Giorgi stared up at his tormentor, then said, "You're crazy."

She winked at him. "I never claimed to be otherwise."

Greg looped an arm over her shoulder. "It's one of her most attractive qualities. Say, isn't that tile getting kind of cold?"

"Yes. You should get up before the maintenance crew comes by. They're very efficient about picking up trash." His pants were lying nearby, and she picked them up, tweezing them carefully between thumb and forefinger, and tossed them to him. "Please put those on. There are children who are probably being damaged beyond repair even as I speak." The little girl who had been worried about the mouse picked up one of Giorgi's shoes and pegged it at him. She hit him square in the back of the head. "Though some of them are already recovering. Nice arm, sweetie."

The little girl grinned proudly. "I'm gonna be Nolan Ryan when I grow up."

"That's it! Aim high." Clark had picked up the other shoe, and he dropped it in Fetchit's lap. "You're going to spoil him."

"If you'll finish getting dressed, Mister Fetchit, we'll get you out of here."

"And take you somewhere private," Mozell purred. She managed to make it sound like both a promise--and a threat.

Giorgi had slipped his pants on up to his knees, then put on his shoes. He stood up, and began to get the rest of the way into his pants. "You could have given me a heart attack," he accused.

"I'm not that lucky."

He turned to Clark, jerking his head toward Mozell. "I want protection from her while I'm here."

"From what I've heard, she's the least of your worries. Sanders, will you please take her home?"

"Yes, that's the way to win my respect--try to get my boyfriend to control me," Mozell drawled. "I was planning on going home with him anyway, but I have at least one errand to run first."

"You're not going anywhere you'll be vulnerable?"

"Not me, though I suppose it is the sort of place a lot of women are vulnerable. I'm going to a club to see a man about a job."

There was a tap at the door of Chris Bezich's office at Acid Drop. "C'mon in."

Mickey, his head bartender, came in. "Toby told me you were here, but I didn't believe it. Since when do you come in before lunch?"

"I'm doing a favor for..." he hesitated for a split second, no more time than it would take to draw a half-breath, as he reconsidered what he was about to say. He covered the pause with a yawn. "I was stupid enough to make an early appointment with some computer whiz who may be setting up a website for us."

Mickey brightened. "Great! It's about time we stepped into the cyber-age. Flyers just don't do it, and so many places advertise in the tabloids that the ads we can afford get swamped."

"Well, I was kind of hesitant, but this one comes highly recommended. Do me a favor and get me some coffee? Extra strong."

"You got it."

As the other man left, Chris sat back in his chair. That had been close. He trusted Mickey as much as he trusted anyone, but Catherine had emphasized that if they were going to do this, they needed to make it look as authentic as possible--that meant keeping it on a need-to-know basis.

In Chris' experience, any woman in a relationship with a man was, sooner or later, going to want something from him. He'd been waiting for Catherine to ask him to do something, some favor, for her. He was looking forward to doing it, as long as it wasn't too difficult, and wouldn't cost him too much (emotionally more than financially). After all, through her he'd managed to meet Sam Braun, one of the real movers-and-shakers in Vegas. Who knew what rewards that might reap in the future? He was looking forward to doing this favor for her--he hated feeling obligated.

The way he understood it, one of her co-workers was being stalked, and there was a better than good chance that the stalker was a serial killer. They were planning on setting up a trap, and since it was doubtful that a killer would go after someone who worked in the midst of a police station, they wanted to set her up with a convincing front. She needed a job that would suit her abilities, and be plausible, while keeping her in an environment that could be controlled, at least to some extent.

Catherine had suggested that he 'hire' this woman as a web designer, ostensibly to set up a website for the club. She could work part time at her home, and part time in an unused room here at the club. That way they could have a few plain clothes officers mingling with the crowd and/or staff, to keep an eye on her.

To Chris it sounded not only efficient and believable, but actually practical. He'd been thinking about getting on the web for a while, but just hadn't had the time to put any effort into choosing a designer, or design firm. This way he could have a website created for no more than it would have otherwise cost him. If he liked it, he'd have the website. If it didn't suit, he could write it off as a business expense, and he'd have more of an idea of what he wanted, and what was possible.

*Plus,* he thought, *People will owe me. I like that.*

Mickey came in, setting a mug of steaming coffee on the desk before him. "Boss, is it your birthday?"

"What? No--why?"

"I think someone might have sent you a strip-o-gram. There's some girl in a fantasy chauffeur's outfit asking to see you. Says you're expecting her. But maybe not. She's got a guy with her, and none of the rent-a-strippers I know of bring along a bodyguard for an 'at work' job."

"Well, send them in." He sipped the coffee. "Whatever it is, it ought to wake me up."

Mickey left. A couple of minutes later, the door opened and a woman and man entered. Sure enough, the woman was wearing fantasy chauffer drag, including mirrored sunglasses--and sneakers. He smiled. "So, what do you dance to? Baby You Can Drive My Car?"

She looked at her companion. "He thinks I'm a stripper. Music, Greg."

The young man shrugged, and started singing. "Duh duh duh, da duh duh dah..." It was The Stripper.

The woman shimmied her hips and shoulders as she undid the buttons on the jacket. Then she whipped it open. Underneath she was wearing a low cut T-shirt that said STUDPUPPY TRAINER. Chris burst out laughing, almost choking on a sip of coffee. She stopped dancing. "Sorry. I should have made sure there were no beverages involved before I did that."

Chris got himself back under control, reaching in a drawer for tissues to wipe the tears that had formed in his eyes. "Would you be Catherine's friend?"

"Oh, yes--she's a terrific lady. And if you mean 'are you the one I've been expecting'--yes to that, too." She went to the desk and extended her hand. As they shook she said, "Mozell McClain. And this is my trainee--I mean my friend, Greg Sanders."

Greg wiggled his fingers in greeting. "Boyfriend." The young man's tone was friendly, and his expression cheerful, but his eyes were serious.

"Boyfriend," Mozell agreed. "Catherine told you about our idea?"

"She did, and I think it's excellent. I'll be happy to do whatever I can to help out."

"Slow down, slow down. Let's do this by the book. If I was just a little hotmailer in off the street, you'd want to see some of my work before you commissioned me." She slipped a computer CD from her jacket pocket. "Well, will you look at that! I just happen to have a sample with me."

Chris stood up, turning his desk chair toward her invitingly, and indicating the computer on his desk. "Be my guest."

She gave a mock curtsy before she sat in the chair and hit the power button. As the machine booted up, she said, "What's the password?"

"It's..."

"You're not going to tell me, are you? Oh, what a trusting soul."

"Well, you're going to be using... You're from the police."

"And everyone ever hired by a law enforcement agency has always been one-hundred per cent trustworthy. Right. Look, I don't want the added responsibility of knowing your password." She gave the keyboard a slight push. "Go on and punch it in--I won't look." He leaned over the side of the chair and started to punch in his code. Their faces were very close together, and she was studying him. "How many people have told you that you're a dead ringer for Alex Krycek?"

He smiled. "A few."

"I could have used you as an accessory when I went to my last con."

He smiled at her. "Usually it's the lady who's the adornment."

Greg had moved up to stand behind her. Without even looking, Mozell reached up and back, and patted his cheek. "I only sparkle for certain people these days. Are we in?"

Chris hit ENTER. and leaned back. "Show me what you've got."

Mozell punched the button on the front of the tower. As the CD tray slid out she said, "I will not flash. I will not flash. I will not flash."

"Catherine didn't mention you were crazy," he said, amused.

"Maybe she likes to keep the mystery alive." She popped the disk into the tray and slid it in, then clicked on the drive icon, and chose EXPLORE. A screen of web page icons popped up. "These are some things I did in school."

She started clicking the icons, displaying the pages, giving him time to get a good look at each one. "Advertisement for a mythical cafe--with..." *click* "and without graphics of the food offered..." *click* "and a menu. Now, I don't work with digital photography, except to analyze it. I know about manipulation and making composites, but I don't work all that much with graphics. The written word is my choice of art. Now, on this one," *click* "Oo--pretty! Look at all the twinklies."

Chris blinked. "Good Christ, I haven't seen so much going on at once since the last time I went to a three ring circus. Blinking, crawling, fading in and out, twirling..."

"Yep. This page is my equivalent of a Garbage Pizza--everything, including anchovies. I used every type of text effect I could. Distracting, isn't it?"

"I'm just glad I'm not epileptic. I could have a seizure."

"I got an A on that, but it was for proficiency in coding, not design. Personally, I don't care for the flashy effects. I don't have 'em on my web site. Since it's for prose reading, it would only annoy a serious reader."

"Catherine mentioned that you have a website. Can I see it?"

She gave him a calculating look. "Did she tell you what it was about?"

"No."

"How old are you?" He blinked at her. "Never mind. I suppose if you run a club, you're old enough. I guess seeing my personal work is a reasonable request. Get us on the 'net." Once again Chris leaned down and used the mouse. "Boy, you've got pretty green eyes." He looked at her, then looked quickly at Greg. "Oh, he has better eyelashes. And so far, he's secure."

"She loves me for more than my body," said Greg.

"But the body helps." He grinned at her.

Chris was shaking his head as she began to type in the address bar. "I almost feel like I'm caught in the middle of one of those 1940s noir films, where the detective and the tough gal exchange barbs and double entendres."

"Are you kidding? I'm being restrained, since this is a job interview. Here it is."

Chris leaned down and examined the screen. "Hmm... Miss Mozell, that's quite a warning notice you have there."

"Because I don't intend for anyone to be able to go *gasp!*," she made her voice high pitched, prim, and outraged. "How dare you deceive me into reading such filth!"

"Erotica, eh?"

"Thank you sooo much for not automatically saying 'porn'. Some of it's not more than a few words outside the mainstream, but it's definitely adult. Well, aside from the talking cat and weenie dog story. But right now you're interested in how I present the work, not the stories themselves. Now, notice that I've used different fonts on different stories, but I don't change from chapter to chapter. This way the different stories are more distinct in the reader's mind, but they retain an identity all the way through. I put empty lines between paragraphs to break up the blocks of text, so that they don't look so intimidating. People will skip reading something if it looks like 'too much'. You'll want to do that if you have more than a few lines of description for your page..."

She continued for several moments--pointing out techniques, clicking through links, expounding about flow, how you wanted to keep the reader's attention, but not make them feel like they were stuck on the page. Finally she said, "And that's pretty much what I'm capable of, Mister Bezich."

She sat back, while Chris continued to study the last page she'd drawn up. After a moment's silence Greg said, "Ain't she cool?"

"Yes. You know, Miss McClain, I believe I'd have hired you even without Catherine's... recommendation."

"Well, that's good to know," she said. "Maybe when this is over, you can steer some other business my way. There's nothing wrong with a little moonlighting. So, if we're going to do this," there was a notepad on the desk, and she pulled it toward herself, plucking a pen from the desk set's holder. "What, exactly, do you want to say about Acid Drop? What are your goals? Do you want to be the chi-chi exclusive hot spot, or do you want to be where everyone goes?"

"I need to put some thought into that. Why don't we discuss it over lunch?" He gave her his best seductive smile.

"That sounds lovely," she purred. Greg's hand was resting on her shoulder, and she reached up and patted it. "Did you hear that, honey? He wants to take us to lunch."

Greg lifted her hand and kissed it. "Isn't he a nice man?" The smile he gave Chris was a little smug, but his eyes were still serious, and they said 'mine.'

*I think,* Chris thought, *that the boyfriend takes that designation as body guard seriously, but he's doing more than just guarding her body.*