Free The Ophelia Cut by John Lescroart

where the clerical staff worked, although this being Friday evening, none was in attendance. Behind those rooms, overlooking Van Ness and peering out to the Opera House, Goodman worked in surroundings that were both traditional and somewhat opulent—red leather chairs and a mahogany desk on a Persian rug, file cabinets, bookshelves, and sideboards hugging the wall space.
    Lo went over to stand by the windows, hands clasped behind his back. Short and stocky, in a tailored blue business suit, he seemed to be gathering his thoughts, his shoulders rising and falling, until finally he turned back to Goodman. “I do, as you say, have something on my mind.”
    Goodman nodded. “I’d like to hear it. I thought it went very well out there, but if there was some note I didn’t hit—”
    Lo held up a hand. “It’s not about that. That went fine. Everything with the alcohol strategy has been good. This is about one of your people.”
    “My people? Constituents?”
    “No. The young people working here, in your office. The interns.”
    This was a surprise, and Goodman showed it. “What about them?”
    “How many are there?”
    “It varies by day, paid and unpaid, part-time and full, but six average. Always at least three, plus my secretary. Why?”
    “All men?”
    “One woman. Plus my secretary, Diane, and a new temp we’re got here from Berkeley. What about them?”
    “All right, then, four men. One of them . . .” Lo stopped and drew abreath. “One of them has been visiting my houses and not paying for services. Worse, when the girls complain, he threatens them. He has manhandled one.”
    “Which one of my interns?”
    “I don’t know. You will laugh, but my girls say they can’t tell, the clients all look the same. Truth is, they’re afraid. They don’t want to make trouble, to be caught in the middle. So when I ask them, they say they don’t know. One says she heard it from another. When I question that one, she says she heard it happened, but not to her.”
    “Then how do you know it was somebody from this office?”
    “Because I know.” Lo shrugged. “Understand, Liam, that is not why I’m here. I am not asking, I am telling you it is someone from your office, and I cannot let this continue. It is my job to prevent it. It must stop. I don’t want my girls hassled like this. They perform a service. They get paid. They pay me my share. Everybody is happy. If you can’t find a way to do this and it keeps being a problem, the solution will fall to me. But I would much rather you handle it yourself before it causes bad feelings between us.”
    Goodman got the message. He backed up a step and put a haunch on the corner of his desk. “I’m really not sure I believe this, Jon.” He held up a hand. “I believe you, of course. This is what you hear from your girls, and you bring it to my attention. Which is as it should be. But anybody could say he works for me and try to stiff them.”
    Lo nodded. “Please don’t underestimate how serious this problem is. I’m sorry to have to talk to you about this, today of all days, when you should be happy, when the bar sting has worked so well. But I just found out about it myself, and I can’t leave my girls unprotected.”
    “No. Of course not. If it’s really one of my people, I’ll find out who it was and fire him immediately. I promise you.”
    “That would be good,” Lo said. “At least that.”
    T ONY S OLAIA WENT home to his third-floor studio apartment on Ellis near Mason, in a building bordering the notorious and dangerous Tenderloin district. He showered, then slept on his Murphy bed for four hours before he woke up hungry and worried.
    Even for a studio, the place was small. The side walls were eight feetapart; front to back was twelve feet. A sink in a thin counter hugged the wall next to the refrigerator, so the bed barely cleared them when he lowered it. Above the counter, two wall-mounted cabinets held the glasses and plates and mugs that