LITMIR.BIZ

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      “THE HANDCUFFS and leather mask could be explained in any number of ways.” Bill Henley swiveled his chair around and gazed out his office window. Fog still hugged the streets of Philadelphia, but Mayor Henley probably wasn’t thinking about traffic jams or whether the mist would burn off before his nine o’clock tee off time.

      Homicide detective Brady O’Keefe waited impatiently for Henley to come to terms with reality. The mayor was right about the handcuffs and leather mask. But the pink tutu and satin bustier his friend had also been wearing were another matter altogether, not to mention the feather whip. Brady wished for about the hundredth time this morning that the commissioner wasn’t in bed with the flu. He should be here holding Henley’s hand so Brady could get back to solving the city’s latest murder.

      A minute passed, then another. Brady sighed, then spoke quietly but directly. “Sir, I did what I could to squash the media coverage. But Sanderson was very well known, and…” He stopped, knowing he didn’t have to tell the mayor how bad this was going to look when it hit the papers. And it would hit the papers. Morton Sanderson was a major player in the Philadelphia business community and a chief backer of Henley’s upcoming reelection campaign. He was also a self-righteous blowhard, notorious for his public drubbing of anyone who fell short of his strict code of morality.

      Which made that pink tutu particularly hard to deal with.

      “Well, I don’t think you or anyone else is going to be able to make this go away or keep it under wraps,” Brady finished. He hated all this political-posturing crap. He wasn’t good at pussyfooting around, much less putting positive spins on things that weren’t remotely positive. He’d gotten where he was by focusing on one thing and one thing only: getting to the truth. He stood straighter. “To be frank, sir, I need to get back to the station. I’ve got interviews lined up all morning and I can’t afford to waste time on who is going to write what in the morning papers.”

      The mayor swung back around, appearing ready to blast him for his insubordination, but abruptly stopped. His expression turned weary, but it was the real grief in the depths of his eyes that made Brady rein in his impatience.

      “Just find out who set him up, O’Keefe,” Henley said quietly. “I’ll take care of the media.”

      “Sir, with respect, there is no indication of a setup. Not yet anyway.”

      “I know Mort rubbed a lot of people the wrong way, but I know—knew—him better than most. No way did he die in a seedy hotel while taking part in some sort of kinky sex scandal. There’s something else going on here. Find the truth, Detective O’Keefe. And find it fast.”

      “Yes, sir.”

      Henley was already on the phone before Brady hit the door. Once in the hall, he added under his breath, “But whether or not you like the truth is not my problem.”

      BRADY SLUGGED DOWN the foul dregs of a cold mug of coffee. When he didn’t even wince, he knew it was time to call it quits for the night. He slapped shut the folder he’d been writing in and shoved back his chair. “I’m out of here,” he said to no one in particular. His shift had left hours ago and the midnight shift was already busily at work, not paying him any particular mind. Which was why he worked late more often than not. No one bugged him, his phone didn’t ring and he got a lot done. Besides, when he was

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