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  “What about her?”

  “She’s been in witness relo. But someone just blew her cover!”

  “What kind of asshole would do that?”

  “They’re not saying. But ten to one it’s her husband.”

  “She’s married? How’s that possible? She’s just a kid.”

  “Time flies. Believe it or not, she’s twenty-four now.”

  I scoot onto the couch next to Maybe and watch the drama unfold. It’s so weird, calling my daughter Maybe, but it’s something I need to get used to.

  The photo they’re showing of Dani Ripper’s a good one, designed to build ratings.

  She’s hot.

  “WHY ARE WE flying to Louisville?” Dr. P. asks.

  We’re at his place. I’m carrying his luggage.

  “Where’s your medical bag?”

  “You didn’t mention bringing it.”

  “I shouldn’t have to! You’re a doctor! What if I get shot or something?”

  “Relax, Donovan. It’s only a matter of retrieving it from the den.”

  He leaves to fetch it.

  An hour later we’re airborne, thanks to Bob Koltech, who owns and operates a fleet of six jets. Bob and I have a great relationship. In return for giving me instant service and personally flying me wherever I wish to go, no questions asked, I pay Bob twice his normal fees.

  Dr. P. says, “Did you hear they found Mindy Renee?”

  “She’s Dani Ripper now. It’s all over the news.”

  Indeed, it’s a compelling story. Even Callie’s hooked. One network promised around-the-clock coverage as the story develops, so Callie and the others are having a Dani party tonight, complete with pizza and cheese bread! Such fare is no big deal for me, but these ladies are extremely calorie conscious.

  At ten forty-five local time we land at General Aviation, near Standiford Field in Louisville. Bob has a limo waiting for us, and within twenty minutes Dr. P. and I are strolling through the lobby of the Seelbach Hotel.

  We check in, grab a drink together, and go to our respective rooms. While getting comfortable I turn on the TV to catch the latest on Dani Ripper.

  Like Callie said, Mindy Renee Whittaker’s all grown up now. At twenty-four, she’s blossomed into one of the prettiest women I’ve ever seen, assuming the photos are authentic. They say she’s a private investigator, working out of Cincinnati. Changed her name to Dani Ripper nine years ago.

  Dani Ripper? As in Jack the Ripper? Odd name for a girl to make up.

  But I like it.

  And I like her.

  I find myself wondering if a gorgeous private eye like Dani Ripper might be interested in working with me. I fire up my laptop to see what the internet says about her.

  More photos.

  Stunning. Not as sexy as Gwen, but prettier.

  Not as beautiful as Callie, but close.

  And there’s this: she’s married.

  That’s her husband on TV, holding a press conference in front of their house.

  Ben Davis. But Dani goes by Ripper, not Davis. I wonder why.

  I also wonder why Dani’s not with Ben at the press conference. Then I think about it and decide she’s probably inside, hiding. Ben says she’s staying at a friend’s house, but that’s probably untrue.

  If she is staying with a friend, that’s a hell of a lucky friend!

  I listen a few minutes, and…wait. Is he actually trying to pitch a book deal? I wonder if maybe Dani and her husband wrote a book and then leaked the story themselves.

  Clever.

  I like the fact she’s married. Means she likes men.

  I catch myself, and laugh.

  What is it about men? Why do we always visualize ourselves dating or sleeping with the woman we’re thinking about at any given minute?

  I laugh again, forced to admit that’s what I was thinking just now. About how Dani, like Callie, is breathtakingly beautiful, and how I’d give anything to have sex with Callie, but Callie prefers women, which takes me out of the game. And I was thinking how Dani Ripper’s as close to Callie as a man is likely to find on this earth, and that led me to think, well, Dani’s married, so she likes men, which means I have a chance!

  I might be more insane than Rachel.

  But now that I’m all worked up, a powerful urge comes over me. There are two or three women I could call to satisfy that urge, and one is local. But for some reason I can’t explain, only one woman will do on this particular night.

  Miranda Rodriguez.

  Miranda’s a grad student at NYU, working toward her master’s in counseling psychology. Smart, witty, pretty, she’s the whole package.

  “Donovan!” she squeals. “I was just thinking about you!”

  “Still angry I canceled the Chicago trip yesterday?”

  She laughs. “Don’t be silly! That wasn’t your fault. Your daughter surprised you with a visit. That’s a wonderful thing!”

  “True. So why were you thinking about me just now?”

  She laughs again, harder.

  I love Miranda’s laugh. Can’t describe it except to say it reminds me of the tinkling of piano keys and a waterfall.

  I know, I know.

  “Spill it, Miranda. You won’t hurt my feelings.”

  “Well…I’ve got a tuition payment coming up.”

  Right. So of course she was thinking about me. You see, Miranda’s fucking her way through college. Tuition and living expenses being what they are in NYC, it’s either earn the money or take out a school loan for three hundred grand.

  “When can we get together?” I say.

  “Name it, handsome,” she says, and I feel her warmth coming through the phone.

  “Tonight?” I say, knowing she’ll say it’s too late.

  “Can you arrange a private jet?”

  “I can.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Seriously!”

  “Omigod!” She squeals. “I’m so excited!”

  I look at my watch.

  Eleven twenty-two.

  If Bob Koltech picks her up, we’ll lose three hours. One for him and the co-pilot to drive to the airport and get the jet ready, and two to fly to Teterboro Airport. Then two hours back, and another thirty minutes before Miranda can get to my hotel.

  5:00 a.m.? That won’t work. I’ll have Lou Kelly book a private jet from NYC.

  “I’ll have a limo at your place in fifteen minutes,” I say. “By the time you get to Teterboro, the jet will be ready to roll. “You can be here in three hours.”

  “How many days?”

  “Pack light.”

  “Oh, Pooh.”

  “If you stay longer we can shop for whatever clothes you might need.”

  “That’s my boy!” she says.

  “Can’t wait to see you,” I say.

  “Me too!”

  We’re both quiet a minute. Then she says, “It’s not just about the money, Donovan.”

  “I know.”

  “I really like you.”

  “I know that, too.”

  “I just don’t want you to think…you know.”

  “I do know.”

  “I mean, nobody treats me like you.”

  “Miranda?”

  “Yes, sweetheart?”

  “Pack your shit.”

  “Okay.”

  She makes a kissing sound and we hang up. Then I call Lou and have him make the arrangements. He doesn’t ask if I’m in Louisville, and I don’t volunteer the information.

  With that done, I call room service and order a bottle of their finest bourbon, two tumblers and flutes, and champagne on ice for Miranda. I’d wait a couple of hours on the champagne, but room service shuts down at midnight.

  When the guy brings my order, I ask where the ice machine is, knowing I’ll need to refill the bucket in a couple of hours. As he leaves, Lou calls me back to say Miranda’s on her way to the airport.

  He says, “Have you seen the news?”

  “Dani Ripper?”


  “Hell of a story!” Lou says. “Can’t wait to read the book.”

  “I’d read it just to hear what went through her mind when she learned about the door key.”

  “No kidding! You think she broke the story to sell the book?”

  “Probably. And if it’s money she’s after, she’ll be flush with clients soon enough.”

  “I’d hire her just to look at her,” he says.

  We both go quiet, allowing our thoughts of Dani Ripper to go where they may.

  Breaking the mood, I ask, “Anything new on Felix?”

  “No. But I’ll have all the victim information by tomorrow.”

  “Thanks, Lou.”

  Miranda Rodriguez.

  MIRANDA DOESN’T LIKE the way the limo driver keeps looking into his mirror, staring at her. It’s nearly midnight, the road shiny, slick with rain. It wouldn’t do to have an accident. She presses the button on the armrest and holds it while the glass between her and the driver goes up. She continues holding the button until the thick material of the divider rises to block his view completely. She doesn’t want to be rude, but he seems to know what she’s up to, and he’s made her uncomfortable.

  She takes this opportunity to call her new best friend, who says, “Miranda! Hi!”

  “Did I wake you?”

  “No, of course not! I’m a night owl. What’s up?”

  “I’m meeting Donovan Creed tonight.”

  “Yes.”

  “You…knew?”

  She laughs. “How could I possibly know?”

  “You don’t sound surprised.”

  “It was my first thought why you might call me this late.”

  “He’s flying me to Louisville on a private jet.”

  “And you’re excited.”

  “Yes.”

  Her friend’s voice is warm. “You like him,” she says.

  “I do, Rose. A lot.”

  “That’s good. I’m so happy you do.” Rose pauses, then adds, “It’s late. Are you tired?”

  “I’ll sleep on the jet.”

  The two friends are quiet for a moment.

  Miranda says, “I’m excited and scared at the same time.”

  “Enjoy the feeling. And remember everything we talked about.”

  “I will. And thank you so much for everything!”

  “It’s an exciting time for both of us,” Rose says.

  Three hours later, Miranda knocks on Creed’s hotel room door.

  Donovan Creed.

  MIRANDA LOOKS LIKE a million bucks. By the time I shut the door behind us, she’s on me like fire on a match head! Between kisses it dawns on me the polite thing to do is offer her champagne, but then I realize propriety—like Miranda’s clothing—has been left at the door.

  “Do me!” she says.

  I smile. “Right now?”

  “Do me!”

  “No drinks or chitchat?”

  “Do me!”

  I do her.

  Then roll onto my back to catch my breath.

  After a few minutes Miranda says, “Are you comfortable?”

  “And then some.”

  She sits up in bed, flashing a sly smile.

  “I hope you’re not too tired,” she says.

  “Because?”

  “Because sex is like pancakes.”

  “Pancakes,” I say.

  “Uh huh.”

  “Do tell!”

  “When you make pancakes, you always toss out the first one.”

  “Ah. And that’s because?”

  “The purpose of the first pancake is to get the skillet warmed up just right.”

  “In this example, which of us is the skillet?”

  “That would be me,” she says.

  “And this means?”

  “I’m going to rock your world!”

  “Right now?”

  “If we haven’t used up all the batter.”

  I sit up, figuring we’ll start with a kiss. But she pushes me back gently and says, “I’ll take it from here, Flapjack!”

  “Okay.”

  There are two absolutes where hookers are concerned.

  One, cash is king.

  Two, you get what you pay for.

  The escort food chain ranges from street walker to courtesan. Top of the list initials include C, PS, and GF, in that order, and less than one percent attain it.

  GF stands for girl friend experience. Young ladies fresh in the business naively offer clients a girl friend experience, a claim that triples their hourly price. But it’s usually unsustainable. Before meeting the first client it seems plausible a young lady could fake a warm smile, be super friendly, and tongue kiss Richard Gere from Pretty Woman, and—oh yeah, have romantic sex with him.

  But the guy who shows up to claim her kisses looks nothing like Richard Gere. In fact, he probably looks a lot like the very men she finds disgusting, and would never look at, much less kiss. That first hour will prove to be the longest of her life. Her client will go to the internet boards and post he had a rip off experience. After a few negative reviews the young lady will no longer be able to charge GF prices.

  Those who truly offer a GF experience are few and far between, and they earn every penny they get.

  PS means porn star. Women who promise their clients a Porn Star experience should be prepared to make a serious physical commitment. Clients who pay a premium for PS aren’t looking for missionary.

  C stands for courtesans, the rarest of the elite. Courtesans represent the highest form of professional romance. You don’t just call a phone number and request a courtesan. You meet her in a neutral setting, exchange conversation, and she makes the decision to date. You want a relationship with a true courtesan? You’ll have to pass an interview, and give references for two prior GF’s. And yes, she’ll interview your references!

  Courtesans are guaranteed to be beautiful, intelligent, charming, witty, fun, sensual, and classy. These are the women who turn heads at formal parties and keep conversations flowing. They’re also great listeners, highly empathetic, and have a thorough understanding of the three or four men they’re willing to date.

  And they’re expensive.

  A good courtesan can earn thirty grand a week.

  Miranda’s a very good courtesan, my all-time favorite, and she’s put a glow on me I haven’t felt in a long time. If you know me, you know I live a high stress lifestyle. These sessions with Miranda let me unwind and completely relax. A few hours later, I’m ready to take on the world.

  I’m lying next to her now, listening to her sleep. I kiss her shoulder and wish she weren’t so brilliant. If she were less intelligent it would take her much longer to get her degree, and I’d have more time to be with her.

  See, she intends to stop hooking after graduating.

  Wait.

  I didn’t think to ask if it bothers you I pay for sex.

  Does it?

  I know professional sex is frowned upon by a high percentage of the population. But there are worse vices, believe me. And I can make a strong argument all sex is bought, sold, bartered, or stolen.

  But I’ll save that discussion for the second bourbon.

  In the meantime, I’ll leave you with this thought. There are three options for consensual sex, and two of them involve affairs. In other words, you can be married or single, and you can fuck someone who’s married or single…

  And that’s it.

  Single on single, married on married, or married on single.

  Within those options, you can pay for sex or get it free.

  With so few choices available, I try not to judge people. What works for you is fine with me, provided you don’t step on my toes. Yes, I pay Miranda for sex. But she and I are both single, and love spending time together. And when we do, no one gets hurt.

  Which is worse, single people paying for sex or married people having an affair?

  Argue among yourselves. It’s late, and I’ve got an early morning.

  IT’
S UNSEASONABLY WARM at 8:00 a.m. in downtown Louisville, and destined to get hotter. By 2:00 p.m. the heat index is expected to hit a buck-twelve, thanks to the legendary Ohio Valley humidity. But no matter. Dr. P. and I will be in Virginia by then. Miranda, too.

  Miranda’s a real trooper.

  After learning why Dr. P. and I came here, she asked to join us. I tempted her with sleeping in and ordering room service, and warned it wouldn’t be pleasant. But she insisted, and that’s why we’re enjoying a cup of coffee in the hotel restaurant, waiting on Dr. P.’s phone call. He’s across the street, at Jefferson Memorial Hospital, arranging clearance for us.

  Miranda sips her coffee and smiles. Yes, she’s paid to smile and be pleasant on three hours’ sleep. But most women in her situation would’ve been happy to stay in bed and order room service.

  At a separate table a few feet away, a young brunette in business attire is staring holes in us over a bowl of oatmeal. Miranda seems not to notice, or care. This is one of the many things I love about being with her in public. Miranda’s half my age, but not the least self-conscious about our relationship.

  She says, “You’re beautiful!”

  I laugh. “That’s my line for you.”

  “It applies, though.”

  I shrug. “Sounds silly when you say it. I mean, I’m old enough to be your father.”

  She shakes her head. “Donovan?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Accept the compliment.”

  “Okay.”

  “Asshole.”

  I check to see if she’s smiling.

  She is.

  The young brunette at the table next to us has removed her cell phone from her purse. I think she’s texting about us to one of her girlfriends.

  “This is something I need to work on?” I ask. “Accepting compliments?”

  “It is. But we’ve discussed this several times.”

  “I know.”

  “I won’t be here much longer,” she says.

  “I know.”

  She gets to her feet and leans across the table to give me a kiss. The local businessmen at the table behind her enjoy the view her short skirt offers, while the brunette beside us looks to be retching, as if she swallowed some bad seafood.

  Miranda kisses me a second time and says, “You’re going to miss me, aren’t you?”

  I kiss her back, and sigh. “I will. But what I’ll really miss?”