Easier said than done. I kept myself busy for the rest of the day but by the time I was ready to go to bed, my mind wanted to re-play that little moment against Loretta's door in much more sensual detail.

I'm not a saint and never claimed to be one. I know right from wrong; I've worked to be a good agent and father; tried to be a good husband and generally keep to the better side of my nature whenever possible.

Oh I have a temper that I work to keep under control, and I don't tolerate fools too well either, but on the whole I'd like to think that what you see is what you get when it comes to Cassius and Marie's boy here. I'm pretty straightforward.

So why was that weird little moment getting under my skin?

Anyone who's ever been married knows that sex has a lotta flavors. There's comfort sex and silly sex and drunk sex and 'this is better than havin' a fight' sex along with hundreds of other variations. Linda and I plowed through our fair share of varieties, most of 'em damned good as far as I could tell, but in all that time we didn't go beyond conventionalities. Neither she nor I were interested in bringing other people in, or acting out plays in our bedroom, and we certainly weren't about to tie each other up.

Even with the few women after my ex-wife, things were still . . . inside the lines.

But now I could still feel the rubber band around my thumbs without even closing my eyes. And the charge in the air between us, like the ozone right before a storm hits. I know I didn't imagine it, either.

The hell? Was I going deviant in my old age? Even as I threw this question at myself I was already aroused and damned confused about it. This particular scenario had never been on my private shower playlist but as I stepped under the hot water, I knew good and well it was gonna be the one to get me off within the next few minutes.

Damn it.

And yeah, it did. Between the memory of those sage-green eyes and that seductive threat of having me at her leisure, I was already primed. Afterwards, I had to brace myself against the tile wall to catch my breath and stayed under the water until it got cool.

-oo00oo—

"Lys Noir wasn't open when we stopped in, but we did get to leave word about comin' back," LaSalle told me. "It's on Perdito and Clare, up north of the stadium. Real industrial on the outside."

"Okay. We need to check out O'Malley's residence as well," I told my team after I'd swallowed my sip of coffee. "So let's hit that first. Might be something there to give us a clue about . . . damned near anything at this point."

We drove over to an address on Annunciation and into a little shotgun house on a row there. Sonja noted how clean it was, and that carried over into the living room as well. Neat, organized, and with that faint sort of lifeless scent to it. Once we got gloves on, LaSalle took the kitchen and I headed into the bedroom, feeling a strange sense of certainty that was borne out as I looked at the tidy bed.

Wire frame. Just like Simone Hiver had predicted. I got close to the headboard and took a look; sure enough, the black paint had worn away on the two bars at the top middle of the frame. That kinda flaking comes from metal scraping metal and that meant those thumb cuffs most likely had done it.

I looked at the spread—a cheap knockoff of a patchwork quilt—but I didn't see any visible evidence of blood or any other fluid there. Then I opened the nightstand drawer just as Sonja came in.

We blushed at the same time, which was a first, but I wasn't going to let that stop me from my job, and lifted out the first item: a rubber ball with straps on either side.

"Neighbors say he was quiet, and now I see why," Sonja quipped, looking at the gag. I set it aside and pulled out a bottle of lubricant and under that, something that looked like a credit card made of grey foil. It didn't have a name or numbers though, only a magnetic strip on the back, and the logo of a single slender flower on the front.

"Seen that before," she nodded.

"Lys noir," I agreed. "A black lily. Not exactly a coincidence."

The manager of Lys Noir—Alden Moreno- wasn't thrilled to see us, but he didn't argue about talking to us either. He was a thin middle aged man with a ponytail with nothing particularly spooky to his appearance save some fingernail polish. We were ushered into a darkened empty club with heavy on the vampire décor, but nothing any more outrageous than other clubs in the city. I noted that there were industrial strength hooks on the walls, though.

"Wondering if you've seen this man here," LaSalle had O'Malley's photo out.

Moreno took a moment to look at it and didn't answer right away, which was interesting. Businessmen fall into two categories: those who want to help us so we go away, and those who don't want to help us so we go away. I got the feeling this was one of the former.

"I may have," he finally said, still staring at the photo. "Is he in trouble?"

"He's dead," I told the man, "under suspicious circumstances so we're interested in talking to anyone who he may have associated with here."

Moreno didn't flinch, like most folks do at hearing that news. "That's unfortunate, yeah. As for associations, we're fairly exclusive, so he would have to have been a member or a guest to get in."

Sonja held up the card.

Moreno took it, walked to the podium near the door and swiped it through the machine there, looking at some read-out before glancing up at us. "Okay this is a lot more helpful than the photo. Oliver O'Malley, been a member for about a year, tended to rent out the Opium Den upstairs according to this. Vita's gonna be upset; she liked him."

"Opium Den?" LaSalle looked the way I felt, but Moreno shook his head.

"No opium; it's the décor. All oriental, heavy on the incense. And yeah, we have a couple of party rooms we rent out upstairs. All legitimate."

"Mind if we have a look?" I asked. This case was getting weirder by the moment and I felt that in for a penny, in for a pound sure applied. Moreno looked like he was going to object, but with a sigh he fished out a ring of keys and led us to an elevator that took us up to the second level. Things here were definitely a shade more ominous; with lower lighting and a vibe I didn't like much. A few steps down the hall and Moreno stopped at a door, unlocking it, and pushing it open.

Bamboo/rattan on the walls with Chinese screen as well, and another wire framed day bed, this one with a fancy coverlet of embroidered silk.

Also, a wall full of interesting . . . gear. I recognized the handcuffs, and the selection of gags was disturbing, but the paddles and quirts had me flinching just looking at them. LaSalle couldn't stand still; he shifted around like a spooked cat, and Sonja was sort of frozen in place.

Moreno looked like he wanted to laugh but turned it into a cough. "I take it this is your first time seeing a consensual scene space," he sighed.

"Looks more like a torture chamber," LaSalle ventured, looking fascinated and disturbed. I'm sure my own expression was close to his. Sonja looked wary but not quite as . . . . judgmental. I made a note of that.

"Ever play football?" Moreno asked, looking at LaSalle. When he got a faint nod, the man continued. "Okay. Think back. Hard game; you go all out while the score bounces around, you're taking hit after hit, but the adrenaline's pumping right down to the last play with the crowds and your team and every second flashing by. You go for it; maybe it's a Fleaflicker or a Hail Mary, but whatever it is, the damned play WORKS and suddenly you're weightless, soaring right with that score and alllll the pain is worth it, right?"

I watched LaSalle nod again, slowly.

Moreno shrugged. "That's what people chase here, man. That adrenaline/endorphin high. Focus, pain, release: same pattern, different game."

I got it. Not sure LaSalle did, but he was workin' on it. I turned to Moreno. "So O'Malley rented this room regularly? Was he alone?"

"No," Moreno replied. "Sometimes he'd invite Vita—she's one of my supervisors, and sometimes it was Kira. I suppose you'll want to talk to them too?"

"You suppose right," I assured him, giving the room one last look before we left, noting that there were bare spots on the painted bars of the day bed's metal frame.

-oo00oo-

"I don't get it," LaSalle admitted, shaking his head. "I mean I got the analogy but still . . ." he tapped his temple. "Does not compute."

"Different strokes," Sonja mimed a whip, "for different folks?"

"Ha, ha," he replied, but I saw him grin a bit before he looked at me. "What about you? Any of that make sense?"

"Old dog here," I replied evasively. "So now it's about finding the two women-" My phone buzzed and I checked it; Plame's text dropped another piece into the puzzle.

Relay station set to be sold in next six months. Private bidder pushing hard for it, digging for more the company.

Now things were focusing a bit, and after a bit of speculation, I sent my team out to talk to the Black Lily employees.

And I went back to the morgue.

I had to; I wasn't going to let Loretta's amusement keep me from my job, and I owed it to Simone Hiver to show her I wasn't upset by what happened the previous day. If she was gonna be working with me and my team I had to step up and be the professional I always was.

When I got in, she and Loretta were having coffee together and laughing about something. Simone looked relaxed, and that changed the minute she spotted me; I could see her face tense up, so I held up a hand to placate her.

"I owe you an apology," I told her, shooting a glance at Loretta. "Zoomed out of here yesterday feeling bad because I'd asked a question that you answered and didn't let you know that I did in fact, appreciate the explanation."

She blushed. That did interesting things to that pretty freckled complexion of hers as she gave me a tentative smile. "Thank you. I'm sorry for being so . . . literal in my explanation."

"Demonstrative, even," Loretta smiled. "Still, any breakthroughs?"

"Possibly." I told them about the relay station and what I'd seen both at O'Malley's home and Lys Noir as I watched Simone's reactions. She nodded along with Loretta when I finished.

"Well if he was a patron of the club he probably had a partner there. Where was the body found again?"

"Bordeaux street. Lot closer to his home."

Simone looked troubled. "Oooh, that suggests . . . a relationship. A more personal relationship that is."

Loretta gave her a questioning look. "Maybe I missed something but one would think that consensual asphyxiation would require a very personal relationship."

"Not always," Simone replied. "You trust a surgeon but you're not required to have a relationship with him or her. The factor is trust. Those women from the club build a clientele based on that trust, but they're usually discouraged from relationships with clients."

I looked at Loretta and saw the same question in her eyes, so I cleared my throat and asked it. "How do you know so much about this stuff?"

Simone looked wary. "Let's say I have my sources and leave it at that, shall we?"