“I asked Roger if he'd found anything good. He told me, ‘Nothing.’ Then he asked me what I'd been up to. I said, ‘Nothing.’ There was an uncomfortable moment between us. I knew he sensed something, so I tried changing the topic. I told him I wanted to go downstairs for a drink, maybe buy a couple of magazines. He told me no. I said, ‘What do you mean, no?’ And he repeated himself. ‘You're not going anywhere.’ So, like any sensible woman, I told him he could fuck off and I started to walk past him. He punched me in the face."

That seemed to impact Paul and Richard as well. As much as men didn't like to be told stories about women being raped, they sure as hell didn't like to hear about men slapping women around. It was an indictment of the whole gender. By mere virtue of having a penis, we belonged to the guilty party.

“I was stunned. Before I could scream out or cry for help, he hit me again, slapping me hard across the face. I could hardly breathe. The next memory I have is of Roger pinning me to the bed, his thick monkey fingers wrapped around my throat, threatening to kill me if I ever walked out on him again."

Then the eruption of tears began. “I don't know what you must think of me,” she said. “Oh wait. I know. You must be thinking, ‘What kind of girl would get herself involved with the same kind of trash, over and over…?’”

Richard went to her and started to rub her back. “Believe me, Susannah,” he cooed. “I don't think any of those things. I've heard far worse stories in my time."

“None like this.” Susannah buried her face in her hands. “I'm sorry…"

“Sorry? God, why are you sorry?"

“For me. For my past."

Richard put down his drink and rested his hands on her shoulders.

Paul cleared his throat. “Go back for a moment. What happened after he hit you?"

“He took a shower.” Susannah sipped her drink. “Right then, as if nothing had happened. I couldn't take that abuse anymore, boyfriend or not."

“Then what did you do?"

Susannah paused. “I decided to run."

“Go on, baby,” Richard said.

“I… I rushed out with all my things, but stopped at pile of his clothes, the ones he'd taken off before his shower. And I know I shouldn't have, but I…"

“But you…?” Paul prompted.

Susannah's eyes turned his way. “I took a pack of hotel matches and set his clothes on fire. He was always bragging about his stuff. He treated his goddamned shirts better than he treated me."

Richard looked at her hard. “Which is how the room caught fire, right?"

“The room caught fire?” Paul asked.

“Yes,” Richard said. “That much, she'd told me. He died in a fire."

“God as my witness, I didn't know! I didn't know!” she cried. “When I saw on the news later about the fire…” Susannah took another sip and stared off as if she was watching the broadcast again. “I knew he was dead."

“So the guy who sent you the note can't be your ex, can he?” Richard asked.

“He can't be… but what if he is? Oh, God, Richard, this man is a murderer! He didn't tell me he killed anyone until after we got to Europe! He said it was going to be our honeymoon!"

“Note?” Paul asked.

I wondered if this was how super-lawyer Richard Gard introduced exhibits in the courtroom. I knew who I wouldn't be calling when it came time to bring down the Association in federal court.

Richard walked over to his briefcase and removed a thin sheet of paper from a manila folder. He handed it to Paul. It was incredibly flimsy and glossy-a photocopy.

“This is not very specific,” Paul said. “Sure it's not a prank?"

“No,” said Richard. “We're not. But I'm not ready to take any chances."

“Who's ‘L'?” Paul asked.

“Me,” said Susannah.

“Oh. It's Susannah with an L?"

She scowled. “No. It's a stupid nickname he gave me-Lemondrop. My sweet and sour Lemondrop, he'd always say.” She looked away, covering her face with a tiny balled-up fist.

Richard walked over and sat down to hug her. “Don't worry. Shhh. I'll take care of everything."

“He's going to kill me, Richard."

“No one's going to kill you."

Susannah broke the hug. “You don't know. You don't."

“Shhh. Nothing's going to happen to you."

Susannah resumed the hug, and behind his back, with tears running down her face, smiled. “You're too good to me, Richard."

I couldn't glom a vibe from Paul. He was trying too hard to be his noncommittal, professional self. But I did catch a glimmer of a thought: I can't believe I'm watching this. Or it might have been: I can't believe I'm involved in this. Or, quite possibly: I can't believe a word of this.

“She's lying, you know."

I spun around. The Ghost of Fieldman had been standing in the Brain Hotel lobby, watching the scene with me. He had a Houdini-like knack for sudden appearances. I should have told him to go back to Vegas to start his own show.

“Which part?” I asked. “The rich inventor father? The Greenwich Village artist-rapist? The international hit man?"

“No man named “Winston” ever invented anything for any branch of United States military during the 20th century."

“Maybe the government can keep a few secrets. Even from you."

“Not likely. You want to know what is in the tap water in 1976? What the Air Force really found in Roswell, New Mexico? Why the United States Government invented static cling?"

“Stop,” I said. “Please. I'm only keeping an eye on Paul to make sure he knows what he's doing, then I'm going back to work."

“Ah, your quest for the Nevada crime syndicate. The entity you refer to as ‘The Association.’”

“That's right. Aren't you supposed to be helping me with my quest, Buddha man? Isn't that what you told me back in Henderson?"

“Yes, I did say I was here to help, but not with that particular quest. You are wasting your days with that, Collective. The musical genre known as disco will outlive your ‘Association.’”

“Disco is all over the radio, in case you haven't noticed."

“I am absolutely amazed at how little you absorb, Collective. I'm not sure how your delicate sensibilities are going to survive the Sex Pistols."

I'd had enough. “Stuff it, Fieldman. And stop calling me ‘Collective.’ You make me feel like an accountant."

The Ghost of Fieldman shook his head and faded away.

I rejoined the conversation already in progress. Richard was back from refilling drinks. “Sweetheart, why don't you fill in the gaps-you know, some physical description?"

Paul smiled. “Anything helps."

Susannah caught herself staring at Paul, but recovered nicely. She started to plow through the information as if she were up all night practicing. “Roger is a short guy with a Napoleon complex. Last time I saw him-this was five years ago, now-he had short-cropped hair. Very Italian-looking. I used to go for that sort of thing when I was young."

“Distinguishing features?"

“He had these deep-set eyes. Almost looked like they were black. A wide smile… and an awful limp."

“A genetic marvel,” said Richard, chuckling.

“He was once shot in the knee cap."

Paul asked, “Anything else?"

“He's very nondescript. People used to say he looked like somebody they knew."

Paul studied Susannah, who narrowed her eyes.

“So what can I expect from you, Mr. Paul After?"

“I find your man and have a nice chat with him. Maybe we'll compare dossiers or talk about firearms."

“And what if he doesn't want to have a nice chat?"