Novel Name : Masters & Lovers Box Set Three

Chapter 30

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In the privacy of his own apartment, Bech, beer in hand, he cracks off the cap against the edge of the
table then, leaning back on the chair, swings his boots up onto the top.

A swallow of the beer and then he riffles through the card index, brows rising at some of the names:
Taking a card at random, he reads:

Alex Bergerman

Accountant. Interested in stocks. Wife 2 kids boy + girl

Likes corsets, big hair. Gets off on dirty talk

A pencilled note at the bottom of the card: Ask him about the Planet Levanti merger. Good investment?

Flipping the card over, Bech checks the back: a list of a dozen or so dates about a month apart. Each
partnered with a money amount.

Payments to the whore?

He sucks in his cheeks, then digging the filofax from his pocket, checks the most recent date. Then the
previous one. He grins.

He takes another random card,

Daimon Crevier

Banker. Unmarried. Nerd: model trains. Talker. Likes flattery and head

With a smile that has nothing to do with humour, he puts the card back in its correct place, then taking
the frontmost card first, starts methodically to work through. Occasionally, he draws in a whistle as he
reads a name…


Some hours later, several more bottles have accumulated on the table top and have now been joined
by a coffee pot. Several cards have been removed, paper-clipped to attached notes. Bech tugs at his
lower lip with thumb and forefinger.

What to do with the information?

The great and glorious of the City…





The Police Commissioner…

Quite a client base…

All those dates…

Payments made…

All that written evidence…

He picks up one of the cards, set apart from the others; re-reads it.

Larry Klempner

Businessman. Travels. Not local

Likes threesomes, conversation. No apparent family

Pencilled note - cross-ref Frank Conners

Musing, he drums fingernails on the card.

‘Likes conversation’…

Not too much info there though…

At least he hasn’t completely lost his sense of discretion.

And then another card:

Frank Conners. Real estate. Finder for Larry Klempner

Likes threesomes.

Thinks he’s funny.


Back at the station, Cappelli has the bitch in interview, a suit in the next chair. Bech watches from
behind the mirrored glass.

She doesn’t look so good now: makeup streaked, hair a mess, face swollen and puffy.

A good scare will shut her up for now…

His gut grinds a warning.

Who’s going to miss one more whore?

Would it be easier to get rid of her?

Worry about Klempner later?

He shudders.

Not that suicidal…

Cappelli sits back in his chair, tapping his teeth with the end of a pencil. “It’s all very well Mitch, trying to
claim you’ve done nothing, but you admit to taking money for sexual favours? You’re a prostitute?”

She folds her arms, juts her chin…



She’s scared shitless…

… “It's not illegal. I've done nothing wrong”

“Selling cocaine is illegal. Giving free samples to kids is illegal. The report we have…” Cappelli flips
open a file, stabs the pencil onto a sheet inside… “… says you've been seen selling to minors at the
school gate...”


“… Fuck the father while the kids are snorting behind the bike-shed. Is that the plan?”

“I don’t sell drugs.”

“So that stash we found was all for personal use, was it? Single tablets? Individual zip-bags. What
about the money we found? That’s a lot to keep at home.”

“It’s not mine. I only keep a bit of cash in my purse. Someone planted it.”

Cappelli nods. Yeah… Right…

Bech watches and listens. The lawyer sits beside her, arms folded, face a blank as he listens,
occasionally interjecting if Cappelli gets too pushy.

Who’s the suit?

The lawyer tries to cover it, poker-faced, but he’s pissed about something…

Not happy about being here?

The whore is denying everything of course. It doesn’t matter. The evidence will do the job for him.

He eyes the lawyer again. They all look much the same of course: white shirt and three-piece, polished
shoes. But the cut of the clothes, a couple of expensive-looking rings, diamond studded tie-pin… He
looks higher up the food-chain than the average.

“I’d like a word with my client in private.”

Cappelli tosses the pencil down with a rattle. “Sure. Ten minutes?”

“That should be adequate.”


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