Chapter One

Phuket Island, Thailand. Jeremy Sloan moved slowly with the Vegetarian Festival procession, towing his hired girlfriend, Ling Ling, by the wrist. Ling Ling was tired of being dragged through the muggy streets of Phuket Town, annoyed by Sloan’s Asian punk haircut with the pony tail and shaved sides. Grow up, she thought. You’re fifty years old.

One of the few women in the crowd, Ling Ling wore a black mask that covered her almond-shaped eyes and upward slanted eyebrows. Like Sloan and the rest of the celebrants, she was dressed in white, the Chinese color of death. Ling Ling was fed up with the confusion of the festival parade, deafened by the drummers, and suffocating on smoke from the continuously exploding firecrackers. She had a job to do and she wanted to get on with it.

Earlier that day, before the sun came up and burned off the morning haze, Jeremy and Ling Ling had left the Siam Palace Inn on Thalang Road, bound for the Jui Tui Shrine in the middle of Phuket Town where preparations were underway for the ninth and final day of the festival. The shrine was lavishly decorated with hundreds of yellow banners and flags covered with Chinese inscriptions. Clouds of incense poured out of the temple doors and the sounds of drums, flutes, horns and chanting filled the air.

In the courtyard in front of the shrine Sloan and Ling Ling stopped to observe three Chinese−Thai men prepare for the street procession. The men were kneeling on the pavement. One of them, “the doctor,” put on latex surgical gloves. Ling Ling leaned in over his shoulder to get a closer look as the doctor used a sharp, silver knife to penetrate the left cheek of his friend, “the devotee,” whose head was held firmly in place by the third man, “the nurse.”

A frisson of excitement surged through Ling Ling’s body as blood flowed freely from the devotee’s mouth. Then the doctor reversed sides and stabbed a hole in the celebrant’s right cheek. Ling Ling’s eyes glittered as blood gushed onto the man’s bare chest which was covered with elaborate dragon tattoos. In a trance, controlled by a power greater than himself, the devotee showed no sign of pain.

The piercing procedure complete, a shiny metal ax handle was threaded through each hole. Ling Ling squeezed Jeremy’s arm as the devotee grasped the ends of the handle, one with each hand, stood up and joined the hundreds of worshipers who had prepared themselves in similar ways for their last day of purification.

These celebrants enduring imaginative acts of self-mutilation were bewitched spirit mediums, mah song, possessed by powerful ancient deities and lost spirits. They were encircled by fellow mah song with unusual objects piercing their cheeks and protruding from their mouths: knives, bayonets, spears, metal pins and kebob skewers, umbrellas, drill bits − even gun barrels.

Other enthusiasts resembled human pincushions with scores of hooks fastened onto their tattooed bodies. Many wore brightly decorated, red and green aprons spattered with blood. One was holding onto an aluminum shovel handle someone had stabbed through his cheeks (without the blade, of course). As they paraded down the street the mah song drew into themselves the community’s evil energy, suffering and sinful deeds from the previous twelve months in order to bring good luck back to Phuket Island and start the New Year with a clean slate.

Sloan was in his element in this procession of the possessed. He reveled in his anonymity. A big American TV star, he couldn’t walk the streets of any U.S. city without being besieged for autographs by his fans − but in Phuket no one knew or cared who he was. No umbrellas protruded from his face, but he had two small gold rings in each ear, a tongue stud and piercings of his penis and testicles which Ling Ling had inserted during last year’s Vegetarian Festival.

At the time he couldn’t believe he had just picked her anonymously out of the Emerald Escort agency lineup. She fit his needs perfectly. He recalled fondly the first day they met watching her snap on a pair of surgical gloves and lubricate two sterile titanium piercing needles. He stroked her long, straight, black hair as she kneeled over his member, her tulip−shaped lips pursed in concentration.

She had cleaned his dick with an alcohol wipe and marked it with two dots. Then she drew up and held the skin with a sterilized clamp. Holding the needle with her thumb and middle finger, she used her index finger to guide the instrument through the skin of Sloan’s prick, connecting the dots, so to speak.

Of course it hurt, but that’s what he craved − the exquisite feeling of pleasure mixed with pain inflicted by a woman. Working quickly, she followed with the other titanium needle thrust sharply through his scrotum then connected the two piercings with a small gold chain. Jeremy thought it looked cool. The arrangement excited his sex partners and he got off on it when checking himself out in a mirror.

When Sloan made arrangements to return to Phuket for the current year’s festival he asked Emerald Escorts for Ling Ling and was thrilled she was available. Her price had doubled, but he didn’t care.

It was nearly noon. The slender Chinese−Thai woman shouted at Jeremy.

“What’s that, Ling Ling? I can’t hear you. It’s too noisy.”

His companion pulled on Sloan’s arm, extracted him from the multitude and dragged him to the edge of Thalang Road, which was lined with yellow flags and food stalls. Entire families including grandparents and children looked on and farang (the Thai word for white person) tourists packed the sidewalk in a frenzy of photo taking with cell phones, tablets and digital cameras.

Sloan and Ling Ling had been engulfed in pandemonium for four hours. Ling Ling was eager to return to the hotel. She wanted to get on with her assignment so she could get out of Phuket Town unnoticed in the chaos of the festival.

“Jeremy, haven’t you had enough? It’s hot. I’m tired of the noise. Let’s go back to the hotel. We just passed it.”

Ling Ling’s posh English accent was one of the things Sloan liked about her. She had picked it up during a six month internship she had spent as a teenage escort in the tender care of Sir Malcolm Rose, a member of the British House of Lords.

Sloan didn’t want to leave the procession. Other farang were in the parade, some with grotesque facial tattoos and piercings. He felt a morbid attachment to this pin cushioned brotherhood.

But he was looking forward to what would come next − act two of his Phuket Island cabaret. Sloan had specified what expertise he needed when he contacted the agency and who he wanted to help him. But first he had to satisfy another hunger.

“We can go back to the hotel, but I’m starving. Can we get something to eat at one of these food stalls?”

“There’s no meat, you know. This is the vegetarian festival. Only rice and noodles.”

One of the food vendors was a woman with a small push cart that held a deep fryer and a cutting board. She was cooking egg rolls and making spring rolls.

“I’m not big on deep frying,” Jeremy said, rejecting the egg rolls. “But the spring rolls look good. She’s making them fresh. Ask her what’s inside.”

“She said it’s tofu.”

“Great. Are you hungry? Let’s get four. Two each. How much are they?”

“They’re fifteen baht for each one.”

“That’s fifty cents American. Cheap. Here’s a hundred baht note. Ask her to put them in a bag. We’ll eat them in the room. Tell her thanks and keep the change.”

 Chapter Two

The Siam Palace Inn on Thalang Road was a two story structure with ornate trim solidly built out of teak in the Sino−Portuguese tradition, its name boldly embossed across the front in English and Chinese characters.

Mr. and Mrs. Chen, the elderly Chinese−Thai couple who owned the hotel, were seated on curbside recliner chairs watching the parade. They didn’t miss a thing, taking note as Jeremy and Ling Ling darted through the hotel’s front door.

Inside, suddenly freed from the festival chaos, Jeremy looked around. The lobby was cool and dark, furnished with antique chairs, a heavy rosewood table and a reception desk. A set of mounted, polished elephant tusks sat in the middle of the rosewood table and joss sticks burned at each end. A portrait of the young King Bhumibol hung on the wall behind the reception desk. In back of the desk a doorway hung with beads opened to the Chen’s living area.

Jeremy inhaled deeply. The smell of incense transported him to a different dimension. God, he felt powerful.

To the right, stairs led up to a wide hallway on the second floor. Sloan and Ling Ling kicked off their flip flops and left them in the hallway. Their room faced Thalang Road. Two large windows with louvered shutters led onto a balcony overlooking the street. The shutters kept the sweltering heat out during the day and muffled the noise from the festival parade.

The experiences of the morning had intoxicated Jeremy and he knew what he wanted to do next. One of the rules of the Vegetarian Festival was to abstain from sex. For Jeremy that meant intercourse. What he had in mind didn’t qualify. Sure it was related to sex but it was more about enhancing pleasure while inflicting pain. He turned on his silver MacBook laptop computer, placed it on the king size bed that faced the windows and opened a website devoted to sadomasochistic rituals.

Ling Ling went about lighting joss sticks on the side tables on either side of the bed so the room smelled the same as the downstairs lobby.

Sloan’s chest expanded as he inhaled the incense. He smiled at Ling Ling and reached behind her to remove the barrette that held her pony tail in place. He loved the feel of her long black hair. He longed to stroke it and arrange it in patterns over her naked body.

“Let me loosen your hair,” he murmured.

During Ling Ling’s time in London Sir Malcolm Rose had instructed her in the fine art of domination. She was good at it.

“Hands off my hair!” she shouted. “Don’t touch me until I say you can! And don’t tell me what you want to do! I’m not your Chihuahua! I’m in charge here!”

Sloan was a little taken aback by her vehemence, but adjusted quickly. “What about the spring rolls? Shouldn’t we eat them now? They’re best eaten fresh.”

“Is there something wrong with your ears? Shut up and do as I say. We’ll eat after we’ve finished. Take your clothes off.”

Sloan let go of his assertiveness and cast off his inhibitions, his need to be in control. He did as he was told, slipping out of his shirt and pants. He stood towering over the Asian woman, naked, smiling, his swollen penis throbbing. His first name J E R E M Y was tattooed across his chest in Gothic letters.

Ling Ling and Jeremy were well matched. He wanted what she had to offer. Her dominance over this farang had a galvanizing effect on the Chinese−Thai woman. She quickly stripped off her clothes and faced Sloan, the nipples on her small breasts erect. Her face was as innocent as a virgin bride on her wedding night. With slender shoulders and thin arms, her body was hairless except for a V−shaped patch just above her pussy. A tiger rearing up to strike was tattooed on the right side of her navel. On the left side a black swan stood with its wings spread wide. Her lips, fingernails and toenails were painted bright red. She wore no jewelry, not even a watch.

They peered into each other’s eyes – hers dark and full of mystery, his blue and trusting.

“Unhook me,” Jeremy said.

“Fuck off! Listen to me!” Her voice was loud, commanding. “I just told you. I don’t take orders from you!”

“Please.”

Ling Ling’s task was to control Sloan, but he wasn’t easy to discipline. “Okay. Just this once. Because I want to.”

She kneeled down and removed the two titanium needles and the gold chain from his cock and balls. He glanced at his laptop screen where a woman dressed in leather was inserting a dildo up a man’s ass.

“You’ve got a black swan tat. What…”

“Shut up!” She cut him off mid-sentence. “We’re not here for chit chat.”

For Ling Ling the tiger and the swan tattooed on her midriff symbolized strength, flexibility and dynamism, the full spectrum of the animal kingdom as reflected in her organization’s myriad illegal activities but she wasn’t in the mood for a business discussion.

“Okay. I’m excited. It’s hard for me to keep quiet. Wait. I want to smoke a joint.”

“No drugs,” she demanded. “We’re here to enhance your senses, not dull them.”

“Okay. You’re right. Do your thing. Remember the safety word is ‘enough.’”

Ling Ling slapped Jeremy hard in the face with her open hand.

“Bastard!” she shouted, pushing him backwards. “Sonuvabitch!”

He fell on the bed, drool dripping from the corner of his mouth. Noise in the street prevented almost everyone from noticing the yelling coming from the upstairs room of the Siam Palace Inn. The Chens were sitting right under the louvered window shutter. They looked at each other and nodded, unsmiling, their porcelain faces inscrutable. They knew what was happening.

Ling Ling straddled Jeremy’s stomach, slapped him again, leaned forward and took his neck in her hands. “You fucker!” she yelled, starting to squeeze. Normally, she preferred wearing black fingerless gloves for this kind of work, but things were moving so quickly she didn’t have a chance to put them on.

The physical abuse and name calling stimulated Jeremy and excited Ling Ling. Choking a white man was one of her obsessive fantasies. Her forearm muscles tightened as she imagined sinking her bright red fingernails into his jugular vein. He masturbated while she leaned into throttling him.

“Enough,” he gasped. She stopped reluctantly, removed her hands from his neck and sat back.

“Get off. It’s not working the way I want it to. Your hands are too small. I’ve got a better idea.”

Ling Ling rolled off the bed. Next time, wear the gloves, she thought. Domination thrilled her, but she was out of breath. She moved to the window and opened the louvers a bit to peek out at the gala festival celebrations and get some fresh air.

Jeremy went to his suitcase, took out two nylon ropes − a long yellow one and a shorter white one − and returned to the bed.

Inside the lobby Ling Ling had taken off the black eye mask she had worn during the parade. She put it back on now.

“I like the mask,” he said. “It’s sexy. Instead of you choking me I want you to tie the yellow rope around my neck and pull on it. Let’s go over to the closet.”

This guy just won’t shut up, Ling Ling thought. He keeps giving orders. She decided not to object as long as his instructions kept the ritual moving in the right direction.

On the other side of the room Jeremy opened the closet door. Some clothes were hanging from a bar. He kneeled down inside.

“Push the clothes aside. Okay. Tie the yellow rope around my neck.”

Ling Ling glanced at the titanium needles on the floor next to the bed. If the ropes didn’t work she was prepared to jab the needles in Sloan’s ears. She did as she was told and tied the rope around Jeremy’s neck.

Jeremy pulled on the rope.

“That’s not a slip knot. I’ll do it.”

He removed the rope, tied a slip knot, made a noose and placed it around his neck.

“Tie my wrists together in front of me with the other rope.”

Ling Ling followed orders, making sure the knot was tight. If this was going to work as she wanted she needed Sloan’s hands to be immobilized.

“Now toss the yellow one over the bar. Reach up and pull on the bar. Does it feel like it’s going to hold?”

“Yes, it’s okay.”

“Pull on the rope, but not too hard. Let go when I say ‘enough.’ Bring the laptop over here so we can both watch.”

Ling Ling put the silver MacBook on the floor in front of Jeremy. The sound was turned off. The woman in leather was holding a leash in one hand connected to a dog collar around the man’s neck. He appeared to be barking.

“Pull the rope slowly. I’m going to jack off. Call me ‘fuckface.’ ”

This time Ling Ling only partially did as she was told.

“Fuckface!” she shouted. Then, instead of pulling gently on the rope she jerked it hard and put all her weight on it.

Jeremy shot half way to his feet. The knot was under his chin. He was barely able to croak “enough,” but Ling Ling ignored the safety signal. His bound hands leaped from his prick to his neck. The cord bit into his skin, his eyes bulged in disbelief and he twisted half way around to face Ling Ling, shaking his head back and forth. NO, he mouthed.

 Jeremy tried to stand up, but Ling Ling kicked his feet out from under him. As the blood to his brain was cut off tiny gurgling sounds escaped from his throat; saliva dribbled out one side of his mouth; then he stopped struggling and passed out.

Ling Ling kept the rope taut. Sloan’s feet and shoulders began quivering. After three or four minutes the involuntary tremors stopped. Ling Ling’s dark eyes lit up and a hint of a smile came to her lips as Sloan’s body went limp. She dropped her end of the rope which flipped over the bar and he slumped down in a kneeling position. His head smacked against the edge of the closet door and blood trickled down his blackened face.

She was already aroused. Her fingers sought her wet pussy. Quickly, jolts trembled down her legs to her curled toes. She brought herself to the churning, pulsating orgasm she had dreamed about, but never felt before. Ecstatic, stretched out full length on the floor, she worked her sweet spot as hard as she could with one hand while twisting her hardened nipples with the other. Again and again, waves of rapture washed over her. Her eyes shut tight, her mouth wide open, she cried out. Her thighs quivered with the aftershocks and she licked the sweat off her upper lip. The feeling was so much better than her wildest fantasies.

Strangling Jeremy Sloan gave Ling Ling an appetite for more than just sexual self−gratification. Famished, she rapidly devoured the spring rolls. She untied Sloan’s hands and dropped the rope on the closet floor. Leaving the noose around his neck, she threaded the loose end over the bar and wrapped it around his left hand.

Ling Ling changed into black designer jeans, gold slippers and a black silk T−shirt. She went into the bathroom, ran a brush through her hair and applied gloss to her lips. Looking in the mirror, she grinned and stuck her tongue out at herself. Bad girl. What would that old fucker Sir Malcolm Rose have said about her performance?

She tucked her white festival clothes and mask into a traveling bag and checked to make sure she didn’t leave anything behind. She twisted the door handle lock before closing it, then slipped her flip flops into her bag. She left Jeremy’s where they were in the hallway.

Ling Ling let the joss sticks in the room burn to show respect for Jeremy Sloan’s now departed spirit. She left his laptop on so whoever discovered his body could see what he had been watching when he expired. As she hurried down the hallway the video showed an Asian woman with long black hair dressed in leather vigorously whipping a naked white man.

The lobby was empty except for the hotel owners who, tired of the smoke and noise of the street parade, appeared to be napping in their recliners behind the reception desk. But the old woman was awake. She opened one eye and watched her daughter glide silently down the stairs and out onto Thalang Road.

Chapter Three

Patong was on the west coast, Andaman Sea side of Phuket Island, opposite Phuket Town. During the Vegetarian Festival most of the celebrants stayed in Phuket Town. A handful came across the island and drove around Patong in pickup trucks, banging on drums, throwing firecrackers at people on the sidewalks and showing off their piercings, but they didn’t parade on foot. Too much traffic. They might get run over.

Wilson Smith sat at his sidewalk “office” table at the Swiss Garden Restaurant on Soi Resort in Patong (Soi is the Thai word for lane or street). The Swiss Garden was an open air restaurant protected from the sun and rain by an aluminum roof hung with ceiling fans. Wilson’s table was in the front corner near the street.

Wilson wasn’t happy. He missed his old life in Pattaya – the stray dogs he fed on Beach Road; Nit and the girls, especially Kek, may she rest in peace, at Club Ipanema where he had his private investigator office; his friend and business partner Punya; the wild and crazy nights they spent on Walking Street, the mile long red light “entertainment” district, spying on bar girls for their farang clients.

His “wife,” (unofficial, Thai−style) Bo, was the reason Wilson had left Pattaya and moved to Patong. Her parents owned a small rubber farm on Phuket Island and they were of an age when they needed her help to keep it going. In Thai culture, caring for aging parents was an important duty for daughters and Bo responded to their call. Plus, when the parents died Bo would inherit the farm, so she wanted to keep her eye on it.

At the time the thought crossed Wilson’s mind to just let her go and find another woman to take care of him, but at his age, mid-60s, that was not as easy as it sounded, and besides, he was attached to Bo emotionally so he tagged along when she moved back home. She worked as a hair stylist in Patong during the week then took a van to the rubber farm on weekends. Sometimes when he didn’t have a job to do Wilson went with her. He was a private investigator specializing in bargirl fidelity cases.

Single males from all over the world, especially from Europe, Australia, and the U.S. traveled to Thailand, met pretty young girls at bars, took them back to their hotel rooms and did what came naturally − for a price, of course. It didn’t matter whether the guy was young or old, fat or thin, with or without hair on his head the girl told him he was handsome and made her horny.

The farang was thrilled with this setup and the happy couple stayed together for a month until his tourist visa expired, when he had to leave and return to his humdrum life in the real world. For thirty days the woman was his private property and, typically, being jealous and possessive, the man wanted to keep her that way. So before he left, he gave her some cash with the promise of more to come if she stayed faithful to him until his next trip to Thailand.

Eventually, something aroused the boyfriend’s suspicions that his lady was not holding up her part of the bargain. Perhaps the cell phone he gave her went dead or she didn’t return his emails, so he hired Wilson Smith to check on the woman. Was she being loyal or had she returned to her bargirl ways? In approximately 98.9 percent of all cases, Wilson found the woman was being unfaithful. When informed of this sad circumstance, the jilted boyfriend cut off his ex-girlfriend’s monthly allowance and instead sent Wilson a modest remuneration with thanks for his services.

That was the way it worked in Pattaya. Bargirl infidelity was so common there that Wilson hired Punya, a former Royal Thai Police homicide detective, and, like Wilson, a recovering alcoholic, to be his partner in PPEye, his investigative business. When Wilson left Pattaya, Punya took over and he was flourishing but private detectives were not nearly as much in demand in Patong Town as they were in Pattaya.

 Wilson reflected that Patong just lacked the rawness, the desperation, the exhilaration he found doing his fidelity checks in Walking Street bars.

One thing Wilson did not miss about Pattaya was the thousands of Siberian tourists that thronged the resort city during the northern hemisphere winter. The Russians came on package tours, so even though they were in Thailand most of their money was spent traveling on Russian−owned airplanes and buses, staying in Russian−-owned hotels, and drinking and eating in Russian−owned bars and restaurants. Foreigners owning property in Thailand were supposed to have local partners, but Russian businessmen easily avoided that regulation by bribing the authorities.

It was true, the numerous resorts and beach towns on Phuket Island attracted Russian tourists − President Putin spent a couple of days there in 2003 − but in smaller numbers than Pattaya. They also had more money than the Siberians so they showed a little more class but not much. Most importantly, the Russian criminal gangs that came with the tourists didn’t operate as brazenly in Phuket as they did in Pattaya. (Wilson still had scars on his thumbs from his last encounter with the Russian mafia.)

Wilson ruminated that Pattaya was a total magnet for crooks, thugs and all−around bad people of many nationalities; a happy hunting ground for private detectives. On Phuket Island the tourists were more upscale, less likely to get in trouble and thus less inclined to hire a private detective. The criminal gangs on the island were Chinese−Thai; less violent than the Russians, but equally greedy.

Wilson reached under the table to scratch his dog Jeff behind his ears. Jeff was Wilson’s best friend in Patong. He was a typical stray, one of hundreds of thousands in Thailand, a cross between a terrier and a pointer, short haired and a solid tan color, with a long thin tail and a keen nose.

Enough of the musings. Wilson opened his Acer laptop and logged in to see if anyone was contacting him for a job. Prospective clients could get in touch through his PPEye.com website. Originally, PPEye stood for Pattaya Private Eye which was still viable with Punya in charge of the business there but it also stood for Phuket Private Eye, for Wilson’s end of things. Maybe the business name should change to PPPEye for Pattaya Phuket Private Eyes, but that would mean spending money he didn’t have on revising the website.

Wilson put on his reading classes. He could still see clearly at long distance, but as he aged he needed help with newspapers and the Internet. Two new business−related emails appeared on top of the usual dozen Viagra ads and “Congratulations, someone left you $20 million” spam messages from Nigeria. The first email subject line was “Questions about my Girlfriend.”

It read: Dear Sir, I am Gus Blomquist, a Swedish gentleman with a story that I think you already know. Six months ago I came to Patong and met a girl named Lek at the Alice Bar near Bangla Road. She said she was 21. I am 68 but in Asia age difference is not so important. Women always lie about their age anyway, but that’s okay. So we get to know each other quick and we get serious about each other. After one month my visa run out. I go back to my home in Almhult, but I make Lek my fiancé, give her a nice ring I buy at the mall and ask her not to go for short time with other men. She say okay. She tell me she still have to work at the bar, but she will be hostess, not bargirl, and she will be faithful to me. That sound good to me. I believe her. I rent apartment for her and give her a mobile phone so we can keep in touch, but the phone stop working last week. I need your help to find out if Lek is behaving herself and not being bar fined by other farang. And if she is still wearing my ring. Please tell me how much I need to pay you and how I can send the money. Thanks in advance. Gus Blomquist, Almhult, Sweden.

PS: I am also sending Lek 6000 baht every month for her living expenses. Attached is her photo.

Lucky Lek, Wilson thought as he opened the attachment. Six thousand baht translated into two hundred dollars American, a nice piece of change every month for doing nothing. In Gus’ photo Lek stood smiling in front of the Alice Bar, dressed in cross trainers with white ankle socks, white short shorts and a pink singlet with “Be Nice” spelled out in sequins. To Wilson’s practiced eye she looked like a typical bargirl, one of a thousand in Patong. Nothing special, but something must have attracted Gus Blomquist to her. Maybe she had hidden X−rated talents.

In any case, Wilson sent his stock reply. Re: Girlfriend Questions.

Dear Mr. Blomquist: Thank you for your email message. I will be pleased to take your case. My fee is 6000 baht plus expenses. I require a 3000 baht down payment before I can start work. Send the money (equivalent of 70 Euros) as soon as possible via Moneygram addressed to me in Patong, Thailand. Please provide me with the reference number after you have sent the money. The remaining 3000 baht will be due before I submit my final report. Your case should not take long to resolve.

Yours sincerely, Wilson Smith, Private Investigator.

The bar fining Gus mentioned in his email is a system where customers pay the bar a certain sum of money – usually 300 baht ($10) – for the privilege of taking the bargirl out of circulation, so to speak, in order to spend private time with her. It’s to reimburse the bar for losing one of its employees temporarily, a typical Thai trick to milk as much money as possible out of farang customers.

Wilson was quite certain the result of this case would be the same as it was for the vast majority of his bargirl fidelity cases. He would find Lek cheating on Gus Blomquist. The girls were delighted with the financial arrangements they made with foreign men. Who wouldn’t be thrilled to receive monthly payments from abroad? But they had no intention of remaining loyal to their erstwhile boyfriends. Why should they? It was their job to meet farang in bars, encourage them to buy a few drinks, then go to bed with them for money. How else were they supposed to support themselves and their families? Grow coconuts? Work up a sweat on a rubber plantation? Come on. Get serious.

Unless Wilson knew his client personally or a mutual friend vouched for him he always asked for half payment in advance for his services. He regarded 6000 baht as a small price to pay − the equivalent of one month’s stipend Blomquist was sending Lek − for providing the Swede with peace of mind.

The subject line in the second email was “Are you THE Wilson Smith?”

It read: Hello. My name is Alison Smith. I’m emailing to find out if you are my biological father, Wilson Smith. I was born in Lahaina, Maui, Hawaii. My mother’s name is Maria. The last time I saw my father was 26 years ago. If you are THE Wilson Smith and are still an active private investigator in Thailand I have a business proposition for you. Regards, Alison.

Chapter Four

Wilson’s heart stopped. He flashed back to Maui, a ferocious drinking problem and a seven−year−old girl with blond hair. He woke up one morning with a pounding headache to find the girl’s mother, Maria, a Greek−American spoiled princess, with suitcases spread out on the floor of their one bedroom apartment in Lahaina, packing their belongings. A taxi waited outside.

“That’s it. After last night I’ve had enough,” she told him, her dark eyes flashing. “I’m leaving you and taking Alison with me. I never want to see you again.”

“Last night?’ Wilson asked. His mouth felt like it was stuffed full of cotton balls. “What happened?”

“You don’t remember?” she hissed. “Look around.”

Wilson got out of bed. All he had on was his underwear, stained yellow in front, and his puka shell necklace.

“Put on your shorts. You look like a tramp. And change your underwear. God, you’re disgusting.”

Wilson ignored her and went out into the combination kitchen and living room. The seven−year−old, his daughter Alison, was watching cartoons on television.

“Hi sweetheart,” Wilson said.

“Hi, Daddy.”

“Have you had breakfast yet?”

“There’s nothing to eat in the fridge.”

“Sorry about that.”

Broken dishes, the remains of plates, glasses, everything breakable in the kitchen, littered the room where, in a drunken rage, he had thrown them the previous night. He had no recollection of his actions.

Maria dragged the suitcases out of the bedroom.

“I’ve had enough of your anger and your violence. We’re finished. Come on, Precious. We’re getting out of here.”

“Wait a minute,” Wilson croaked. His mouth was dry; his throat felt like sandpaper. “Let’s talk about this.”

“It’s way past time for talking. And even if we did you wouldn’t listen to what I have to say.”

That was probably true, Wilson thought. For a second he considered physically preventing his wife from leaving, but he didn’t want to make an ugly scene in front of his daughter.

“I’ve been with you for nine years and you’ve been drunk every single night. I’m fed up with it and I don’t want my daughter to grow up around this kind of behavior. Last night was the final straw.”