“Am I a prostitute?”

“No,” he asked. “Are you a blackmailer? Is that why you want to see Mr. Margolies?”

“No. I’m not a blackmailer, and I’m not a prostitute. I’m looking for Monica because I need to find people she’s working with. I’m trying to break up the prostitution ring.”

“Tell me what you need.”

“Can you get me the e-mails that delivered Monica’s video to your client?”

“I have them. He sent them all to me.”

“Good. Here’s what I’d like for you to do.”

I called Harvey on my way up to New Hampshire. He had left four messages for me. There was only so long I could avoid him, and, given our new spirit of sharing and cooperation, I had to brief him on my night in the North End. He took it remarkably well.

“This man,” he asked, “this Bosnian, he helped you?”

“I told you he wasn’t after me. He’s looking for Monica, one of many people looking for Monica. He’s going to help me find her.”

“Who were the other two men?”

“No idea. My best guess would be that they worked for some other client of hers that she’s trying to extort.”

“My word. Where are you off to now?”

“I’m going up to New Hampshire to meet Angel. She has a cabin up there.”

“You are aware, are you not, that we are almost out of time. This will no doubt be your last chance to see her before the review.”

“I know. I’m going to really push to meet her programmer. If I can’t get her to agree, I’ve got something working with Felix. Beyond that, I’m out of ideas.”

“Be careful,” he said. “Please keep me posted. Let me know you are safe.”

“I will.”

“And thank you for telling me about last night.”

“Sure. Thanks for not yelling at me.” I hung up.

He hadn’t said a word about her, so how come all I could think about was Robin Sevitch?

ANGEL FLIPPED HER HAIR OFF HER SHOULDER. Her long blond mane looked particularly untamed today, as if she’d swept her fingers through it when she got up and let it fall where it wanted. It added to her relaxed appearance, which came, no doubt, from her stay in “the country,” as she called it.

The two of us had settled in the den of her cabin, yet another of her many properties. It was lovely, exactly what you would expect in the woods of New England. It had a deep front porch with split log railing and a pitched roof with a stone chimney. The sound of a running stream came from the back of the property, but otherwise there was a blessed absence of sirens and car alarms and garbage trucks and grocery carts filled with aluminum cans rattling down alleys. It was peaceful. The air smelled clean. It was like being in a sacred place, which made our discussion feel all the more inappropriate.

“I need a what, doll?”

“A frequent fucker program,” I said. “That’s the answer.”

“What was the question?”

“How do you make both your women and your clients want to stay with you? You build a loyalty program and lock them in.”

Her first reaction was a tweak around the corners of the mouth that could have been the beginning of a smile, but then she sank back into the couch’s downy cushions and continued to file her nails. “That won’t work.”

I was only a fake consultant and she was only a fake client, and a criminal at that, but I had enough pride of ownership to want her to appreciate the subtlety and the creativity of the idea, and the absolutely pitch-perfect solution it represented.

“Why not?”

“Because I would have to give away free pussy and I don’t want to do that. Especially since I don’t have to.”

I scooted out a little farther on my end of the L-shaped couch. The inside of the cabin had the same rough-hewn quality as the outside only softened in a very un-Angel-like way with lots of pillows and cushions and quilts. The couch was so soft I had a hard time sitting comfortably. If I wasn’t careful, I would sink down and disappear into its cushy folds.

“You’re looking only at the cost. Let’s talk about the benefits first.”

“I’m all ears.”

“A good, well-designed loyalty program would keep your current clients in the fold, it would be powerful enough to pull back the ones who have left, it would give your providers a reason to stay, and the best part is…” I paused for dramatic effect. “You can do it, and the women in LA can’t.”

A slightly different tilt of her head signaled a subtle shift in the way she was listening. I had her attention.

“How would it work?”

“Just like the airline programs. It will have different tiers, or status levels, which clients qualify for based on the number of points they have. They earn points by buying services.”

“My services. Dates.”

“Right. The more they buy, the more points they earn. The more points they earn, the more hooked in they are to the provider of those services-you. You know how people are about their frequent flier miles. They’re insane.”

“Which brings us to the awards, right? The free dates?”

“You can’t think about them as being free. These guys will probably increase their activity to earn more points. More dates mean more revenue for you and your women. You also charge an annual subscription fee, right?”

“I do.”

“Every time a member qualifies for a higher tier, you raise his subscription fee. That will make it seem more valuable to him. You can name the tiers to reflect the status. Bronze, silver, and gold, or-”

“Emerald, ruby, and diamond. I like that better. It’s not so common.”

I made a note, although it was hard to see. When it had gotten dark outside, Angel had lit the fire in the fireplace with a flip of a wall switch. It was apparently a gas unit, now our only illumination. “The idea is to hook your customers and to dangle some free stuff out there to encourage them to spend more. It also gives you a way to reward the women who are the top earners.”

“How does it do that?”

“Right now you have a pool of beginners, women just starting out. You stop referring to them as the pool and start calling them emeralds. The other-”

“I could even give the gals a little something, a kind of emerald pin or ring or doodad showing that they’re one of mine. ‘Emerald class.’ I like the sound of that.”

I had her. She had put her fingermail file down, she was sitting up straight, and she was starting to think of the idea as her own, which meant it would work, at least for what I needed. “A little recognition never hurts. You use the emeralds just as you use your pool now-to service your lowest-tier clients. But once the woman develops enough of a list, she’s earned her right to move to the next level. What did you call them?”

“Rubies.”

“So, then she services your ruby-level clients, who have earned the right to be more selective because they’ve earned the points. They pay a higher subscription fee. At the same time, you raise the per-session fees so the women can make more money, too. That gives them incentive to climb the ladder and a reason to stay with you.”

“What does a diamond get?”

“Whatever you want to give him. You make this the ultra-elite tier and make it really hard to attain. They’ll love that. Once they get there, though, you have to give them something good. Maybe you put only your most expensive, experienced, and in-demand women in there. People like you.”

“I’m a double black diamond, doll baby. There is no one else in my tier.” In spite of herself, a note of edgy excitement had worked its way into her tone. “What’s to keep the LA bitches from copying it like they do everything else?”

“You have something they don’t have. You have history.”

She nodded, which meant it was true, which meant I was one step closer to Web Boy.

“So what? That’s all in the past.”

“If you have records of all your clients’ activity to date, you can award points and status retroactively based on prior transactions. You’ll lock in the current customers, and you might get back some who have left you. Throw out a limited-time offer. Tell them they can come back within the month and get credit for all their prior activity.”