Puller looked around the space. Bottles of beer and whiskey and wineglasses

littered the place. So they had been partying.

 

He went through the door into what was set up as a bedroom. The bed was unmade,

the pillows on the floor.

 

So they had been doing more than drinking. Were the women with Quentin hookers?

Was that what was going on up here? Was that why Quentin was so scared about the

cops coming? Big executive for a defense contractor caught with his pants down

in a sea of hookers? And why would Helen Myers, who seemed to Puller like a

sensible and responsible business owner, take that sort of risk? This was not

Vegas. Prostitution was not legal in Virginia.

 

He walked back down the stairs to find Myers watching him from the bar. He

walked over to her. “What were you doing?” she asked.

 

Her mascara had run from her crying. She seemed to catch what he was gazing at,

turned to the bar mirror, saw the damage, and used a wet bar towel to rub off

the mascara. “I guess I look a mess,” she said. “You’re alive. Count your

blessings.” She slowly put down the towel. “You’re right.” “Who’s Josh Quentin?”

asked Puller. “I told you, he’s a customer.” “He uses the upstairs room.” “He

does.” “What for?” “A private space.” “What does he need a private space for?”

Her expression became guarded. “I wouldn’t know. That’s why they call it

private.” “There’s a bedroom up there. And it looks like some action took place