"How can he be a friend of Donald's?" Simms asked. "Rothstem's a Jew."

A tall, bald man walked through the door and looked around.

"That's him," Simms said.

Clayton's face broke into a huge smile as he strode forward. "Mr. Rothstem. I'm Wendall Clayton," he called. "Come join us, my friend."

At the corner of Madison Avenue and Forty-fourth Street Taylor and Ralph Dudley paused and shook hands.

He inclined his head toward her in a Victorian way she found quaint and said, "Which train're you taking?"

"I'll walk."

"I'll cab it, I suppose. Good luck to you. Let me know how you fare with Yale." He turned and walked away.

Taylor had thought she'd have to do a private-eye number. Hey, follow that cab, there's a fiver in it for you. But no. Dudley didn't flag down a taxi at all. He was on foot, going to meet the mysterious WS, whom he had visited the night the note was stolen.

When he was a half block away, Taylor followed. They moved west through the eerie illumination of a city at night – the glossy wetness of the streets and storefront windows lit for security. Still plenty of traffic, some theaters letting out now, people leaving restaurants en route to clubs and bars. Taylor felt infused with the luminous energy of New York, she found that she'd sped up to keep pace with it and had nearly overtaken Dudley. She slowed and let him regain a long lead.

Out of the brilliant, cold, fake daylight of Times Square. Only now did Taylor feel the first lump of fear as she crossed an invisible barrier, into pimp city. The public relations firms hired by New York developers called this area Clinton, almost everyone else knew it by its historical name – the more picturesque Hell's Kitchen.

Taylor continued her pursuit even when Dudley hit Twelfth Avenue, near the river, and turned south, where the streetlights grew sparser and the neighborhoods were deserted, abandoned even by the hookers.

Then Dudley stopped so suddenly, catching Taylor in mid-thought, that she had to jump into a doorway to avoid being seen.

The concrete reeked of sour urine. Hugging the shadows, she felt nauseous. When she looked again Dudley was gone. Taylor waited for five minutes, breathing shallow gasps of cold air, listening to the sticky rush of traffic on the West Side Highway. Then she walked toward the spot where Dudley had disappeared the doorway of a small two-story building. There were no lights radiating from the windows, she saw they were painted over. An old sign, faded, read, West Side Art and Photography Club.

WS on his calendar. So, a place, not a person.

He'd come here on Saturday night and then – possibly – gone to the firm around the time the note had disappeared.

But was there a connection?

Or was this just his hobby? Taking pictures or attending lectures on Ansel Adams and Picasso?

She cocked her head and listened. She thought she heard something. Wait, wait. Taylor tried to block out the rush of the cars and trucks and believed she heard music, something syrupy, full of strings, like Mantovani. Standing in the doorway, her feet stinging from the unaccustomed exercise in very unsensible Joan and David heels, she leaned against the stone and watched a cluster of intrepid rats browse through a garbage pile across the street.

He goes in, she figured, he's got to come out.

Forty minutes later he did.

The door swung wide. Taylor caught an image of pink and lavender. Soft music and softer light spilled out into the street. A radio cab – owned by the company that the firm used – pulled up. Dudley vanished immediately into the car, which sped away.

The question was, what would Mitchell do?

No, that wasn't the question at all. She knew what he would do. The question really was, did she have the guts to do the same thing?

The grapevine says you've got balls.

Yeah, well Taylor walked to the front door and pressed the buzzer.

A handsome black man, large and trapezoidal, opened the door. "Yes?" he asked, poised and polite.

Taylor said, "Um, I'm here." Her voice clogged.

"Yes, you are."

"I'm here because a customer -"

"A member?"

"Right, a member referred me."

The bouncer looked past her and then opened the door Taylor stepped inside.

It was like the lobby of an exclusive hotel. Smoky pastels, brushed copper, leather furniture, a teak bar. Three Japanese men, all in dark suits, sat on a plush couch, smoking furiously. They looked at Taylor briefly – hopefully – then, when she met their gaze with chill defiance, looked away fast.

A woman in her forties, wearing a conservative navy suit and white blouse, walked silently up to her. "How may I help you?" The smile of a maitre d'.

"I had a little time free tonight. I thought I'd check the place out."

"Well," the woman said, now playing tour director, "the West Side Art and Photography Club is one of the oldest art appreciation clubs in the city. Here's some literature." She handed Taylor a glossy brochure. There were programs of music, art shows, classes.

But how could she find out who Dudley met here?

Taylor nodded. "Ralph can't say enough good things about you."

"Ralph?"

"Ralph Dudley's a friend I was going to meet him here earlier but -"

"Oh," the woman said quickly, "you just missed him. You should've said you knew him." She took back the brochure and tossed it in a drawer. "Sorry I didn't know he'd referred you. ID, please."

"I…"

"Driver's license or passport."

What was Alice to do?

Play by the rules of topsy-turvy, what else?

She handed the license over and crossed her arms as the woman compared face and picture then went to a computer and typed in some information.

Apparently favorable results came back and the woman returned the license. "Can't be too careful, you know. Now, our membership fee is one thousand, and the hourly fee is five hundred per model. If you want a man, he'll have to wear a condom. Oral sex is completely up to the individual model, most do, some don't. Tipping is expected. The fee includes any standard toys but if you want something special it can probably be arranged. Will that be cash or charge?"

"Uh, American Express?"

"It'll show up as art instruction on your statement. One hour?"

"One hour, sure."

The woman took the card and asked, "Do you have any special requests?"

Taylor said, "Actually, I was thinking about something a little unusual. Could I have the, uh, model that Ralph Dudley sees?"

The hostess, trained to be unflappable, didn't look up from the charge voucher but hesitated for a millisecond. "You're sure?"

Thinking she'd never been less sure about anything in her life, Taylor Lockwood gave a slight smile and said, "Positive."

"There's a premium. Double."

"No problem." Smiling, Taylor took the credit card slip and a pen.

See the steadiness of my hand as I sign for the two thousand Jesus Christ what am I doing dollars.

The hostess disappeared into the back room Muzak played quietly, a guitar rendition of "Pearly Shells". She returned a moment later with a key. "I've talked to her. She hasn't been with too many women but she's game to try."

"Good."

"I think you'll find her quite nice. Up the stairs, last room on the right Liquor's free. Coke we can give you at cost."

"That's okay." Taylor walked into the cool corridor.

Topsy-turvy

She knocked on the door. A voice called, "Come on in."

Taylor took a deep breath, exhaled and pushed into the room. She stopped, total shock in her eyes – an expression that perfectly matched the one on the face of the girl who stood, topless, in the center of the room.

It was the teenage girl she'd met in Dudley 's office, Junie. His granddaughter.