Free The Dark End of the Street: New Stories of Sex and Crime by Today's Top Authors by Jonathan Santlofer, S.J. Rozan

objective, as for so many, is to get to work on time. My day job, I suppose I should call it. Punctuality is expected. So less than an hour after sitting up I gather my feet under me and rise, hands out to steady myself against the walls, two staggering steps to establish balance, a lurch in the general direction of the living room, and the prize is mine: my morning smoke. I pull a second cigarette from the pack and close the lid so as not to see two busted teeth; I gaze around, trusting in the eternal truth that wherever cigarettes may be, there will be a lighter close by. I find a yellow Bic a yard away and thumb its tiny wheel; I light the smoke and inhale deeply, gratefully, and then I cough and blink, and the day finally accelerates.
    The shower is soothing: I use disinfectant soap, a carbolic product similar to medical issue. Not that I carry trace evidence; I am not new to this game. But I like cleanliness. I check myself in the mirror very carefully. The carpet burn on my cheek is noticeable, but generalized, like a normal Irish flush; it is entirely appropriate. I part my hair and comb it flat. I unwrap a shirt and put it on. I select a suit: It is not new and not clean, made from a heavy gabardine that smells faintly of sweat and smoke and the thousand other odors a city dweller absorbs. I tie my tie, I slip on my shoes, I collect the items a man in my position carries.
    I head outside. My employer provides a car; I start it up and drive. It is still early. Traffic is light. There is nothing untoward on the radio. The abandoned construction zone is as yet unvisited by dog walkers.
    I arrive. I park. I head inside. Like everywhere, my place of employment has a receptionist. Not a model-pretty young woman like some places I have seen; instead, a burly man in a sergeant’s uniform.
    He says, “Good morning, Mr. Rafferty.”
    I return his greeting and head onward, to the squad room.

The Perfect Triangle
    MICHAEL CONNELLY
    I T WAS THE first time I had ever had a client conference in which the client was naked—and not only that, but trying to sit on my lap.
    However, it had been Linda Sandoval who had insisted on the time and place to meet. She was the one who got naked, not me. We were in a privacy booth at the Snake Pit North in Van Nuys. Deep down I knew it might come to something like this—her getting naked. It was probably why I agreed to meet her in the first place.
    â€œLinda, please,” I said, gently pushing her away. “Sit over there and I’ll sit here and we’ll keep talking. And please put your clothes back on.”
    She sat down on the changing stool in the booth’s corner and crossed her legs. I was maybe three feet away from her but could still pick up her scent of sweat and orange-blossom perfume.
    â€œI can’t,” she said.
    â€œYou can’t? What are you talking about? Sure you can.”
    â€œNo, if my clothes are on I’m not making money. Tommy will see me and he’ll fine me.”
    â€œWho’s Tommy?”
    â€œThe manager. He watches us.”
    â€œIn here? I thought this was a privacy booth.”
    I looked around. I didn’t see any cameras, but one wall of the booth was a mirror.
    â€œBehind the mirror?”
    â€œProbably. I know he knows what goes on in here.”
    â€œJeez, you can’t even trust the privacy booths in a strip club. But look, it doesn’t matter. If the California Bar heard this was how I conduct client conferences, I’d get suspended again in two seconds. You should remember that yourself when you start practicing. The Bar is like Tommy, always watching.”
    â€œDon’t worry, I’ll never be in a place like this again—if I get to practice.”
    She frowned at the reminder of her situation.
    â€œDon’t worry. I’ll get it handled. One way or another, it’ll work out. The information you’ve given me should help a lot. I’ll crack the statutes