listened to all three. The sound of Jeff’s voice must have lingered in his mind and somehow become fused into a dream. But why was he hearing Michael’s voice? Why were the two of them invading his sleep? He stretched out full length on this back, his arms at his side, legs spread slightly apart--the same posture he used when listening to Jeff’s concentration files. With his eyes closed, he heard Jeff’s voice begin the induction routine. He was back in that hammock in the forest, the sun and shadows playing over his body. But he was also lying in his bed, with a hard-on, his cock lifting off his stomach and throbbing. Jeff seemed to be inside him now. Not an external voice coming through the earphones but somehow controlling him internally. All he had to do was relax. It was so easy and so pleasant. The warmth grew and grew inside him. He just felt better and better, but this time the pleasure he felt in listening to Jeff was so openly sexual. Jeff in control, penetrating him. And Michael was there too. Jeff and Michael joining forces to consume him. Somewhere someone was breathing harshly, moaning. His own body felt paralyzed except for his cock. It was as if it were being sucked, as if his whole body was being stimulated at the same time, as if he were both being penetrated and penetrating and being overwhelmed by waves and waves of pleasure. His whole body was being held just short of the point of orgasm, as the waves of pleasure washed over his body again and again. He felt so helpless, so unable to resist what was happening, gripped in Jeff and Michael’s control. Wanting their control, wanting more of their control, to surrender to them, to let them possess him totally, finally. His body giving in to the pleasure, his head pushed back against the pillow, his chest and stomach arched up off the bed, the muscles of his arms and legs clenching and unclenching. They were both inside him, thrusting and penetrating him. He was someone inside them, penetrating them as the same time. His chest burned as his breath came in gasps. His body spasmed. His muscles locked rigid. And finally Jeff said, “now”--the three of them came in unison--as Dell’uomo spontaneously shot all over this chest. His body shook with each ejaculation. His breath came in gulps, someone screamed with pleasure. He collapsed. He could hardly swallow between breaths. His right hand sought his forehead and rubbed it hard, something, some sensation to bring him down, to take him back to normal, to the world in which sunlight suddenly flooded through his window and the noise of traffic in the street rose up to his bedroom. He became aware that his neck muscles were sore. It felt as if he had pulled several muscles throughout his body. Eventually his breathing slowed, and he was able to swallow. To open his eyes and survey his body, the cum already drying. He needed to go to the bathroom, but he felt unable to move. It would destroy the feeling that still lingered in his body and mind, and he wanted, wanted desperately, to hold on to that. What the hell happened, he thought. All his careful years of self-control and denial given up and given up gladly to Jeff and Michael. Whatever it was, he wanted it to happen again. Preferably with the real live Jeff and Michael.

XVI. Wednesday, 8:45 a.m.

“Where’s Robert?”

“Don’t you remember, Matt? He told you. He’s taking the morning off--he has a dentist appointment. He’ll be in by this afternoon.”

“Oh, right. I forgot his dentist appointment. Is your phone working? Mine keeps cutting me off.”

“As he was going off duty, Kurt told me that everyone on the night shift was having problems. Nancy Becker called the phone company. They’re sending someone over this morning to check. Here, use my cell phone.”

“Thanks. I wanted to check with Davis to see if he had found anything more.”

Dell’uomo took Susan Trent’s phone into his office and closed the door. The office was noisy enough that it was not unusual for someone desiring to make a private call or simply to hear clearly to go into an empty room and close the door. Dell’uomo wasn’t as worried about the noise as he was about being overheard discussing Sandman. He wanted to control that investigation. If Davis had found out anything, Susan was sharp enough to put his comments to Davis together to reach the conclusion that Sandman was worth investigating. He knew that Jeff and Michael and Kenneth Foster had nothing to do with the murders. He was certain that they were doing something, but nothing that would interest homicide. And he was very interested in Jeff and Michael. As he dialed Davis’s extension, he saw the man from the phone company come into the outer office and talk with Susan. Susan gestured at him through the window into the squad room and indicated that the repairman wanted to come into his office. He held up his hand and flashed five fingers twice to indicate that they should give him ten minutes. The repairman said something to Susan, and she led him off down the hallway. He vaguely recalled that the closet down the hall held the phone junction boxes.

“Davis? Hi, this is Matt Dell’uomo. How’s it going?”

“It’s going great. I was about to call you. I found out some more about Sandman and Scott Foster’s business. Both of them have government contracts. Sandman has a $50 million contract with the Department of Labor to research “employee motivation.” I checked back, and it’s had this contract for three years now. So far it’s been paid $150 million to do research and consult. I did a search on the Labor Department’s website, however, and I can’t find any project that mentions Sandman or any indication that this is a DOL project. Same with Scott Foster. He’s been paid $10 million a year for the past three years to advise the Treasury Department on estate planning. Again, no mention of this on the Treasury Department website.”

“So what do you think?”

“I think the two Fosters are being paid to do research for one of those agencies with no name, and the payments are being hidden in the Labor and Treasury budgets.”

“But what research?”

“Well what are they qualified to research? Hypnosis for Kenneth Foster. Sleep aids, concentration, motivation. Hardly seems worth $150 million. So far nothing that we’ve been able to find out about Scott Foster suggests that he is qualified to research anything. Perhaps it’s just Senator Foster’s way of paying the kid’s allowance. The Senator is head of the Senate Select Committee on Intelligence. He would have the connections to get his cousin and his son contracts. It’s worth looking into.”

“Definitely. Do me a favor and see out if you can find out more. I’ll pay another visit to Michael Sorenson. He was very forthcoming about Sandman the last time we talked. There’s something there. His loyalties are to Jeff Ange, not to Kenneth Foster. Maybe he’ll talk.”

As Dell’uomo hung up, the phone repairman came back into the room. He started picking up the phones on each desk and checking them, joking with the few officers present in the room. Dell’uomo opened the door to his office. “Sorry to keep you waiting. I had to make a call.”

“No problem. One of the main switching units had burnt out. I’ve changed it. The phones should be ok now. If I could just check your phone, I’ll be out of your office in just a few seconds.”

Dell’uomo nodded and left to find Susan. The phone repairman was as good as his word. It took him barely half a minute to bug Dell’uomo’s office.

XVII. Wednesday, 9:30 a.m.

Robert Samuels was dressed in blue coveralls and a work shirt and wore heavy work shoes. He waited with the two maids while the security office called upstairs to the penthouse and let Scott Foster know that the cleaners had arrived. They waited another fifteen minutes until the security cameras in the garage showed Foster exiting the elevator to the penthouse. “Ok, Officers DeSoto and Clerk, let’s roll.” The two maids giggled. It was fun helping the police, especially when the officer in question filled out the cleaner’s uniform so nicely.

“So, Robert, do we get badges?”

“Maria, you get me. That’s even better.”

“No, we want the badges.”

“I’m not enough?”

“You and the badge, that would be enough. I want to show my son the badge. He’ll think it’s cool.”

“I’ll send badges for everyone. You got any kids, Lisa?”

“They’re all grown. But I got two grandkids.”

“Ok, badges for them too. Now, ladies, it would be best if you just did what you usually do and ignore what I’m doing. You don’t see me. But if you see anything out of the ordinary, tell me.”

“Wait tell you see this place, Officer. You’ll see. Anything out of the ordinary would be easy to spot.”

XVIII. Wednesday, 10:45 a.m.

“Hey, Robert, you’re back earlier than I expected. Dentist appointment didn’t take long.”

“No, just in and out, Matt. No problems.”

“That’s always good news with dentists, Robert. You got a minute to talk. Something I need to brief you on.”

Dell’uomo closed the door to his office and motioned Robert to sit down.

“Total waste of time, Matt. There’s nothing in this place. A big fucking place--must be 3,000 square feet, and there’s less furniture in it than either of us have. And get this. Everything is either black or white. Huge living room. One black sofa, sitting on a black rug surrounded by a floor painted white. No pictures, just blank walls. Nothing else in this room. It must be 30 x 40. Just one sofa. A kitchen that’s all black. No food in it. Place looks like it’s never been used. A bedroom with one king-size bed, black lacquer. Sheets, blankets, everything black. A mirror on the wall opposite the bed. That’s the only thing hanging on the wall throughout the entire apartment. The floor in the bedroom is painted black. Everything in it is black. The bathroom off the bedroom, black towels and rug. Nothing in the medicine cabinet but shaving stuff, toothpaste, toothbrush, soap, a box of band aids, and some first-aid ointment. And some sort of prescription medicine. I wrote down the name. The label had ‘HD AD’ handwritten on it. Just some small white pills. I took one for the lab to analyze. His closet was filled with black clothes. Suits, shirts, ties, socks. Even his underwear is black. He has these body suits--also black. The other rooms in the place are empty. No furniture, no tv, no books, no radio, no records, no newspapers, no computer, nothing but empty space. What does this man do when he’s there? According to everyone I talked to, he spends most of the day there. Only goes out at night. The maids come in, dust, vacuum, change the sheets, and wash them, clean the bathroom, and wipe down the kitchen. There are other bathrooms, but the maids say that they’ve never been used as far as they can tell. That’s it.”

“Anything on the sheets that might be of interest?”

“You mean like signs of emissions, hairs, that sort of thing? Nope. Hardly look used.”

“He can’t just sit in an empty room all day long.”

“Maybe he just jacks off on the bed and watches himself in the mirror. I should ask him for lessons. I’d like to last that long.”

“You have to work for a living. You wouldn’t have the time. You’d get started and then be called to a crime scene.”

“Protecting and serving does interfere with my life. Must be nice to be rich.”

“Hey, money can’t buy happiness.”

“Yeah, but it makes the misery bearable.”

“It’s time to talk with Scott Foster. I’ll have to persuade the Captain and Jessica that we need to interview him.”

“Can’t hurt. What have you got on? I got to talk with the witnesses in the Adams case. That goes to court tomorrow.”

“I’m going to see Michael Sorenson again. Talk with him about Foster.”

XIX. Wednesday, 11:15 a.m.

“The maids are leaving now. The janitor left about an hour ago. Is Foster still in his office?”

“Yeah, we’re watching him. If he makes a move, we’ll let you know. But he usually doesn’t leave until 5:00 or so.”

For a few seconds, the television screens in the security room at the River Towers went blank. When they resumed functioning, nothing seemed amiss. The guards on duty briefly discussed reporting the incident, but decided that it wasn’t worth the hassle. Things were back to normal.

The agents exchanged looks of surprise when the elevator doors opened. “Where are we going to put the cameras? There’s no place to hide them. I can’t believe this fucking place. There’s nothing here. What is this guy, a monk?”

“Some monk’s cell. Jesus, this place is bigger than my whole house.”

“Hey, look in here. This must be the guy’s bedroom. I can put a camera on the mirror frame and another on the headboard of the bed.”

“Just what the guys like to watch. Bedroom scenes.”

“It’s set up like a theater. The guy lies in bed. He can see everything in that mirror.”

“The bathroom’s here. You can put a camera in there.”

“Watch the guy piss.”

“Whoopee. Now there’s excitement for you.”

When the security screens went blank again an hour later, the guards barely noticed.

XX. Wednesday, 4:30 p.m.

“Hi, I’m back.”

“Mmm. So you are.” Michael wrapped his arms around me and pulled me close.

“Were you hiding behind the door?”

“Umm, hmm. Waiting for you.”

“Waiting long? Oh, that feels so good.”

“Not long. I saw you coming down the street.”

“And that’s when you got undressed?”

“Yep. Leaped out of my clothes and stood behind the door to waylay you.”

“I like the lay part of that. Oh, do that again.”

“My pleasure, Jeffers. I have a surprise for you.”

“Besides what you’re already doing? I can’t take much more.”

“Yes, it’s in the bedroom.”

“What?”

“You’ll never guess.”

“The cat had kittens?”

“He was fixed years ago.”

“That might explain that look he gives us.”

“Aren’t you interested in the surprise?”

“I don’t want to move. It feels too good.”

“Are we getting excited?”

“You might say that.”

“Bedroom?”

“Hmmm.”

* * *

“Michael, why is Inspector Dell’uomo lying on our bed?”

“He’s resting.”

“Why doesn’t he have any clothes on?”

“He was hot.”

“Michael, he’s a cop! You can’t take his clothes off”

“He’s been red-dragoned. He didn’t protest.”

“Oh my god. How long has he been listening to the files?”

“I don’t know. But he showed up again this afternoon, and he was definitely excited to see me. So I tranced him. Happy Birthday!”

“It’s not my birthday.”

“It’s Inspector Dell’uomo’s birthday. He’s beginning a new life.”

“Michael, we can’t do this. It’s illegal.”

“Probably. But he is very good looking, isn’t he?”

“Hmm. He has less hair than I thought he would.”

“Just enough.”

“Yes, it outlines his pecs and his abs so nicely. Argh, Michael, don’t change the subject. We have to wake him up and get him dressed and out of here.”

“Well, I do intend to wake him up, but clothes aren’t part of my plans. He’s been prepped, and he’s so ready for his sweet ’tist, Jeff. The Inspector has the hots for you, Jeffers. He confessed all to me. Wants your bod. Want to feels your hot cum spurting inside him. Wants to bear your children. I’ll spare you the details. The man is smitten, Jeffers.”

“Smitten? No one has been smitten since the Civil War.”

“Doesn’t he have beautiful legs. And you ought to see his ass. My god, Jeffers, it’s perfection.”

“Did you . . . ?”

“Jeffers, I waited for you. It’s you I love. The inspector is a mere bagatelle. A trifle. A fling. A soupcon. A cookie. A succulent little hors d’oeuvre before the feast that is my Jeffers. I confined myself to the merest chaste kiss on his forehead, Jeffers. Then I waited for you. Will you look at the shoulders on that man? You can have the right side. I’ll take the left. Let’s start by licking his nipples.”

“You’re evil.”

“Hmm, very evil. Shouldn’t you get undressed? Matt has plans for your naked body.”

I am so weak. I didn’t even stop long enough to hang up my pants. They were badly wrinkled by the time I got back to them.

* * *

Some time later Matt was kissing the inside of my left thigh. He began just above the knee and ran his wet tongue slowly up my thigh. He would advance upward an inch or so and then move downward to my knee again. Slowly licking upward a little bit farther each time and then moving back down the knee to begin again. As he moved upward, I began to anticipate his advance. My cock was throbbing long before he reached within tongue distance of my balls. Michael was stroking my body and kissing my neck, leading me toward that white hot sun that melts me. When, after what seemed like an hour, Matt finally reached my groin and began licking just beneath my balls, I felt like pure being. A white hot light was consuming me. I don’t know if I came or not. But the orgasm disintegrated me.

* * *

Later still I was lying with my head resting on the right side of Michael’s chest. Michael was lying flat on his back, with me on my side between his body and his right arm. His arm was bent at the elbow across my back and his right hand cupped my shoulder. My left hand was resting on Michael’s stomach. Matt was on Michael’s left side, with his right arm extending under Michael’s neck, his face against Michael’s neck. With his left hand he began stroking my body, gently tracing my eyebrows, the line of my nose, my lips, my neck, my arm, my hip. Then he began stroking my hand. It was all I could think about. His touch on my body. The two of them were talking quietly. I couldn’t make out the words, just feel the vibration through Michael’s chest. Michael said something, and then Matt placed his left hand over mine. He placed his other hand over Michael’s hand on my shoulder and squeezed it. I thought I heard Michael moan. But I was so drowsy at that point. I must have imagined it.

* * *

As Matt lay with his face pressed against Michael’s neck, he gently stroked Jeff’s body with a sense of wonder. Jeff and Michael were so beautiful. His hand traced the outlines of Jeff’s body with the lightest of touches. It was barely a movement of the air over Jeff’s skin. A phrase from his childhood rose unbidden to his mind. He was home free. A hot summer night, the darkness bringing mothers to their doors to call their children inside. A game of hide-and-seek brought to a sudden end with the cry, “Allee, allee outs home free.” He was home free. All the prisons, all the strictures, all the rules, everything that had held him back was gone. Michael was talking to him, barely the slightest disturbance of sound. He closed his right hand over Jeff’s and his right arm bent spontaneously upward and his fingers interlaced with Michael’s hand resting on Jeff’s shoulder. He pulled both of them tight against himself. He was home.

* * *

Michael spoke very quietly to Matt, not disturbing Jeff. His head was resting on Matt’s right arm, which extended beneath his neck. “He’s being used by some very powerful people, Matt. There are doing some very evil things, and they are using Jeff. Please, please, protect him.”

He felt Matt’s head nod yes against his neck. “You, too, Michael. I’ll protect you, too.” Matt’s lips brushed against the side of Michael’s neck. Matt’s bicep flexed and lifted Matt’s neck as he bent his arm and lay his right hand over Michael’s hand as it rested on Jeff’s shoulder. Matt pulled all three of them close together.

It was that small motion, the movement of Matt’s bicep against his neck, that overcame Michael. Suddenly he was drained of everything. Momentarily emptied of all feelings and then just as suddenly filled with a great joy--the emotion welled up within him and his eyes watered. A bead of moisture flowed out of the corner of his eye and traced a line downward across his cheek and onto Matt’s face.

Matt barely registered the wetness on his face, but it tugged at his mind. There was something he should ask. But he was too tired to remember what it was. Time enough to think about it in the morning.

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