“SO YOU’RE NOT AN ACCOUNTANT,” I said when Trixie sat down across from me at the kitchen table. She had slipped on a robe, but every time she shifted in her chair, or leaned forward to get some cream for her coffee, or got up to put something in the fridge, I could hear the erotic creak of leather, the swish of nylon rubbing up against nylon.

“Yes, I’m an accountant,” Trixie, slightly indignant, said. “I’ve got my degree and everything, worked for one of the big firms downtown. I was very good at it, still am. I can still do your taxes if you want. But I’m making a lot more now than then, and ever since Enron and Andersen and all that, I think I moved into a profession with more respect and dignity.” She blew on her coffee and took a sip, leaving lipstick marks on the edge of the cup.

“I’m really sorry,” I said. “About barging in.”

“Whatever. It’s just as well you showed up when you did.”

As it turned out, she’d done up the chest strap on her client a little too tightly, and had asked me to come down to the basement to help her undo it.

It was not your typical rec room. The walls were painted black, and the red bulbs screwed into the sockets cast a sensuous, eerie glow. One wall was covered in pegboard, with hooks, the kind of thing you see in a well-organized workshop for hanging tools of every description. But these hooks were draped with ropes and straps and handcuffs and bungee-cord-type thingies with bright chrome buckles that looked like they would do a terrific job of strapping your luggage to a roof rack if you were taking a long vacation with the kids. But that, clearly, was not their intended use, as evidenced by George, the man strapped to a huge X made of timbers that was leaned up against the back wall. George, pasty, overweight, and extraordinarily white, was wearing nothing more than a black leather jockstrap arrangement, and a red ball in his mouth held in place with straps that went around the back of his head.

A broad leather strap around his chest helped secure him to the crossed timbers, and when Trixie had tried to release him, she couldn’t pull far enough back on the buckle. That was when she called me down.

“Zack, this is George,” Trixie said. “George, Zack.” George, still gagged, nodded. “George, I did this thing a bit too tight, but let’s not forget who asked for it that way. Now, I don’t quite have the strength to pull this back, and I could cut it, but I hate to do that, so I’m going to get Zack here to help me out.”

I obliged, pulling the belt back far enough that it was cutting pretty deeply into his flabby bosoms. “There,” I said.

Trixie went about untying his wrists and ankles, and removed the ball. “I’m really sorry about this, George. I know it’s very unprofessional, sending you on your way early, but something’s come up.”

“That’s okay,” George said meekly. “Nice to meet you,” he said, extending his hand to me. We shook.

George slipped into a downstairs bathroom, where he changed back into his regular clothes. Through the door, Trixie said to him, “No charge tonight, George.”

“Are you sure?” he said from behind the door. “I still got half a session, so I’m not complaining.”

“No, it wouldn’t be right. I tell you what, we can just let this one go, or you can pay me, and next time it’s on the house. I’ll even do the thing with the cream cheese, no extra charge.”

That sounded fair to George, who, once he’d emerged from the bathroom in a pair of dress pants, a crisp white shirt without a tie, and a sports jacket, discreetly slipped Trixie a wad of bills.

“Have you been coming to Trixie long?” George asked me as we went up the stairs together.

“Uh, no,” I said.

“Well, you won’t be disappointed. She’s the best. I can’t recommend her too highly.”

“Really.”

Trixie saw him off at the door. “Say hi to Mildred for me,” she said, giving George a peck on the cheek and sending him on his way. I watched through the glass as he got in his car and backed out of the driveway.

“Mildred?” I asked.

“His wife. She’s not really into this. It’s been a real load-off for her ever since she started sending George to me.”

“She sends him?”

“She saw my ad. First time she sent him, it was for his birthday. Now it’s a semi-regular thing, every month or so. Some people are very open-minded.” She grabbed a silk robe hanging on a hook just inside the door to the basement, slipped it on, and went into the kitchen. “Did you get yourself some coffee?”

“I was about to, and you called me downstairs to help free George.”

“That was so embarrassing. I could have cut him out of it, but that strap alone was three hundred bucks.” She shook her head. “Now, what’s got you so wound up you’re busting in here in the middle of the night?” She smiled. “Did you see my ad, too?”

“No, I didn’t,” I said. “I’m in a bit of a mess, Trixie.”

“Grab a chair.”

It was after that that I asked whether she was really an accountant, and offered my apologies about busting in.

“What is it?” Trixie asked. “Another backpack incident?”

“Worse, although it started out in a similar way. But things have sort of spiraled out of control. There are men, at least one, trying to find me and, I think it’s fair to say, kill me.”

Trixie’s eyebrows shot up a notch. “Why would there be men trying to kill you?”

“Well, for one thing, this.” I slid the ledger book across the table at her.

“What’s this?” she asked.

“Well, you’re the accountant. Maybe you can tell me.”

She opened the book. Her nails were long and bloodred, and I found that I felt just a bit feverish. Where her robe opened I could see the swell of her breasts, pushed up and out, courtesy of the spectacularly engineered corset.

“Let’s have a look. List of payments, money coming in, some names here. Wow, I think I recognize this guy. He’s a building inspector, comes here sometimes, likes to play doctor.”

“Okay.”

“So he’s getting paid five hundred every, it looks like, every week or so. And here’s another name I recognize. Carpington?”

“Roger. He’s a client, too?”

“No, I just recognize the name. From the paper.”

“He’s a town councilman. How much is he getting?”

“Well, right here he’s getting five thou.” She thumbed the pages. “His name pops up a lot, but it’s just one of dozens. Zack, where did you get this?”

“It’s a long story.”

“I’ve got time,” she said, leaning back in her chair and crossing her booted legs.

“Sarah and I were shopping,” I said, and went through the whole thing. Taking the wrong purse, trying to return it, finding Stefanie Knight’s body, getting tracked down by Rick, the meeting with Carpington, the episode at the construction site. Trixie said barely a word, taking it all in, nodding slowly.

I finished with finding the ledger in Stefanie’s car, and Rick’s destruction of mine out front of McDonald’s.

“You’re in some kind of deep shit,” Trixie said, running her tongue across her top teeth.

“Yes,” I said. “That’s a fairly good assessment of the situation. Thank you.”

“Listen, don’t get snippy with me. Did I tell you to take Sarah’s purse to teach her a lesson?”

“No. Did I mention that, in addition to everything else that’s happened tonight, she thinks I’m impotent?”

“No, I think you left that part out. Are you? I could check.”

“She wanted to, you know, spend some time with me tonight, before she went to work, but it’s a bit hard to concentrate when you think the police might be looking for you and charging you with murder. I think maybe it’s time to go to the police.”

Trixie thought about that. “How did you get here, if your car’s blown up?”

“Stefanie’s car. Her Beetle. I parked it one block over.”

“So you not only stole her purse, but now you have her car? That’ll look good to the police. You’re not wearing her underwear, too, are you?”