"Fine. But before we go any further, I'll need you to take off that fancy coat."

Goreey's brows knitted under his perfect hairdo. "1 don't understand.'"

"Humor me, Lou. I'm in a business where you can't be too careful. You call me up on a Sunday and you've just gotta see me, can't wait till tomorrow, and I start to wonder. I ain't no whacko paranoid, but I ain't no fool neither."

"Really, I don't think—"

"Don't get all huffy with me, Lou. It's a simple thing: You gonna take the coat off or ain't you?"

For a second or two, when Richie thought he wasn't going to do it, he tensed and slid his hand toward the newspaper. His fingers were almost to the gun when Gorcey let out this big sigh.

"Oh, very well. If you insist."

He untied the belt, shrugged out of the coat, folded it, then draped it over the back of the client chair. He raised his arms and did a slow, graceful turn.

Richie gaped at Goreey's shirt. What the hell was it made of? It looked like the tablecloth his mother had brought back from her trip to Venice about three hundred years ago, the one she picked up on some island called Burano or something like that. Except this one looked like it had been dunked in blueberry Kool-Aid. The guy was wearing a fucking tablecloth.

But what he was not wearing was lots more important—no shoulder or SOB holster. Richie let himself relax a little.

"There. Satisfied?"

"Almost," Richie said. "One more thing: Empty your bag on the desk."

"Really, Mr. Cor—"

"Do that and we can get down to business."

Another sigh. "This is very unusual, and if I didn't need your help I'd refuse. But I guess it doesn't matter."

He upended the bag and out tumbled a set of keys, a cell phone, two eyeglass cases, and a couple of legal-sized envelopes.

Richie took the bag from him and shook it.

Gorcey gasped. "Careful! That's a Marc Jacobs!"

Like I care, Richie thought as he checked the inside. Nothing hiding in there. He handed it back to Gorcey.

"That's it? You carry that big thing around and that's all that's in it?"

With floppy wrists and raised pinkies, Gorcey started putting the stuff back into his bag. "Sometimes there's more. But even so, I don't like to distort the lines of my clothing with bulging pockets."

"What? Afraid someone'll think you're glad to see them?"

Richie thought that was a good one but Gorcey didn't even smile. Instead he slid one of the envelopes across the desk.

"As promised."

Richie casually picked it up with his left hand. He didn't want to look too eager but he wasn't about to get suckered either. It wasn't sealed. He flipped up the flap with a thumb and glanced inside. He quick-counted a sufficient number of hundreds.

He relaxed. Okay. Louis Gorcey seemed like the real deal. He'd passed up a chance to go for a gun and his envelope contained the right stuff. The only thing that would remove the last suspicion was if he could see the guy's eyes. You can tell a lot from eyes. But he was keeping his shades on.

Richie shoved the envelope into his top drawer and gestured to the chair on the far side of his desk.

"Have a seat, Lou." When they both had their butts settled, he said, "What can I do for you?"

Gorcey pushed his newspaper across the desk. A copy of The Light, opened to page three. He jabbed at a photo of a middle-aged man who looked vaguely familiar—jabbed him right in the eye. Richie noticed that his finger was trembling. He also noticed that Gorcey was wearing nail polish. Clear nail polish, yeah, but still polish. These queers…

"Do you know who that is?" Gorcey said.

Richie did a quick read of the caption and reworded it.

"That's Luther Brady, isn't it? The head of that crazy Dormentalist Church?"

Maybe he shouldn't have called it crazy. This guy could be some sort of Dormentalist holy roller.

"Crazy?" Gorcey's manicured finger shook worse as his voice rose. "I wish that were the only thing wrong with the Dormentalist Church! It's worse than crazy! It's destructive and conniving and vicious and malicious and it's all this man's fault! He's… he's…"

He sputtered to a stop.

"He's what, Lou?"

Gorcey's hands flapped in the air. "He's a monster. He stole a small fortune from me, but worse than that, he stole years from my life. Years! I can always earn more money, I'm good at earning money, but how do I get back those years?"

"I don't know, Lou. You tell me."

Richie had found this to be the best approach with upset clients. Let them talk till they ran out of steam.

Gorcey slumped back in the chair. "It's impossible, of course." His brow furrowed. "But I can get even."

Again Richie wished he could see Gorcey's eyes.

"How do you plan to do that?*'

"With your help, I hope."

This was getting interesting. A faggot like this Louis Gorcey thinking he could get even with an international figure like Luther Brady. Richie had expected a deadly dull hour, but this was kind of fun. Like getting paid for being entertained.

"Why tell me this?"

"Because I want to hire you."

"To do what?"

"Lee told me you're a wizard with a camera."

Richie fought the smile that wanted to bust out on his face. Dobbins said that, huh? Well, why not. Richie did know his way around a camera, and was good at low-light photography. Damn good. Just ask the cows he was milking.

He gave a little laugh and did the modesty thing. "Well, I don't know about the wizard part, but—"

"He told me all about how you caught his partner dead to rights, and I want you to do that for me. I want you to catch Luther Brady in the act."

"In what act?"

Gorcey's shoulders slumped. "I'm not sure. But I know he sneaks off every Sunday night and heads upstate into the hills. He lives at the temple on Lexington Avenue. Every other time he leaves the temple, on every other day of the week, he has a driver. But not on his Sunday night trips."

Richie smiled. "You've had him under surveillance, then."

"Well, yes. I've even followed him a few nights but I've lost him every time."

"Tailing should be left to a professional."

"That's why I've come to you."

"But what makes you think these trips involve anything wrong?"

"Because it's the only time he ventures out alone. That tells me he's up to something he doesn't want anyone to know about."

"Could be," Richie said. "Could also mean he just wants to be alone."

The hands fluttered again. "That's always a possibility, but with a man as ruthless as Luther Brady, I doubt it. And if he's involved in something that will not stand the light of day, I want pictures of it."

… will not stand the light of day… Was this guy for real? No, of course he wasn't. He was a queer.

"All right, Lou. Let's just say he is. And let's just say I do get pictures. What do you intend to do with them?" He shot up a hand in a stop gesture. "Don't tell me anything illegal, like blackmail. I can't be a party to blackmail. It's against the NYAPI code of ethics."

Gorcey blinked. "Ny-ya—?"

"The New York Association of Private Investigators."

Richie had joined NYAPI when he opened his office, paid dues for one year—just long enough to earn a membership certificate to hang on his wall—then tossed all further mailings into the circular file. But claiming to follow a professional organization's code of ethics never failed to impress prospective clients. It assured them that they were dealing with a man of principle.

Gorcey mumbled, "That's good to know…"

"If you're planning to use these photos—assuming there's something worth photographing—to expose this man as a fraud and a charlatan, then that's fine. That's performing a public service. But blackmail? No, count me out."

That was the speech, and convincing as usual. Should be. Richie had given it enough times.