Hooked

to see a lady they may prefer over their arranged partner. He’s very considerate about everyone’s feelings.”
    How nice. Not all the appointments started on the hour or half hour, not that it made a difference. This would be her last night. Still, she admired Benny’s foresight. He’d thought of everything.
    Charles picked up the phone and pressed one number. “We have the gentleman for room twenty. Yes, Ms. Angie. Right away.” He hung up. “I have to let this gentleman in now. You can use the stairs. See you when you check out.” Charles got up and left her, moving toward the entryway that faced the elevator and was partially blocked off from the rest of the first floor.
    So, Angie was tonight’s hostess. At least it wasn’t Darlene, though she could be in one of the rooms. Retracing her steps down the hall, she saw the office door was closed. She didn’t want to run into Colin or his friend again. Ever. She knew a back door led to a garden area and once again debated her exit. No, she’d come this far. If she got what she needed from Marsha, she’d get the hell out of there.
    When she climbed the stairs to the fourth floor, the massive room was silent and empty. Damn. This was her last chance to pump someone for information. She checked her watch. Nine fifteen. Fifteen minutes before meeting Marsha. Still shaky from the office fiasco, she took long, deep breaths to calm herself. Opening the fridge behind the mahogany bar, she pulled out a ginger ale and popped the top. She dropped a few ice cubes into a glass and poured, then walked around, taking in the framed erotic art on the walls. Caught up in the beautiful paintings, she didn’t realize the time had passed until she heard Marsha’s high heels clattering across the polished wood floor.
    “Great, aren’t they?”
    “Oh, hi. Yes, they’re lovely. I wonder where he got them.”
    “ India .” Marsha headed for the bar and poured a glass of white wine. “Can I get you another drink?”
    “No, thanks, I haven’t finished this one.”
    “My appointment was a regular,” Marsha said. “He thinks he’s in love with me. He’s kind of cute, but not my type.”
    “What’s your type?” Tawny asked.
    “First criterion, he has to be Jewish. My father would stroke out if I brought home a Gentile. That would be worse than knowing what I did three nights a week.”
    Tawny almost choked on her drink. “You mean your father would prefer you be a call girl than to bring home a non-Jewish boyfriend?”
    “Honestly? He wouldn’t be happy either way. I come from a very strict Orthodox family.”
    Tawny shook her head and burst out laughing. She’d heard stories about the lengths some girls went to protect their working lives from their parents, but this one took the cake. “I’ve heard everything now. How do they think you’re making all this money?”
    “They don’t know I’m making it, and I’m not going to do it much longer. I’ve invested everything in stocks, and believe it or not, I haven’t lost any money.”
    “How do you get away with that?”
    “It’s tricky. I set up a phony consulting business, invest my―ahem, fees―in the market, and pay taxes on the profits. It’s really more complicated, but I’m a finance major at NYU, which helps. I’ve set up similar accounts for some of the other girls.” She pulled out a card. “Here, I take less than the standard fee most financial planners take. Everyone here has made money on their money.” She sipped her wine, then smiled in an almost embarrassed way. “I’m good.”
    Tawny took her card. Marsha Ariel. “Thanks, Marsha. I think you’ll hear from me. Ariel, interesting name.”
    “I’m Israeli. My father came here as a consultant to a large firm and stayed. He plans to go back when there’s a peace agreement. He should live so long.”
    “So you’ve made some of the girls rich.”
    “Rich is relative, but they’re comfortable enough to feel secure if they ever want to quit. One girl I helped died, though. I really liked her too. And I haven’t seen one of the others for a while. She was new, and I hadn’t started with her yet. I hope nothing’s happened to her. She was a writer, gathering information to write a novel about the life. Cool, huh?”
    Tawny’s heart rate soared. She may have learned everything she wanted to know without asking. Cindi Dyson was a writer. She had to be sure. “What was the name of the girl who died? Maybe I knew her.”
    At