Chapter Two: "She generally gave herself very good advice, (although she very seldom followed it)" ~ Lewis Carroll, Alice's Adventures in Wonderland

I sleep in the next morning long enough to feel like a luxurious slug. Pablo finally wakes me up by pouncing on my head over and over again, yowling. He does not do "hungry" very well, and obviously Sara didn't feed him before she left this morning. Her current boyfriend likes to take her for Sunday brunch every week, to the same place every week, for the same conversation every week. Then she comes home to hear about my wild and exciting weekend, real and imagined.

Pablo finally settles down over his bowl of tinned smelly fish bits, and I sit in a dressing gown over my morning tea and toasted bagel, checking the messages on my phone. There's the doctor's office reminding me of my appointment tomorrow for my monthly blood draw and STD screening, Erik's friend Adam still trying to get me to go on a date with him, and my manager needs to hear from me "soonest, dear, soonest!"

I start the kettle for a second mug of tea and phone my manager, who seems mostly concerned with how I got on with my gentleman last night. Fine, I tell her. Just like the other two times. No problem. Lovely gent. I don't feel like discussing my misgivings with her. She then begins to bubble with enthusiasm; apparently "Mr. Tate" contacted her this morning to book meetings with me for the next two weeks, and inquired about the Agency's policy on long-term contracts. "I gave him all the details, and he is considering a three-month contract. Isn't that wonderful?"

I set down the kettle slowly. He's thinking about hiring me on retainer? For three months? Bloody hell. Bloody, bloody hell. I'm not even sure what to think. My mouth opens, and I hear myself asking what kind of fee would we be talking about here? She names a sum that is only a little less than what I am making per month now, at my usual work load.

Then she starts the sales pitch. "And that would be you only meeting with him, of course, dear! With no limits on the number of visits, but he's not a super frequent customer, you know, he's a very busy man." She certainly is enthusiastic. Long-term contracts are desirable from the Agency's point of view, guaranteed income and all that, and it increases my market value as well.

"There's just one thing..." she hesitates. I wait silently for the other shoe to drop. There's always a catch. "He wants to be exclusive for the duration, so you would have to agree to no other clients, and no personal liaisons, you know? You aren't seeing anybody right now anyway, are you?"

"The only man in my life right now is my cat, and he's a eunuch." It's been four months since Erik and I called it quits, and I haven't been terribly eager to replace him after such a shitty breakup.

I make a point of telling her that even if "Mr. Tate" were to offer me a retainer, I might not want to take it. I can tell from her voice that she thinks I'm mad to even think about declining, but airily adds that it is, of course, my decision. It most certainly is, I think. After some more bubbling about what a nice, reliable client "Mr. Tate" is, she gives me my booking for tonight, and encourages me to make good decisions.

Hrumph.

Obviously, whatever Holmes got out of last night, he wants more of it. But why would he want to go to the expense of putting me on a three-month retainer if he's not even that frequent of a customer? And how much money does he have, to be able to afford it? Just what does he do for a living? Now I really want to do some serious stalking.

And here my common sense kicks in. Is it worth it to risk losing this client, and maybe my position at the Agency? I am fully aware that my obsessive nature is about to kick in, and it's not for the first time, and I know how difficult it can be when you get caught doing stuff like this. People don't like it. But, first, they have to catch me.

I haul out my laptop and set to using my google-fu to see how many Mr. Holmes there are in London.

I find seven of them in the 30-50 age range: a plumber, a bus driver, a bank manager, an accountant, two department-store clerks, and a very strange man who is a "consulting detective," whatever that is. There are quite a few pictures of the detective on the web, and a few of the others, but none of them look at all like my "Mr. Tate." I am starting to doubt what I thought I read on the forum about his name, and who was it that posted it anyway?

I log in, and first have to take care of some administrative stuff; a flame war has erupted again and my inbox is stuffed with complaints. I issue warnings to the combatants and leave it at that. I've only been with the Agency a year or so, but nobody else was willing to take on being admin and moderator for the forum when the founder retired. I don't exactly have mad computer skillz, but I'm very good at figuring things out.

I find the post in question, on the board labeled "johnspotting." Two years ago, Terry B. posted that he overheard "Mr. Tate" introduced at a social function as "Mr. Mycroft Holmes." I don't know Terry B., but I'm sure I know someone who does and can tell me if he is full of it or not.

I look again at all the postings that "Holmes" or "Tate" bring up when I search. There's nothing I haven't seen already. The advice from the working boys to each other concerning him is mostly about his requirements for restraints and staying clothed, warnings to not expect any conversation or warm fuzzies, and don't ever, ever try to touch him. There's not much else. Which is a little unusual, actually; there are all sorts of really juicy bits of gossip and inside information about all sorts of prominent people on the forum. Some of the stuff posted could be fodder for a blackmailer, if anybody had that turn of mind, but I decided a long time ago that it's not my job to protect people from the consequences of their vices.

My friend Steen contributed his opinion about "Mr. Tate" as, "Kind of creepy at times, although quite nice. But creepy. Don't annoy him." Steen would be a good one to ask about Terry B.'s reliability, and I could dish with him about the creepiness. He could help me decide if I should take the contract or not, if one is actually offered. And, besides, it would be good to see him, we haven't gone for lunch in ages. I text Steen a message saying that we need to talk very soon, and I'd be happy to treat him to lunch at the Maxwell for the privilege.

And that's about all I can do at the moment...Ah, the gym bag beckons! I haven't rifled through that for clues yet. Putting it up on the kitchen table, I unzip the bag and pull it wide open.

I'm hit by the sharp smell of new leather. Mmmmm. That's nice. Under it is a faint whiff of Holmes' cologne, and I wrinkle my nose. Whatever. I pull out the jangley bits of leather and the cuffs. Gorgeous stuff, all brand-new except for the creases and sweat stains from me, and all stamped "Fleet Ilya" in big letters; a quick googling shows which shops carry that designer, but that's not going to be any help at all, is it? I can't just waltz into Coco de Mer and ask sweetly to see their list of recent bondage gear customers.

Feeling around the empty bag doesn't turn up anything else, either, and there's nothing on the bottom. A tag inside informs me that it was made, like everything, in China of 100% cotton and is exclusive of decoration. Well, damn. What did I expect, that he'd be so stupid as to leave a credit card receipt inside? People who can afford to pay for the company of people like me generally aren't idiots, although I have had to put up with a few noxious exceptions...and one of them is my booking for tonight...thinking about that is a little depressing, actually. The last time I had a meeting with this one, he mentioned what a cute little pony I would make...ick...

Steen rescues me from that line of reverie by answering my text: CU 1-ish ok? Ha, I knew he wouldn't pass up being treated to lunch. I text back that 1-ish is fine, and head for some clothes.

We arrive at nearly the same time in front of the Maxwell, and I give a squeal and launch myself into his arms; Steen is one of the few men I can do that to without knocking him down flat. He is a big, handsome blond bear of a man, raised in Australia, and he is always complaining about how nobody here in Mother England knows how to hug properly, so I usually make a point of hanging all over him and being inappropriate.

A kiss on the cheek, and we are seated in a reasonably private corner of the dining room. I'm getting ready to launch into the reason I need to talk to him, when Steen leans forward and says earnestly, "I know why you need to talk to somebody today, Angelica. Believe me, I understand. I was shocked when I heard about it, too." He reaches over and takes up my hand, giving a gentle squeeze.

Huh?

"Well, I'm glad to have your sympathies, I really am, except that I don't know what you're talking about." I give his hand a double-squeeze back and pick up my salad fork. Steen gives me a searching look and says slowly, "Then you haven't heard what happened last night?"

"No, what?"

"Calypso is dead. She was murdered."

I put my fork down and reach for Steen's hand across the table again. "What? Are you sure?" I feel myself go very cold, my stomach flips with shock. I didn't know her well, but I knew her. Calypso was one of the most successful independent escorts in London, an amazing, beautiful woman. Arab princes hired her for months at a time to go around the Continent with them; for ordinary men, she had a waiting list a mile long. We all wanted to be Calypso.

"It was all over the papers this morning. Somebody shot her late last night, she was in her car, going home from a meeting with a client. The driver said that as they were stopped at a traffic light, a man rode up on a bicycle and shot her through the window. They've got a description from the driver, but there were no other witnesses, and no leads on it yet." He shakes his head. "Who would want to off Calypso? She was the nicest person you could meet. She just liked making people happy..."

"Jealous wife," I say grimly, and pick up my fork again. Escort work, even if you are at the top of the heap, is still a risky business. If you aren't dodging lethal STD's, you are looking over your shoulder for crazed clients or their psycho wives and girlfriends.

We pick at our salads and talk more about Calypso, helping each other come to terms with it. I am still deeply shocked. It's not the first time somebody I've known has died suddenly, but it's the first time I've known a murder victim. I fervently hope they catch the bastard who did it.

Eventually, we tire of the topic, and during a lull I get around to asking Steen what he thinks about Terry B.'s ident of "Mr. Tate" as Mycroft Holmes. Steen verifies it, and adds some more; Holmes is a civil servant, one of the little guys in suits that keep the government ticking along. I pull out my phone and start to google the name "Mycroft Holmes," when Steen grabs it and quickly cancels the search. "What did you do that for?" I say crossly.

Steen hands me back my phone with a wagging finger. "Don't you know about name searches? People can have alerts tied to name searches so they know when they are being searched, and your phone will cheerfully tell them everything about you. If you have to look him up like that, for goodness sake use a public computer at the library or something!"

"He's a civil servant, Steen. Probably a glorified accountant. Why would an accountant need to have name search alerts?"

"Because he's a government accountant, Angelica. Who knows? Besides, don't you think it's a little odd that some petty bureaucrat would make enough money to hire Agency escorts? I don't know about you, but I don't come cheap," Steen smirks, knowing what I'm going to say next.

"You know very well that I don't come at all."

"That's because you have a witholding complex."

"No, it means I'm not as big a whore as you!" Steen likes it when I sass him.

A dessert tray is brought by and waved away by both of us; we get coffees instead, and Steen asks me, "So why the sudden curiosity about Mr. Touch-me-not Tate? He doesn't fancy you ladies, you know."

I tell Steen that Holmes has engaged me three times running now, and about the possibility of the three-month contract. His eyes get wide, and I'm having a hard time deciphering his expression. He's surprised, and envious, but trying to be nonchalant. And something else...angry? Hurt, judging by how the edges of his mouth tighten downward. Steen leans back in his chair, disengaging from me, and says, "Wow! Just, wow. I guess the bloke wants to try something a little different, eh? That's great for you, that's really good. You've only been hustling for a year and someone wants you on retainer, now, that's something." He gives me a forced smile and sips his latte.

Great. How could I be so stupid? It dawns on me that my friendship with Steen is very much about his playing wise-big-brother to my silly-little-sister. Being hired on retainer is sort of the Holy Grail of escort work, something I know Steen has never been offered—and to add insult to injury, it's with a client that Steen identifies as on his turf.

I really can be a complete naïf sometimes. He was the exact wrong person to go to for advice. I should've kept my mouth shut. We finish our coffees in near-silence, and Steen does a gosh-will-you-look-at-the-time maneuver, thanks me for lunch, and then pretty much ducks and runs.

I sit there amidst the ruins of our lunch, and feel like shit. I'm mad at Steen for being so insecure, and I'm mad at myself for misjudging him. And I'm mad at the world for being the kind of place where beautiful, gentle women aren't safe from homicidal maniacs.

I shake it off, settle the bill and get out of there. I only have four hours to do some sleuthing before I have to get ready for work tonight.

Steen had a good point about using an anonymous computer. There's an internet café just a few blocks from the Maxwell, so I take my daily exercise and do a brisk walk there. Cyberia, as it's called, promises caffeinated delights of all sorts, but all I want to buy is a few hours of computer time.

The place is funky and faded, the computer equipment is outdated and sticky with spilled cappuccino, but the internet connection is fast, and there's live music by a chatty harpist. It's not a bad way to spend Sunday afternoon, ferreting out information. And boy, do I have to ferret. I think of one angle after another, trying to get anything on this Mycroft Holmes. It's almost as if he doesn't quite exist. There are no photos at all. He comes up as a member of The Diogenes Club, but according to the internet, he doesn't own a car or a flat or a house. Nothing is registered anywhere. He's not on any social or business networking. He's an alum of Oxford, but all the details are blank. I do dig up an office address, though, and I'm pretty chuffed about that.

And then I hit the jackpot. I thought to search the council records in all of the more posh districts around London, the nice leafy neighborhoods, because it seemed to me that he would like someplace like that better than a modern flat or rooms at a hotel. And it pays off! I find a request for variance that Mr. Holmes' solicitor submitted on his behalf several years ago, concerning an ancient oak tree that infringed the public throughway. Holmes won the variance, jolly good for him, but what thrills me is that the council records list his home address.

I barely have time to jot down the information, though, before the computer screen goes blank. I poke a few buttons, since I still have some minutes on the time card, but nothing. Looks like the system crashed completely, which is what you get for using junk like this. I make sure and tell the barista on my way out the door about the crash, and he shrugs; apparently every computer on the router went down at the same time, probably some virus.

I leave the cafe feeling pretty good. I've got home and work addresses for Holmes, and what club he hangs out at in-between. I still have two hours to kill, so I think about burning some money to hire a cab and do some sight-seeing. It's Sunday afternoon, right? People are usually at home on Sunday afternoons…

I consider faking a foreign accent when I tell the driver that I want to go sight-seeing through some nice neighborhoods. I can do some very convincing accents, but I decide it's not worth the effort, and I'm right; I can tell he could care less as long as I'm paying him.

It's a nice ride. I forget how pretty the leafy parts of the City are, and what a beautiful thing a well-tended garden can be. I miss that about not living in the country anymore, having a little plot to plant and tend. Sara says I can put out all the window boxes I care to at her place, but it's not the same at all as a real garden, and here in these districts they have Real Gardens.

I tell the driver to slow way down, but not stop as we enter the lane where Holmes' house is; I want to get a good look without being too obvious. I am going to assume that there are security cameras everywhere, because this is the type of place where they have them. And, to be fair, they probably need them.

This man definitely is not just a civil servant, to be able to live here. The house that matches the address I found online is a gem of a small Tudor country home, tucked far back and nearly hidden by manicured hedges, and fronted by a sprawling, enormously gnarled oak tree that overhangs the street and leaves little doubt that this is the place.

We've passed the property by all too quickly, before I could see any details, so I tell the driver to turn around down the road and go back. He obediently heads the cab back again, and I unbuckle and slide over in the back seat so I can crane my neck more effectively as we pass the house. I catch glimpses of an elegant, lovely old place, with ivy-covered walls, leadlight windows, the works. Nice. It suits him.

Of course, now that I've seen the outside of the house, I am dying to see the inside even more. Stalking is like that, it's addicting. I know I should rein it in. A little indulgence keeps the beast content, but too much just makes the thing stronger.

Although, you know, a third pass would probably go unnoticed; the lane is completely deserted. I ask the driver to do one more pass, and he pulls into a driveway down the lane to do a turn-about, when I notice a shiny black car cruising slowly up behind us. I feel a tingle of fear go up the back of my thighs, and quickly tell my driver to forget it, to go back the way we came. He grumbles about women and making up their bloody minds, but he does it.

And the black car follows us. The tingle has gone from my thighs to my stomach, which is now doing flip-flops. I do my calming breaths and try to keep from panicking. Panic turns people into stupid animals who do stupid things. There is nothing here to panic about. The security cameras probably caught us doing a slow drive-by, and the men in the car are doing their job to be intimidating. They are just following, not shooting or trying to run us off the road or anything. This is intimidation, and it is working quite well, I must say.

The black car is still following us, closely, as we re-enter the City and the traffic picks up. I'm calmed down enough to start thinking furiously about how to get out of the taxi without being spotted or, terrifyingly, accosted by whomever is in the black car.

My driver has noticed that we are being followed, of course, and also how I keep glancing in the rear mirror at the black car gliding behind us. Finally he gives me a bit of a lopsided grin in the mirror, and says, "Well, miss, would it be worth an extra bit of a tip for me to lose them?"

"YES!" I sit back and fasten my seat-belt once more, and he suddenly turns into a stunt-driver. We roar off and leave the black car choking on our fumes! They must have been taken completely by surprise, because they don't immediately follow as we duck and dodge around the traffic, and we seem to lose them pretty quickly.

Just as I asked, my driver takes me right back to where I started. I pay him his fare quickly, with a generous tip on top of it, and hurry to merge with a mob of other young people sauntering down the sidewalk. Nobody ever minds it if a friendly, pretty blonde joins them, a fact that I have used to my advantage more than once. I see the black car go by a few minutes later, cruising slowly, but I'm certain I'm invisible, a tree hiding in the forest. I can't stop grinning all the way home. Mischief managed.

Much later in the evening, I am sitting in a comfy chair in a lovely hotel room with a lovely drink in my hand, and making myself smile at the inane jokes of one of the stupidest men to ever bear a well-known title. The client says he has a surprise for me tonight, and can hardly wait to share it. He trots out a black gym bag, exactly like the one Holmes sent me home with, and I nearly lose myself in a giggle-fit. Really, do they issue these things at the store or something?

The client mistakes my suppressed mirth for girlish excitement, and theatrically opens out the bag with a flourish, producing...a collar and bridle. With, God help me, twee leather ears on it, and a bit.

And a riding crop.

The twit is grinning ear-to-ear, and I am really thinking it would be quite nice if the bridle is for him and not me, but I don't hold out much hope.

Much, much later in the evening, I am soaking my poor tender parts in a hot bath at home, and I am seriously considering having my manager amend my online profile page to stipulate, No riding crops. There are going to be bruises on my backside and thighs for quite a few days, I imagine. At least the client tipped me well for my troubles, but it's almost not worth the money; I won't be sitting comfortably for a while.

A three-month exclusive with Holmes is starting to sound pretty attractive, kind of like a working holiday, if you know what I mean. I sort of hope that he will indeed offer me one, but then I remember how anxious he made me feel, and the intimidating black car, and I'm back to wondering what I really do think.

I decide that since tomorrow is Monday and I don't have any lunch-time meetings, I might as well see if I can spot Holmes going in at his office. I might even be able to get into the building, if the security isn't too tight and I'm clever enough. I'll have to come up with some minimal kind of disguise, although I'm not too worried that he'll recognize me. I found out pretty quickly in this business that most clients don't really see their escorts-they don't remember the face, at any rate. Maybe other parts, although even that is debatable. I don't think we quite count as real people to them.