"Martha went wild tonight," said Janet, smiling. "We don't have many guests for dinner. You gave her a chance to show off."

  "Well, she impressed me," said Taine chuckling. Somewhat nervously, he glanced around the room. "This place is incredible. I thought mansions this big only existed in the movies."

  Janet laughed and moved even closer. Taine looked distinctly uncomfortable. With a sudden flash of insight, she realized that the detective was intimidated by her looks and her money. For a change, she was the aggressor in a relationship. Sidney Taine was afraid of her.

  "Tim really likes you," said Janet, trying to put Taine more at ease.

  "And I like him," said Taine, genuine affection in his voice. "A lot of parents want their kids to grow up too fast. They don't give their children a chance to enjoy their childhood. I see the results of that all the time. Unhappy kids turn into unhappy adults. Those are the people who keep me working. It's pretty depressing stuff. It's nice to meet someone who really loves her son."

  "You're incredible," said Janet, shaking her head in disbelief. Taine's eyes widened as she playfully rubbed his lapel with her thumb. "How is it that a sensitive, intelligent man like you is still single?"

  "Lots of reasons," said Taine, his voice shaking just a little. "I'm a loner, always working on my own. Nor do you meet very many unattached women working as a detective. The ones I encounter usually leave me cold. You're the exception," he added, his voice sinking almost to a whisper.

  "Besides, this job keeps me pretty busy. And I've been told that I talk too much."

  "Definitely," murmured Janet, her face very close to his. She expected to be kissed. She wasn't disappointed.

  Fifteen minutes later, Taine gently unwrapped her arms from around his neck. "Much as I want to stay, I've got to leave."

  "Can't it wait?" asked Janet, trying to sound seductive.

  "Don't tempt me," said Taine, shaking his head. "I've got to see a man tonight about the case I'm involved with. What he knows might save my client's life." He hesitated for a moment then continued. "It might save Tim's."

  That last remark put an end to her protests. Straightening her clothes, she walked the detective to the front door.

  "When will I see you again?" she asked.

  "How about tomorrow evening? Let me take you out for dinner." He grinned. "Even a great mom needs a break from her son once in a while."

  "Sounds terrific to me. Call me."

  One last kiss and he was gone. Janet stood in the doorway watching his car until it was out of sight.

  Sighing deeply, she closed the door. Her body still trembled with desire. The depth of that passion worried her. For all of Taine's fine words, she really knew nothing about him. The detective needed to answer some important questions before she trusted him completely. Until then, she vowed to keep a tighter grip on her emotions.

  22

  Taine stifled a groan when he walked into Gibbons Lounge an hour later. He had spent nearly twenty minutes driving around the neighborhood looking for a parking space. The eight-block walk in the steady drizzle had not improved his temper. Now he found himself in a loud-volume, low-mentality, singles' bar. These places drove him crazy after a few minutes.

  Scanning the room, he caught a glimpse of Jack Korshak on the far side of the bar frantically waving his hands in the air. With a constant string of "Excuse me's" and "Pardon me's" Taine forced his way through the crowd.

  Korshak waited at a table the size of a postage stamp. "Grab a chair from somewhere," he shouted over the roar of conversation. "You want a beer?"

  Taine nodded. Checking the area, he spotted an empty chair at a table a few feet away. Struggling against traffic, he pushed his way over and grabbed it. Shaking his head in annoyance, Taine forced his way back through the crowd, dragging the chair after him.

  "I hate singles' bars, Jack," said Taine, sitting down. He bent his head close to his friend to be heard. "The people are all loud, rude and obnoxious. Plus the noise gives me a headache."

  "What better place to discuss secrets?" asked Korshak. "Nobody can eavesdrop on us here. These lounges confound the experts. Even directional mikes strike out because of the background noise. And," the reporter added, eying an attractive brunette in a black leather miniskirt, walking past their table, "the sights make up for any lack of atmosphere."

  "You're nuts," said Taine, slowly shaking his head. "What did you learn about Harmon?"

  "It's not what I learned that scared me," said Korshak. He bent close to Taine, keeping his voice so low that only the detective could hear him. "It's what I found out about all the investigations concerning our dear friend."

  "Quashed?" said Taine.

  "Killed better describes the situation," said the reporter. "I dug back eleven years. All I turned up were zeros—each one standing for a dead reporter. Nine good men died in a little more than ten years. The only thing linking them together was an interest in Harmon Sangmeister.

  "Can you blame me for acting paranoid?" continued Korshak, taking a swallow of beer. "This guy plays rough."

  "No chance of coincidence?" asked Taine.

  "Not unless you believe in the tooth fairy," said Korshak. "The reason no one ever noticed the pattern is that most of these men died from natural causes. One got hit by a car, but the police actually caught the driver soon after. He was the typical drunk, out on a suspended license. No hint of conspiracy in that death or any of the others."

  The reporter looked around the bar suspiciously. "Care to explain how this mysterious millionaire murders people by lung cancer, pneumonia or heart attacks? It can't be true, but the facts speak for themselves."

  "Stick to the financial section," said Taine, "and leave the police blotter to the professionals. With enough money, you can set up just about anyone for a one-way trip to the morgue."

  Smiling, Taine pointed at Korshak's drink. "For example, suppose one of Sangmeister's goons followed you to the bar. A slick operator, he manages to slip some knockout drops in your beer. The expensive stuff is odorless, tasteless and doesn't show up in an autopsy unless you look for it. When you collapse in agony, he rushes over and proclaims himself a doctor. After a quick examination, he proclaims you've just suffered a stroke and summons an ambulance.

  "No one ever notices how quickly it arrives. By the time you arrive at the hospital, your brain is mashed potatoes. Slick and quick and, as you so aptly stated, no hint of conspiracy."

  "How wonderful," said Korshak. He gently pushed his drink to the middle of the table. "From now on, I only drink beer from bottles. Still, things could be worse. I could be Sangmeister."

  "What do you mean?" said Taine.

  "Nobody on the street has seen the gentleman in question for months," answered the reporter. "The old man always worked through proxies, but lately he's been nearly invisible. During the Commodities Exchange probe, the FBI sent a special agent out to his country estate to interview him. They only do that in very special circumstances."

  "What are you leading up to, Jack?"

  "I called in a bunch of favors today, Taine. It cost me, but I got to see the report from the field agent who interviewed Harmon. According to the G-man, Sangmeister looked like he had one foot in the grave. The old man played around with the wrong doxie once upon a time. He's dying—dying from AIDS."

  "You sure?" asked Taine.

  "The agent quoted a doctor's records no less. All of Sangmeister's millions can't buy him a second more of life. The report gave him two months or less. That was five weeks ago. Let me tell you, this will be one obituary I'll enjoy typing."

  "Don't start working yet," said Taine, testily. "Remember what I told you about the corrupting power of money. Even government agents can be bought or fooled. I'll believe Sangmeister dead when I see him buried."

  "Not to change the subject," said Korshak, looking down at the table and lowering his voice to a whisper, "but are you involved with some sort of feud with a black street gang?"

  "No," said Taine, with a frown. "Why do you ask?"

  "Sneak a peek at the two dudes in the doorway," said Korshak, with a slight nod of his head in the general direction of the entrance. "They've been giving you the eye for the past few minutes."

  "Don't worry about me having any trouble spotting them," said Taine. "Here they come now. I believe I know what they want."

  Two black men, both in their early twenties, clad in blue jeans and muscle T's, walked over to the table. Around them, the crowd melted away as if by magic.

  "You Taine?" asked one of the pair, politely.

  "That's me," he answered, his voice equally polite.

  "We got a car outside," said the other. "The Bocar wants to talk to you. He wants to talk to you real bad."

  Taine rose from his chair. "And I want to talk to him."

  He dropped a twenty on the table. "The beer's on me tonight, Jack. Make sure they only bring you ones with the caps still on tight. Thanks for all the neat info. It helps."

  "Right," said Korshak. "Stay cool, Taine."

  "Don't you worry 'bout your friend," said the taller of the two black men. He laughed at the strained expression on Korshak's face. "We just be his escort. Bocar would have our balls if we let him get hurt."

  Then, to his companion and Taine, "C'mon. They don't like our kind in here. Time to move."

  With a shrug of his shoulders, Taine headed for the door, his escort bringing up the rear.

  23

  Ape Largo picked up the phone on the first ring.

  "Yeah?" He waited a few seconds for an answer, then growled, "Well, bring him right up as soon as they arrive."

  He turned to his boss and grinned. "That was Jo-Jo downstairs. Two of the boys found Taine at a bar on the North Side. They're on their way back now."

  Royce licked his lips for the hundredth time that night. Ape knew what that meant. "I need a drink," said the Bocar of Danballah. "Get me that fifth of gin."

  "You had enough, boss," said Ape, unhappily reaching for the bottle. Royce stopped using a glass hours ago. The gin bottle was nearly empty but the Bocar was still stone cold sober. He sweated out the liquor as fast as he poured it in.

  "Keep your advice to yourself, you dumb shit," said Royce angrily. "Give me that damned bottle."

  Silently, Ape handed over the fifth. With a snarl of satisfaction, the Bocar tilted the bottle up in the air and swigged down the rest of its contents. Staggering back a step, Royce flung the empty decanter across the room.

  "Damn stuff tastes like piss."

  Ape refrained from asking Royce how he arrived at the comparison. No use making a bad situation worse. Maybe when that detective arrived, things would improve. They couldn't get much worse.

  The murders this afternoon had sent the Bocar into hysterics. He had personally recruited the six old women who laundered drug money for the Children. Only a few members of his inner circle knew of their existence. Now all six were dead, victims of the Dark Man. There was no mistaking the killer's grisly work.

  The third floor of the main Temple, where Royce normally lived in luxury, resembled an armed camp. A half-dozen heavily armed men patrolled the corridor outside the main suite. Inside, Ape, Morris and his brother, Boris, all carried sawed-off shotguns tucked in their belts. At the moment, the two big men were in the other bedroom playing cards. Ape was stuck baby-sitting Royce.

  Muttering something incomprehensible under his breath, the Bocar wandered over to the TV. Ape breathed a sigh of relief as his boss dropped onto the couch and turned the set back on. Royce was hooked on soap operas. He owned several VCRs and faithfully recorded every daytime serial on the air. When the phone rang, he had been only halfway through today's episodes. Hopefully, the detective would arrive before the end of the tape.

  Ape tracked down the empty gin bottle and tossed it in the garbage. Along with protecting Royce, he reluctantly served as chief adviser, confidant and personal manservant. That last job drove him crazy.

  Lately, he found himself exercising his self-control depressingly often. It hadn't always been that way. When he first started working for Royce, the man had treated him like a valuable aide and ally. The Bocar recognized those heavy brows concealed a brilliant mind. He understood that beneath incredible slabs of muscle beat a man's heart.

  More than anything else. Ape yearned for the respect his brutish body denied him. He wanted to be treated as a person, not a freak of nature. Only recently had he finally realized that he would never achieve his goal while working for Royce. It was time for him to move on.

  A sharp rapping at the door shook him out of his reverie. As if shot from a cannon, the Bennett brothers came barreling out of the other room. They might be dumb, but they didn't lack for courage. Carefully, Ape counted the knocks. Five sounded by the time Morris reached the door and flung it open. Three shotguns pointed into the hall.

  "Hey, shove the burner." It was Jo-Jo from downstairs. Behind him stood a powerfully built Caucasian that Ape knew must be Sidney Taine. "You'll scare our guest."

  Jo-Jo waved the detective into the room. "Make yourself at home, bro'," he said, laughing.

  "You boys seems a bit edgy," said Taine, stepping forward. "Expecting a little trouble?"

  "Excuse our weapons, Mr. Taine," said Willis Royce, coming across the room, offering an outstretched hand in greeting. "But as you know, we live under siege."

  Ape marveled as always at the Bocar's ability to pull himself together whenever necessary. Royce had an incredible tolerance to alcohol. He drank like a fish, yet never seemed to get drunk. It was an uncanny talent and one that frightened Ape. There were secrets Royce kept even from him.

  "Have a seat," said the Bocar, gesturing to a card table and chairs. "Can I offer you something to drink?"

  "A beer would be fine," said Taine. "A light if you've got it."

  Morris headed off for the kitchen. Royce and Taine sat down at the table, facing each other. Ape stayed in the background. No reason to call attention to himself. He wanted to hear this conversation.

  With a certain grim satisfaction, Ape noted that Royce appeared uncertain about the man he faced. Taine represented an unknown element in this gruesome battle with the Dark Man. Usually Royce tried to overwhelm anyone he met. Taine didn't look like the type who bullied easily.

  "You sent me a card today," said Royce, watching the detective sip his beer. "On the back was scribbled 'The five symbols represent four words.' Needless to say, the message caught my attention. I instructed the Children of Danballah to bring you here. My apologies if it caused you any inconvenience."

  "No problem," said Taine, putting down his beer. "You want information. I have it. The only thing we need to settle is the price."

  Royce made a face. Ape smiled, remembering a similar deal from earlier in the day.

  "How much?"

  "I don't want money," said Taine, leaning across the table, his gaze fixed on Royce. "I'll trade information for information. You talk. I talk. We both come out ahead."

  "Not the way I see it," said Royce. "The Dark Man ain't after your butt. Why should I trust you?"

  Ape sensed that his boss did not like the terms one bit. However, he had little choice in the matter. And Taine knew it as well.

  "Take it or leave it," said the detective quietly.

  "All right, all right," said Royce, his voice hollow with fear. "You first, though."

  "Fine with me," said Taine. "Once you provide me with the details of these murders."

  "Ape," said Royce, not even turning, "get our guest another beer. Morris, Boris; you two keep a close watch on the doors."

  "Tell me about this Dark Man," said Taine, as Ape headed for the kitchen. "I want to hear everything you know about him."

  24

  Carefully, Felice counted the soggy currency in her purse. Deducting the money needed to cover her few bills, she still came up five bucks short. Cursing, she shoved the purse back beneath the front seat of her car. On a night like this, it might take hours to make that necessary five spot.

  For a second, she considered driving back to her apartment and forgetting the crack party at Annie's tonight. A thin, cold drizzle soaked the streets. The dreary weather kept most people off the street. And it cut down her chances of finding a stud looking for some quick action to almost nothing.

  With a shrug of disgust, Felice pulled out the last fry daddy from her blouse pocket. She rolled the cigarette herself, liberally lacing the tobacco with powdered crack. The rush it provided hardly matched the incredible jolt provided by the pure stuff. Still, smoking a daddy kept her jiving when life looked especially bleak.

  Inhaling deeply, she pulled the smoke deep into her lungs. The familiar surge of pleasure hit her hard between the eyes. A tingle of excitement coursed through her body, arousing her senses. Her nipples swelled into hard points, while deep down between her legs, a raging fire flared. Even the smallest amount of crack set her off. She needed a man real bad. Especially one willing to pay five bucks for her uncontrollable lust.

  Before leaving her car, Felice gently extinguished the fry daddy with her fingers. The unsmoked half went into a half-finished pack of gum in her glove compartment. The location and smell kept it safe from prying eyes. Using a roach clip, she always smoked the cigarette down to the bare paper. Nobody wasted good crack.

  Getting out, she locked the car then hid the keys in a hollow space behind the rear license plate. She never carried her car keys when she walked the street. Some things were better kept secret from the cops and her Johns. A smart hooker trusted no one.

  Stretching, she smoothed down the tight black leather miniskirt that barely covered her thighs. A thin red wind-breaker shielded her head and upper body from the rain. Beneath it, she wore a bright green tube top that hugged her large breasts like a second skin.

  Only her shoes were practical. Felice wore sneakers instead of the usual six-inch spike heels favored by most whores in the city. Cops rarely bothered chasing hookers during a sweep. Good shoes meant the difference between a night in jail or safety at home. Selling her body since she was nineteen, Felice knew all the angles.