King Of Paine

CHAPTER ONE

THE BUREAU LEFT NOTHING to faith or chance. Four agents wearing black raid jackets scrambled out of the elevator into the hotel’s plush tenth floor corridor. Frank Paine charged out last, his lean frame contrasting with the broad shoulders and thick necks of his new colleagues.

To him, the show of power seemed overdramatic for a routine bust, but the Academy taught only one approach to confrontation: overwhelming force. That formula had worked for the FBI’s first century—the Wall of Martyrs honored only thirty-six agents—but as the team crept down the vacant hallway, the ghosts of Waco and Ruby Ridge murmured a prophetic warning in Frank’s ear. A surprise loomed in that hotel room. A welcome gift for The King of Paine.

Hands trembling, Frank approached the suspected pedophile’s doorway, hand gun drawn, dropping into a modified Weaver stance behind the others—right foot forward like a boxer, right hand extended and locked, left hand cupped around everything but the trigger finger. Each new agent practiced shooting in this position at Hogan’s Alley until it became second nature, deciding in milliseconds whether threats appearing in the Academy’s mock town presented real danger.

This ain’t Quantico, Rook, said Woody Woodbridge, his silver-haired training agent. A lanky man with angular features and a prominent Adam’s apple, he was a twenty-five year veteran of the Violent Crimes Squad and had been bitching all afternoon about missing the Cotton Bowl to baby-sit the Fucking New Guy. It’s different when you’re using live ammo. I was so tense before my first bust you couldn’t pull a needle outta my ass with a tractor. Don’t forget to breathe. Slow everything down in your mind.

Frank nodded, not correcting Woodbridge’s diagnosis of first day jitters. At thirty-three, he had walked away from a lucrative career, spent six months enduring a gut-busting personal training regimen on his own dime, and then completed the twenty-week new agent training program at Quantico before assignment to the Atlanta Field Office. He was ready for almost anything in that hotel room, from a shootout to tears, however the perv wanted to play it. But after sacrificing everything to join the Bureau, to reset his life’s course, no training could prepare him for the anonymous tip that had launched this sting operation.

The e-mail in his inbox that morning had seemed well-intentioned to the agents in the Innocent Images Unit, a small team of Cyber agents dedicated to rooting out pedophiles:

A welcome gift for The King of Paine: Interested in a traveler soliciting little girls in Atlanta this morning? He’s using the RealTime chat handle PaulBrennerATL.

The agents had zeroed in on the traveler, an Internet predator who arranged illicit meetings with underage girls, paying scant attention to the regal nickname. To Frank’s knowledge, though, only one person, Jolynn Decker, knew its significance. The King of Paine had been his RealTime alter-ego, the ruler of the online world of BDSM—bondage, dominance, submission, and masochism—until he quit the habit three years ago, one day at a time, not long after he quit on Jolynn when she needed him most.

He desperately wanted to make amends—his therapist called it Step Nine, his dad just doing the right thing—but if Jolynn, or whoever else sent that e-mail, revealed his kinky secrets, his quest to turn his life around would come to a humiliating end, maybe in the next few minutes.

A held breath burned in Frank’s chest as Jeronimo Reyes, an athletic man of about thirty with black hair styled in an expensive Caesar cut, positioned himself beside the door. The lone woman on the team, Jessica Carlisle, a thick-shouldered blond, stood poised with a bolt cutter, awaiting the command.

We’re here for shock value, Woodbridge continued. When the perp sees what he’s up against, he’ll—

A muffled shriek from inside the room silenced him. Frank exhaled a rush of air, fighting back panic. Brenner was supposed to be alone, waiting for a thirteen-year old—a fictional online character created by the Cyber agents, who had engaged the pedophile in a RealTime chat earlier that morning. They had allowed Brenner to seduce the young girl into meeting him at the Four Seasons to pick up a Jonas Brothers ticket and play a little show and touch, but he must have made backup plans.

Reyes dipped the master key in and out of the entry slot, then smashed the door inward. "He’s got a real chica in there!" he rasped, as the bolt cutter snipped the chain.

A rush of emotion propelled Frank forward as Reyes and Carlisle charged into a long foyer, but Woodbridge blocked his way with a stiff arm. He heard Reyes shout in his thick Spanish accent, FBI! Step away from the girl!

And then another man’s panicked voice, It’s not what you think!

Frank broke his trainer’s hold and rushed into the foyer, past the marble and brass bathroom, choking back the fear of what might lie around the corner. No way Jo would ever hurt a kid, no matter how bitter she’d become.

His jaw dropped when he saw the situation inside. Jessica Carlisle sat on the king-sized bed draping a white sheet over a raven-haired girl’s kneeling body, her hands still bound to the headboard with furry black cuffs. The girl’s shoulders heaved as Carlisle removed a blindfold and ball gag from her face. A camcorder on a tripod stood by the side of the bed. White lingerie lay scattered on the gold carpet.

In the sitting area, Reyes lashed real handcuffs on a man naked except for a black leather hood with eye and mouth openings. Frank shivered as the BDSM fetish mask triggered an eerie memory of Jolynn on a Mexican beach.

Where’s the key to these cuffs? Carlisle shouted.

It’s not what you think! the suspect repeated angrily. He tried to twist his body to hide his wilting hard-on. Although his muscle tone suggested a superior level of fitness than most guys in their thirties, graying body hair betrayed his age. This is consensual! You can’t break in here like this!

A minor can’t legally consent, Reyes said. You’re under arrest for statutory rape. You have the right—

Minor? Frank saw the man’s eyes widen through the holes in the mask. "She told me she’s twenty-five! We’re roleplaying her fantasy!"

He’s lying! the girl cried out from the bed. I never consented to this! Bud promised he’d only touch me with his hands and crop!

Her body remained covered by the sheet but, to Frank, she did not look or sound like a child. What the fuck is going on here?

Reyes tilted his head. Bud? You don’t roleplay online as Paul Brenner? he asked the suspect.

My screen name is MasterJimRally. I’m a CEO, not a rapist, the man said through clenched teeth. Take these damn handcuffs off and get me a towel.

He directed the confused agents to his suit jacket hanging in the closet, where they found his ID and keys to the girl’s shackles. After releasing her, Carlisle escorted the girl to the bathroom to get dressed. Woodbridge stood guard near the closet while the suspect changed.

Now alone with Reyes, Frank inferred from his glare that the tip’s origin had not been forgotten. The fiery Latino gripped his left bicep, shoving him into a soft yellow chair in the far corner of the bedroom.

"Okay, cabrón, spill the frijoles, he snarled in hushed tones. Why are four federal agents investigating a rape? If this is another publicity stunt like that Good Morning Atlanta interview you gave last week, your badge is mine."

"Yeah, I arranged a rape to get on the cover of Time, Frank said. Part of my ‘Man of the Year’ campaign."

Reyes shot him the kind of look that could leave a bruise. His epitaph would no doubt read: Actor. G-Man. Irreverent wise-ass. Maybe soon, if he kept pissing off the wrong people.

Five years ago, to prepare for his role in G-Man, he’d spent a month shadowing guys like Reyes, real men who placed their lives in jeopardy for the public good, men who’d earned respect. That flick, G-Man, thrust Frank from dime-a-dozen pretty boy to action hero, but the experience made him question a system that rewarded pretenders while genuine heroes struggled to get by. And when his decadent lifestyle had continued to propel him down a path of self-destruction, costing him the woman he loved, his working class roots guided him back to the lessons learned from that movie, from guys like the one awaiting an answer from him now.

Frank ran a hand through his wavy, sun-bleached hair and pondered how Lee Fields would direct him to draw upon the Bureau’s ideals to earn Reyes’s respect. He conjured up the owlish image of his aging mentor, uniquely identifiable by a pair of ridiculously bushy white eyebrows, roomy enough to house a small family of wrens. Use your noodle, Frankie Boy. Play it smart, consider the character’s motivation.

Look, I’m as sickened by rape as anyone, Frank said. But even if I was crazy enough to write a script like this to boost my image, we save the girl before the perv touches her. Our informant has a different goal. We need to figure out why he wants us here.

And why you, in particular, my friend.

He loathed himself for doing it, but Frank trotted out his trademark smirk to seal the deal. "Don’t hate me because the chicas love me. Maybe he figured my celebrity would bring attention to the case. We need to ask why he wants that attention. Our suspect seemed surprised by the girl’s reaction, and that chick is no innocent victim. She let a stranger cuff and gag her."

And, while he couldn’t explain his suspicions to Jeronimo Reyes, someone lurking in the shadows harbored a grudge against dominant men. Jolynn Decker might fit that description and, at twenty-five, she was the same age as the victim, but Frank had his doubts. Although she had one good reason to ruin him, revenge, she had a million to keep her talented mouth shut. Any violation of the confidentiality agreement his lawyers had drafted resulted in forfeiture of the entire settlement.

Were his doubts fueled by the remote chance she might still forgive him? Who else could have sent the tip and why? He wished he could question the girl alone, but all a Fucking New Guy could do was plant the seed.

Maybe she’s part of a plan to humiliate the exec, Frank said. Frame him on a false rape charge.

Reyes glared at him. The old Paine charm worked better with some people than others.

"That woman has been violated. We will treat her with dignity and respect. Understood, cabrón?"

Of course, Frank said. Not the hoped-for reaction, but he’d bought some time. He nodded toward the hallway as Woodbridge led the suspect back in.

Now unmasked, the man’s light brown hair was neatly trimmed with a patch of gray on each temple. His blue pin-striped suit and diamond cufflinks presented an image more akin to an aging model for Gentleman’s Quarterly than a rapist. Although vaguely familiar, Frank could not associate him with Jolynn Decker or anyone else who might mean him harm.

The suspect was reluctant to submit to an interrogation without his lawyer present, but he gave in after Reyes threatened to turn him over to the Atlanta police for booking. He paced by the window as Reyes and Woodbridge peppered him with questions. Identifying himself as James Ralston, the CEO of Atlanta Pharmaceutical Ventures, one of the world’s largest drug companies, he claimed to have roleplayed BDSM fantasies for several weeks with a woman calling herself EdnaTurnbad. She portrayed a bottled-up secretary willing to do anything to please her boss. According to Ralston, she suggested the live rendezvous.

As promised, he found her kneeling on the bed, already bound, blindfolded, and gagged, and clad only in lingerie when he arrived. He got undressed, set up the camera, forcibly removed the rest of her clothes, and then pretended to rape her, all as prearranged. She struggled, as expected, but the scene called for him to continue until exhaustion, no matter what.

No safe word? Frank asked, entering the dialogue for the first time. He noticed Reyes shoot him an odd glance.

Before he met Jolynn, his involvement with the BDSM community had been exclusively online, but even then his roleplays abided by the mantra safe, sane, and consensual. In these scenes, he was the producer, scriptwriter, director, and star rolled into one, totally controlling his submissive’s fate, but always within reason, exploring her boundaries, maximizing her pleasure. A good dominant needed to be free to test limits, but you never knew what might make a sub freak out. Those who practiced the art accepted that every scene must include a way for the sub to withdraw consent, typically an unusual word or other signal that would call for an immediate time out to reassess the boundaries for the session.

That’s what made this scenario different, Ralston said, staring out the window at the midtown Atlanta skyline. My wife is not…adventurous. I played these domination scenes online for years, just for kicks, never cheated on her. But Edna wanted to play without limits, no turning back.

He folded his arms together tightly against his chest and made eye contact with Frank. A total power exchange.

Frank acknowledged the gesture of fellowship with a nod. When every aspect of your life was governed by someone else’s rules, the notion of assuming control over a woman for a couple of hours could be irresistible. The knowledge that she relished the loss of accountability as much as you craved the power was like winning an Oscar for a pet indie project, icing on the cake.

When we played the scene online—

Ralston stopped and whirled abruptly when the bathroom door creaked open.

Frank watched the young woman step out, eyes cast down, now wearing a white nurse’s uniform, with Carlisle’s arm around her shoulders. He began to doubt his working theory. With her black hair tied back in a ponytail, no exposed tattoos or piercings, and little makeup, she no longer fit his image of a woman with an appetite for bondage or a thirst for revenge. But then again, who would guess his own tastes based on job and appearance? Everyone had a secret inner self; he couldn’t tell whether this chick had revealed hers by design or, like Jolynn Decker, by mishap.

The nurse’s expression transformed to shock as soon as she spotted Ralston by the window. Her left hand covered her slack jaw.

Take me to my river, she gasped.

Ralston did a double-take, as if checking to see if someone had slipped into the room behind him.

You know him? Carlisle asked.

As the nurse’s cheeks flushed with suppressed rage, Frank’s doubts intensified. Southern restraint might delay the blast for a few beats, but from his experienced view, the chick’s floodgates were about to blow in what seemed like real emotion. Five, four…

H-he knows my father.

Three, two…

Eyes ablaze amid a cloudburst of tears, she tore herself from Carlisle’s embrace before Frank could finish his countdown, bolting toward the shocked executive. Frank leapt to his feet to stop her, but not in time to prevent her open palm from exploding across Ralston’s face with a loud slap.

Groaning, Ralston clutched the gold, fleur-de-lis patterned curtains to maintain his balance. The girl clenched her fist for a second strike, but Frank grabbed her elbow to slow her, and Carlisle’s thick arms wrapped around her waist. Reyes and Woodbridge jumped between the combatants to keep them apart.

You think raping me is going to get even with my father for stealing that…that…hussy from you? she wailed, trying to wrestle free from Carlisle’s grasp. I haven’t even spoken to Daddy in years! I have nothing to do with him or Simone Perlow!

Easy, Miss— Reyes looked to Carlisle for help.

Johnson, she said. Penny Johnson.

Ralston wiped a spot of blood from his bruised cheek. Oh my God. She’s Henry Johnson’s daughter?

Like you didn’t know! Penny snapped, rivulets of tears streaming down her face.

I swear I never knew Edna’s real name or even saw a picture, Ralston said, flustered, looking from face to face for an ally. You’ve got to believe me. Henry’s not a pleasant man, and he’s dying.

He’s making all this up! Penny cried. He called himself Bud Davis when he talked to me. I told him my name, where I worked, and I can prove it! He sent me flowers this morning at the hospital. And he’s been angry at my father since Simone Perlow quit her job to join Doctors With Cancer.

But Ralston claimed he could prove his version of events, too. He said he no longer bore any ill will toward Henry Johnson or Simone Perlow, and records of his instant messaging sessions would confirm EdnaTurnbad set up the simulated rape.

The chat logs will speak for themselves, he concluded. I’m not saying another word without my lawyer.

Reyes glared at him, a look of pure contempt he seemed to have mastered, Frank thought. Even if what you say is true, engaging in forcible sex without confirmation of consent is wrong. The Atlanta D.A. may want to prosecute for sexual assault under Georgia law.

When the irate nurse insisted she had explicitly withdrawn consent using a prearranged signal, Reyes asked her if she saved logs of her online chat sessions.

She shook her head. Can’t you get a copy from CyberLine?

Reyes frowned. Unfortunately, no. Most online services don’t store content, like e-mail, chat, or instant message data on their servers. It’s expensive, and they’re not required to do it unless we make a request to preserve specific records.

There might be another way to confirm her story, Carlisle said.

Penny admitted using the hospital’s computer that morning to chat but did not know whether the Carter Medical Center used keystroke-logging software. The agents agreed no further progress could be made without reviewing the chat logs. Reyes escorted Ralston to his home in the wealthy Buckhead section of town, and Carlisle followed the nurse back to the hospital to check if the IT department had captured her chat session. Tomorrow, they would analyze the computers in the Cyber Squad’s forensic lab.

As the party broke up in the Four Seasons’ parking deck, Frank slumped into the passenger seat of Woodbridge’s black Dodge Durango. He had averted disaster, for now. But as they silently listened to the Cotton Bowl announcers prattle on the radio, one thought plagued him. Somebody—whether Jolynn Decker or another anonymous stalker—had concocted an elaborate ruse to set up Ralston and the girl, and he or she might have more dramatic plans for a high-profile target like him. Was this simply a cryptic tease frame from a more elaborate extortion plot?

He closed his eyes, preparing himself for war. When he had awakened this morning, he resolved to play the first hand of many in a game to win back his self respect, and maybe even Jolynn’s heart. Now the stakes were higher, and he faced an opponent. No problem, he thought. Poker presented a more exciting challenge than solitaire. And, like Jolynn had always said, No risk, no thrill.

CHAPTER TWO

THE THRILL OF imminent battle had kept Frank up most of the night, and the bedroom mirror reflected some puffiness under his baby blues as he knotted a red Hermés tie. His problem was clear. Millions of educated, respectable people dabbled in harmless kink, but no major entertainer, athlete, or politician had ever publicly admitted their sadomasochistic tendencies. And even if middle America and the Bureau brass could get past the kinky imagery, his exposure as the coward who let the woman he loved endure her public humiliation alone would be beyond redemption. He had spent three years, in therapy and out, trying to find a way to earn back his dignity, but if his shame became public, everything he cared about would be flushed down the crapper.

As he adjusted the tie until the silk puckered flawlessly, the man in the mirror stared back with no trace of fear. There was not much he wouldn’t do to protect his secrets. If the anonymous informant who had linked him to Penny Johnson’s rape expected a passive target, he or she had misjudged Frank Paine. The hunter was about to become the hunted, assuming Frank could sweet talk one tough hombre first. He needed to wrest control of the case from Jeronimo Reyes.

* * *

WITH WOODBRIDGE spending the last day of winter break at home with his family, Frank headed straight to the field office’s fifth floor, trailing the scent of fresh donuts through the charmless warren of gray cubicles constituting the Cyber Squad. The bullpen was deserted, but the short week after New Year’s was prime time for online pedophiles. Frank found the Innocent Images team, minus Jessica Carlisle, pounding their keyboards with manic energy in their cramped headquarters, lit only by the glow of six computers lining the perimeter. A small round conference table occupied the middle of the room.

Wearing a blue blazer, white turtleneck, and khaki pants in lieu of the FBI standard dark suit, Jeronimo Reyes rose from the carrel nearest the door and offered Frank his hand. He reeked of designer cologne. Señor Paine, he said in a rich Spanish accent. Good to see our new star made it through day one in fine health.

Frank held up the white and red bag of Krispy Kreme donuts. A peace offering. Sorry we got off to a rough start yesterday.

"You’re sorry for nothing. Everyone busts the Fucking New Guy’s cajones, Reyes said, then addressed the other three men. Break time, amigos. Hollywood brought hot buñuelos."

Walter Evans, Zazu Zambakian, and Felix Wong introduced themselves and rolled their chairs around the circular wood table while Reyes went to retrieve a pot of coffee from the break room. Yesterday, every agent Frank met had either wisecracked about his role in G-Man or dumped their most boring case files on his desk with an impressive variety of contemptuous gestures. The Cyber agents seemed friendlier this morning.

Never underestimate the power of fresh pastry, he thought, a lesson that had served him well on many movie sets. Bribing the best boy to improve his lighting might seem trivial compared to the current objective, but Reyes’s improved mood still led him to elevate his prospects from fair to decent.

Strange first day, huh, my man, said Walter, a bald African-American built like an NFL linebacker. He selected two glazed donuts from the bag before passing it around the table.

Frank shook his head. I joined the Bureau to fight terrorists and serial killers, he said, his lips curling into a familiar smirk. The instinctive preening made him feel like a jackass. He made a mental note to work on that, to play it with a harder edge, more like Clint in Dirty Harry. No charm points awarded in the Bureau. Who’d have guessed Internet pervs would be starring in my nightmares?

Reyes chuckled as he reentered the room and started pouring coffee into Styrofoam cups. Ah, I had a bad dream last night, too, he said. That black, Jewish singer with the glass eye.

Sammy Davis, Jr.? Frank offered.

Yes! I’m showering, and Sammy’s ghost keeps shouting, ‘Take me to my river, bay-bee!’ I woke up with the sweats.

The others laughed at the impression, which Frank thought particularly amusing delivered in a Spanish accent.

His arms outstretched in feigned exasperation, Zazu asked, What does this expression mean? I hear so much but it make no sense. Frank couldn’t place the pudgy, scraggly-haired agent’s accent. Eastern Europe, maybe Russia.

I think I dreamt about it because the nurse used it yesterday, Reyes said. Like a curse.

It’s from a poem, said Felix, a wispy Asian with round, John Lennon eyeglass frames and greased-back hair. The Innocent Images Unit seemed to be manned by characters from all corners of the rainbow.

Ah, our resident poet, Walter teased, drumming on the table like a coffeehouse beatnik. Lay something on us, brother Wong.

Felix adjusted his glasses. Some poor fellow who lost his girlfriend in the 9/11 attacks wrote it. Not great literature, but the masses latched onto the last line: ‘Take me to my river, a peaceful place to die.’

Unimpressed, Zazu kicked his heels up on the table. Frank figured his scuffed shoes hadn’t been shined in weeks, and the twenty-something slob needed a shave and a better tailor.

I feel bad about girl, Zazu said. But if I had been there, I would be dreaming about leather and lace. She—

Reyes scrunched his face and launched his balled-up napkin, nailing Zazu on the side of the head. "Cabrón! Rape we do not joke about."

Springing up from his chair, he snatched his coffee cup from the tabletop and stormed out. Back to work.

Frank twisted his lips as he and the remaining members of the Rainbow Squad gathered their trash. Short temper, he said.

Jero’s cool, Walter said. Cat just takes sex crimes personally. Some coked-up badass raped and murdered his kid sister when his family still lived in Havana. Maybe ten years ago. ‘Z’ should know better.

Frank found Reyes studying the contents of an open folder in one of a dozen cubicles dotting the blue-carpeted bullpen. After getting his attention with a knock on the vinyl doorframe, Frank skipped the bull. Woody’s out today, but I want in on this rape case. It’s a better fit for Violent Crimes than the Kiddie Porn Unit, don’t you think?

Reyes set the folder down on his desktop, gesturing for him to sit in the lone chair opposite his gray metal desk. Maybe even a better one for the Atlanta police. I don’t see the federal issue.

As Frank sat, he recognized one of his old headshots on top of the open folder—wavy, golden brown hair, sun-baked skin, dimpled chin, blue eyes, and that ridiculous smirk his fans seemed to adore. Rugged good looks that translated well on film, less impressive in a locker room full of linebackers. It did not bode well that Reyes was studying his personnel file.

He clenched and unclenched his clammy fists to collect himself. His nerves always acted up before a first take but, with Reyes already suspicious, he sensed there would be only one chance to get this right. Lee Fields’s voice echoed in his head. Play it with emotion, Frankie Boy. He summoned a memory from his early days in Hollywood, when he lost a role after a kick-ass audition to a jerk who was the director’s second cousin’s kid or some other convoluted relation.

Give them Ralston for the rape if you want, he began. But some lunatic is working the Internet, setting up sex crimes. I researched this last night and think we can prosecute under federal law for criminal use of a communication facility or cyberstalking. He may have struck before, and he may strike again, in Atlanta or elsewhere. It’s not a local issue.

Reyes’s eyebrows arched up. Why the sudden interest in this case, my friend? Low profile. No terrorists. No serial killers. Not exactly Hollywood stuff, no?

Frank averted his eyes, unable to hold the Cyber agent’s penetrating gaze. No matter how hard he worked to fit in, these guys would only see that grinning idiot playing G-Man on the big screen. Were they so wrong? When did the acting stop and Frank Paine begin? He unclipped the shield from his jacket pocket, slowly twirling it in his hand.

You’ve got the wrong idea about me. I don’t want publicity. I’m not proud of some things I’ve done, but one day I’d like to be able to look myself in the eye when I stare into the mirror. This badge stands for principles I want to live by. Fidelity. Bravery. Integrity. I can’t do that if you treat me like a joke.

Reyes closed the folder, studying Frank intently. "Our UNSUB—the unknown subject—sent you a personal invitation to this fiesta, my friend. You want to recite the Bureau motto for me? Stop acting and spill the frijoles. I googled the nickname your tipster used and did not get any hits referring to you. Tell me about The King of Paine."

His cheeks flushed with hot blood, Frank clutched the badge in his fist. Every man has secrets, he said. Things the Bureau has no right to know.

Nothing relevant to my case is off limits. It involves S&M, no?

Frank folded his arms tightly across his chest. A team of lawyers and a million dollar payoff had bought him three years in his own private purgatory. He hoped to earn his way out without fanfare, but now Jeronimo Reyes blocked his path.

He scanned his emotional toolkit for options. Anger. No way. This pit bull will bite back. Pity. Fuck that. Faith. Too risky for an agnostic to pull off. Trust. Dude was all about honor and fellowship. He forced himself to make eye contact and channeled his inner Boy Scout.

I need you to trust me. It’s a personal issue I can fix on my own. Give me a week, and I’ll show you what the real Frank Paine can do.

He watched as Reyes stood, pacing around the cubicle. Finally, he stopped, placed his hand on Frank’s shoulder, and said, In the Bureau, trust is more valuable currency than donuts, but it goes both ways. Let’s find a place to talk, my friend. Unless it directly affects the case, we’ll keep your personal life out of the official file.

Frank searched his face for signs of deception but found only the stated offer of mutual trust. Add what could pass for a faint smile, and he might even call it an offer of friendship, a status he had avoided during his three-year obsession with secrecy.

But here, in a strange city, with a hostile work environment and an unknown enemy targeting him for blackmail or worse, he could use a friend, and Jeronimo Reyes impressed him as a stand-up guy, the kind you trusted with your life. And, realistically, he had no other choice. If he didn’t fess up, Reyes would assume the worst, maybe even shift the investigation’s focus toward him.

Frank nodded his assent. Okay, he said reluctantly. I need your help.

CHAPTER THREE

THEY FOUND A VACANT conference room and closed the door. Reyes set the thick case file on the table and listened, taking no notes, as Frank spilled the frijoles, laying bare intimate details of the rise and fall of The King of Paine. He began with the fun part, musing how his swift ascent in the film industry led to a surge in popularity on the party circuit.

Getting nailed by Baxter and/or Paine in the Grotto was a rite of passage for every aspiring actress, he said, referring to Quinn Baxter, his frequent co-star, onscreen and at the notorious Playboy Mansion bashes. I’m surprised my dick didn’t fall off.

Reyes laughed and bumped fists with him. He asked a few questions about the Hollywood scene, more out of genuine interest than anything to do with the investigation. Usually discreet, Frank dropped a few names and swapped off-color stories with the suave agent, who seemed to be a player himself on the local front.

But then Frank explained how the thrill of new conquests began to wear off. With girls literally throwing their panties at him, he felt like his sexual antics were becoming an empty habit. He found himself yearning for a meaningful relationship but suspected his romantic partners were more intrigued by his fame and wealth than what he stood for as a