at all. She lacked the subtlety and the capacity for delightfully erratic behavior that he found so charming in Lilah. "What are you doing to my hand?" T.S. asked, stalling for time.
"I think it's shiatsu or kung fu or acupuncture or something Japanese. My daughter taught it to me. It's good for headaches. Which I'm sure you have now or will have before morning." She smiled at him.
Headache? He felt wonderful.
But their time together was interrupted by the sounds of deep sobbing. T.S. looked up and the pathetic sight framed in the doorway brought unexpected tears to his eyes. A thin man with a curtain of scraggly blond hair on each side of his face was being led past in handcuffs by two officers. He held a cheap, long blonde wig in his tethered hands and the strapless gown he wore was ripped up one side so that his pale white flesh peeked through. He lurched forward, sobbing, wedged between the two patrolmen.
"Oh, God. I know him," Theodore said sadly. "That must be the other prostitute. The one who wouldn't hurt Auntie Lil and got away. I've met him before."
"You know him?" Lilah's eyes followed his and took in the pitiful sight. The man had stopped, slumped against a grimy wall. A long scratch marred his bony shoulders and his black hose were ripped from the thigh to the toes. Sobbing louder, he proclaimed that he would never hurt anyone.
T.S. knew, from Auntie Lil's description, that he was telling the truth. He hoped Auntie Lil would tell Santos the same.
"You know him?" Lilah asked again.
"Yes. I have his card at home."
"What's his name?" Lilah was appalled but intrigued at this rare glimpse into a world usually kept so carefully hidden from her.
"I forget his real name. But I call him Peter Pan. Poor guy. He just wanted to be a star."
By the time Santos returned with Auntie Lil, Lilah had fallen asleep with her head slumped on T.S.'s shoulder. He could have slept himself, but it would have been a waste of the wonderful feeling that flooded his heart.
Auntie Lil slipped quietly back into place and gave T.S. a quick glance. "'Thank God for that lawyer," was all she would say.
"Next," Santos announced, crooking a finger and beckoning T.S. to follow. "Don't worry. Your lawyer is waiting for you upstairs."
Even as T.S. followed Santos out the door, Herbert materialized and slipped back in his place at Auntie Lil's side.
An hour later, T.S. thanked Mr. Prescott and sent the lawyer on his way. He returned to the room to find all three of his companions fast asleep. Herbert was breathing quietly, sitting completely upright. But he was, without a doubt, deep in dreamland. Auntie Lil lay practically sprawled across his chest, her own lusty breathing just this side of an unladylike snore. Lilah had her head on the table and the silver glint of her hair against the dull brown of the cheap Formica shone as finely as precious metal amidst mud.
'"Thanks," Santos told T.S. quietly, patting his shoulder. "Why don't you folks call it a night? I'll tell you everything you want to know in the morning."
T.S. shook his head firmly. "We want to see it through to the end."
Santos nodded like he understood. "You won't have to wait much longer. Abromowitz made a phone call. Eight down and two more to go."
Twenty minutes later—with T.S. still the only occupant of the room left awake—he was rewarded for his vigilance with the satisfaction of seeing Lance Worthington brought into the precinct by four plainclothesmen. The producer wore his tan cashmere coat thrown over a pair of matching purple velour sweats and his hands were tightly linked by the metal bands of a pair of sturdy handcuffs.
"Try pulling on your stupid little ears now," T.S. thought with grim satisfaction. "Dope me, indeed."
Sally St. Claire trudged in behind Worthington, flanked by a pair of grim policewomen. Clearly, she, like Worthington, had been awakened from a sound sleep. Her hair was tangled and unkempt. Her pale face, devoid of makeup, gleamed with a plastic harshness beneath the precinct lights. Her inner hardness was emerging, T.S. thought to himself. One day, her facelift would give way and she'd crack, lines blossoming across her face until, within minutes, she'd shriveled up into an old hag.
He thought, unexpectedly, of Emily's tiny body, laid out on the autopsy table.
Discretion, he realized, was not always the better part of valor.
Having decided, T.S. walked firmly to the door and