“Begin what?”

“Investigating. That is what you planned for us, correct?”

“You want to help?”

Win smiled. “But of course.” He turned his phone around so that it faced Myron. “Dial.”

“The number in the magazine?”

“Well, golly, Myron, I thought we’d call the White House,” Win said dryly. “See if we can get Hillary to talk dirty.”

Myron took hold of the phone. “You ever call one of these lines?”

“I?” Win feigned shock. “The Debutantes’ Darling? The Society Stud? Surely you jest.”

“Neither have I.”

“Perhaps you’d like to be alone, then,” Win said. “Loosen your belt, pull down your trousers, that kind of thing.”

“Very funny.”

Myron dialed the 900 number under Kathy’s photograph. He had made thousands of investigative calls, both during his years in the FBI and in his private work for team owners and commissioners. But this was the first time he’d felt self-conscious.

An awful beeping noise blasted his ear, followed by an operator: “We’re sorry. Your call is being blocked.”

Myron looked up. “The call won’t go through.”

Win nodded. “I forgot. We have a block on all 900 calls. Employees were calling them all the time and ringing up quite a bill—not just the sex phones but astrologers, sports lines, psychics, recipes, even dial-a-prayers.” He reached behind him and pulled out another phone. “Use this one. It’s my private line. No blocks.”

Myron redialed. The phone rang twice before being picked up. A woman’s voice on tape husked, “Hello, there. You’ve reached the fantasy phone line. If you’re under eighteen or do not wish to pay for this call, please hang up now.” Less than a second passed before she continued. “Welcome to the fantasy phone line, where you can talk to the sexiest, most willing, most beautiful, most desirous women in the world.”

Myron noticed that the taped voice was speaking far more slowly now, as if she were reading to a kindergarten class. Each word was its own sentence.

“Welcome. To. The. Fantasy …”

“In a moment you will talk directly to one of our wondrous, gorgeous, voluptuous, hot girls who are here to heighten your pleasure to new boundaries of ecstasy. One-on-one private conversation. Discreetly billed to your phone. You will talk live with your personal fantasy girl.” The voice droned on with its own form of iambic pentameter. Finally the tape gave instructions: “If you have a touch-tone phone, press one if you’d like to talk about the secret confessions of a naughty schoolteacher. Press two if …”

Myron looked up at Win. “How long have I been on?”

“Six minutes.”

“Twenty-four dollars already,” Myron said. “Does the term ‘total scam’ mean anything to you?”

Win nodded. “Talk about jerking off.”

Myron pressed a button, anything to get off this revolving tape. The phone rang ten times—Christ, they knew how to stretch the time—before he heard another female voice say, “Hi, there. How are you today?”

Her voice was exactly what Myron had expected. Low and husky.

“Uh, hi,” Myron fumbled. “Look, I’d like—”

“What’s your name, honey?” she asked.

“Myron.” He slapped his forehead and held back a profanity. Had he really been stupid enough to use his real name?

“Mmmmm, Myron,” she said as if testing it out. “I like that name. It’s so sexy.”

“Yeah, well, thanks—”

“My name is Tawny.”

Tawny. Sure.

“How did you get my number, Myron?”

“I saw it in a magazine.”

“What magazine, Myron?”

The constant use of his name was beginning to unnerve him. “Nips.”

“Oooo. I like that magazine. It makes me so, you know.”

A way with words. “Listen, uh, Tawny, I’d like to ask you about your ad.”

“Myron?”

“Yes.”

“I love your voice. You sound really hot. Do you want to know what I look like?”

“No, not real—”

“I have brown eyes. I have long brown hair, kinda wavy. I’m five-six. And I’m a 36-24-36. C cup. Sometimes a D.”

“You must be very proud but—”

“What do you like to do, Myron?”

“Do?”

“For fun.”

“Look, Tawny, you seem very nice, really, but can I talk to the girl in the ad?”

“I am the girl in the ad,” she said.

“No, I mean, the girl whose picture is in the magazine on top of this phone number.”

“That’s me, Myron. I’m that girl.”

“The girl in the photo is a blonde with blue eyes,” Myron said. “You said you had brown eyes and brown hair.”

Win gave him a thumbs-up, scoring one for the detailed eye of Myron Bolitar, ace investigator.

“Did I say that?” Tawny asked. “I meant blonde with blue eyes.”

“I need to talk to the girl in the ad. It’s very important.”

Her voice went down another octave. “I’m better, Myron. I’m the best.”

“I don’t doubt that, Tawny. You sound very professional. But right now I need to talk to the girl in the ad.”

“She’s not here, Myron.”

“When will she be back?”

“I’m not sure, Myron. But just sit back and relax. We’re going to have fun—”

“I don’t want to be rude, but I’m really not interested. Can I talk to your boss?”

“My boss?”

“Yes.”

Her tone was different now. More matter-of-fact. “You’re kidding, right?”

“No. I’m serious. Please put your boss on.”

“Okay, then,” she said. “Hold on a second.”

A minute passed. Then two. Win said, “She’s not coming back. She’s just going to see how long the chump will stay on the line and pour dollars down her pants.”

“I don’t think so,” Myron said. “She liked my voice, said I sounded hot.”

“Oh, I didn’t realize. Probably the first time she’s ever said that.”

“My thinking exactly.” A few minutes later Myron put the receiver back in its cradle. “How long was I on for?”