FORTUNATELY, THE EQUIPMENT OPERATING AS flight 1807 to Chicago was an older narrow-body, which meant there were only twelve first-class seats. I stood in the galley, watching the face of every man who boarded, wondering which ones went with the four names Harvey had researched so thoroughly for me.

It had been a tour de force performance on his part last night as he’d orchestrated data from multiple sources, both legal and illegal, to research the backgrounds of all the men booked on the flight in first class. We worked on the assumption that one of them would be my date, so doing all of them was the safest bet. Nine seats had been booked in advance. After eliminating the women and the other half of a Mr. and Mrs. duo, six men were left. We crossed off two of those on the basis of age. One was eighty-two. The other was in high school. Granted, age in itself didn’t eliminate either one, but it was hard to dig up dirt on a kid too young to have any or a man too old to care if he did.

That left the four potentials, all of which Harvey had researched with skill, confidence, and even a bit of cunning at times. It had been fun to watch him do something he liked for a change.

As everyone settled in for the flight, I took my clipboard and went out to meet the candidates. It was an odd-numbered day of the month, which meant snack orders were to be taken from the back forward. That put 5E up first.

Aaron Sayer was twenty-eight years old. In his starched white shirt and suspenders, he looked like a baby titan of industry. He was single, had graduated from Columbia Law School, owned a condo in the Back Bay not far from my place, and was a member of the University Club, where he liked to play squash and swim. If he was my date, I was in trouble. So far, the only threat we could make would be to call and tell the partners at his law firm that he had hired a prostitute. They would probably promote him.

He was doing this thing with his cell phone, flipping it open and shut with one hand as he squinted through the porthole window.

“Good afternoon. I’m Alex, and I’ll be serving you today. Welcome ab-”

“Gin and tonic. Light on the tonic, and toss in a lime. Not a twist. A slice.” He did the whole thing without breaking rhythm on the phone flipping and without looking at me.

“Certainly. Would you care for-”

“Nothing to eat.” At some point, he hit upon the idea of using his cell phone as a communication device. He covered one of the buttons with his thumb and pressed. “Just keep the GTs coming.”

He put the phone to his ear, and I was thinking what an annoying little prick he was, when he turned his head and I saw something curious. The eyelashes at the corner of his left eye were damp and clumped together, the way they get when a teardrop has rolled by. His face was drawn and pale, and he looked like a man, a boy, really, who had lost something important. Girlfriend…best friend…the firm’s biggest client. When I looked more closely, his eyes hinted at a deeper reservoir of feeling than I would have given him credit for. He reminded me of my brother, which gave me a great big reason to hope he wasn’t my guy.

“Is there anything I can get for you? Would you like an aspirin? A glass of water before we take off?”

“No.” He closed the phone quietly and turned toward the window. Whoever he had called had not answered. “No, thank you.”

The second of my mystery men was seated in 4B. His name was Malcolm Bryce, and when I pulled up next to him to take his order, he actually looked up from his paper and acknowledged my presence.

“How are you?” he asked, and I could have sworn by the intense way he looked at me that he really wanted to know.

“I’m good, thank you, and welcome aboard. Would you like a snack after we take off, Mr. Bryce?”

“I’ll pass, but thank you. Are you new on this flight? I haven’t seen you before.”

“It’s my first time working this flight.”

He was in his early to mid-forties. He had a widow’s peak and wore his almost-black hair pushed off his face as if the sheer abundance of it were a nuisance. His eyes were a pale, elusive shade of green set off nicely by the deep jade color of his shirt. He was excitingly handsome and, at least on paper, my top pick for the man who had purchased my services for the evening.

He was a sports agent, which put him in the company of severely wealthy, high-profile athletes who lived the life of the rich, famous, and indulged. It also made him easy to Google. He had his own profile on the Internet. He was good at his job, which made him respected and loathed in equal measure, depending on who was asked. Wealthy in his own right, he was also a super-duper frequent flier. Malcolm Bryce fit the profile of Angel’s clients perfectly, and the longer I looked into those intelligent green eyes, the more I hoped he wasn’t the guy, because all I could think about was how that richly woven shirt lay across his chest and what it might be like to slip a hand underneath. I thought I might be getting some vibes from him, too, but I had to shake it off. I was working.

“How about something to drink after we take off, Mr. Bryce?”

“Call me Malcolm, and I’ll have whatever you recommend in the way of a nice red wine.”

“I’ll check the wine cellar and see what I can come up with.”

His easy grin revealed a row of perfectly charming, slightly imperfect teeth. I checked for a wedding band-none-and reserved the right to come back and hit on him later if he wasn’t the guy.

My interactions with the two men in the bulkhead row, Dr. Dal Pressman in the window seat and Curt Guransky on the aisle, were dull by comparison. They ordered beers to drink and pasta salad to eat and otherwise seemed to have absolutely nothing in common. Dr. Pressman was thin and wispy and typed his computer keys very quickly with smooth, manicured nails. According to Harvey, he was a reasonably prominent business ethics professor at a reasonably prestigious university in town. Harvey had been most impressed by some of his articles. He was also married. If it turned out that he was my date, I looked forward to the philosophical discussion that would ensue.

Mr. Guransky was chubby and abrupt and bored-looking. He was a thirty-eight-year-old divorced chiropractor with his own practice and not much else. The split with his wife had cleaned him out and left him living in a rented apartment in Waltham. So far, Harvey had been frustrated in his search for dirt on this guy. He was easily the least-attractive candidate and the one who got me thinking about what it would be like to do this thing for real.

When I got to the galley to prepare for takeoff, I looked back at my four potentials. I pictured their bodies under their clothes and all the different ways they could feel-soft, bony, hairy, taut, smooth, sweaty, dry, and oily. I looked at their faces and their hands and thought about what it would be like to have one of them touch me in the most intimate way. The idea brought forth so many disruptive images and feelings I barely noticed the two passengers hustling onboard as I closed the door. But when I did my final walk-through, it was impossible not to notice that both of them had settled into first-class seats, one next to the baby titan and the other next to the eighty-two-year-old man.

I went back to the galley, tossed the cups I’d collected in the vicinity of the trash, and missed. This was exactly what I didn’t need, and one of the things Harvey had worried about. Last-minute upgrades. Wild cards about which we knew absolutely nothing.

With the door shut and taxiing under way, I couldn’t call him. I would have to try him on the Airfone once we were at altitude, always a dicey proposition. Half the time, I couldn’t make the damn thing work. I didn’t like this. Nope, I didn’t like it at all, and if Harvey knew about it, he would hate it.