Mortal Fear. Greg Iles

get back into it. We’re talking three to five hundred bucks a month. EROS users may be wealthy, but when they get bored they close those direct-draft accounts.”

      “And the murdered women didn’t,” says Mayeux.

      “Right. And two particular women—the third and fourth victims—were very active online. Then poof, one day they were gone. But their bank drafts kept coming in. That didn’t fit the pattern. I’m not saying it had never happened before—it had. That’s why I didn’t call the police immediately. But the longer the accounts stayed active without the women showing up online, the more uncomfortable I got. I started probing the accounting program to see how many blind-draft clients were paying regularly but not logging onto the system. There were about fifty, enough to make me think I might be paranoid. And enough for the company to decide not to investigate. But then I remembered that victims three and four had talked to this Strobekker guy a lot. So I started watching for him. Then I started printing out his exchanges. I also asked about him in private email. That’s how I came up with the names of the first and second victims. And while I was doing that, he was setting up and killing five and six. He was also talking to at least twenty other women during this period as well.”

      “Doesn’t the company try to contact people when their accounts drop to zero?” Mayeux asks. “In case it was just an oversight?”

      “No. It’s understood by both parties that if a blind-draft account has insufficient funds for even a single payment, the company assumes the client no longer desires its services, and access is immediately terminated.”

      “I don’t buy that,” says Mayeux’s partner. “I don’t believe any company would kiss off that kind of bread without making sure the client wanted to quit.”

      How can I explain this to them? “Jan Krislov is the sole owner of EROS. And whether you believe it or not, she’s not in it for the money.”

      “Oh, I believe it,” mutters Baxter.

      “Then why does she charge so damn much for the service?” Mayeux’s partner asks doggedly.

      A faint smile crosses Arthur Lenz’s patrician face. This alone draws all eyes to him. “The high fee functions as a crude screening system,” he says softly. “Correct, Mr. Cole?”

      “What kind of screening system?” asks Mayeux’s partner.

      Lenz answers for me. “By charging an exorbitant rate, Ms Krislov ensures that her online environment is accessible only to those who have attained a certain position in life.”

      “Flawed system,” says Mayeux. “It assumes rich people aren’t assholes.”

      “I said it was crude,” Lenz admits. “But I imagine it works fairly well.”

      “It works perfectly,” I say, unable to keep the admiration out of my voice. “Because there are other constraints on membership.”

      Curiosity flares in Lenz’s eyes. “Such as?”

      “EROS is open to any woman who can pay the fee, but any man who wants to join has to submit a writing sample for evaluation.”

      “Who evaluates the sample?”

      “Jan Krislov.”

      “What are the criteria?”

      Unable to resist, I point at Mayeux’s partner. “He wouldn’t make the cut.”

      Mayeux lays an arm across his partner’s chest and asks, “How many people belong to this thing?”

      “Five thousand. Half of them male, half female. The numerical relation is strictly maintained.”

      “Gays allowed?” Lenz asks.

      “Encouraged. And contained within that ratio.”

      Mayeux shakes his head. “You’re telling us this Krislov woman has personally evaluated twenty-five hundred writing samples from men writing about sex?”

      “Personally approved twenty-five hundred samples. She’s evaluated a lot more than that. There’s a waiting list of twenty-eight hundred men at this moment.”

      “So Jan Krislov sits up at night reading her own personal Penthouse letters,” Baxter says in a gloating voice. “I know some senators who’ll eat that up.”

      “Probably beats watching Leno,” pipes up the local FBI agent. “For a woman, I mean,” he adds hastily.

      Dr. Lenz leans forward in his chair. “I doubt these samples are as crude as you assume. Are they, Mr. Cole?”

      “No. There are some gifted people on EROS.”

      Mayeux’s partner snorts.

      “To wit, Karin Wheat,” says Lenz.

      “One more thing,” I add. “Not all the men on EROS are wealthy. Certain men have submitted writing samples that impressed Ms Krislov so much that she gives them access free of charge. Sort of a scholarship program. She says it improves the overall experience for the women.”

      The secretary nods her head in a gesture I read as Right on, girl.

      “I’d be very interested in studying some of these online exchanges,” Lenz says. “You have some in that briefcase?”

      “Yes.”

      Baxter asks, “Does anything stand out in your mind that these women had in common?”

      I pause for a moment. “Most of them spent a lot of time in Level Two—my level. Their fantasies were fairly conventional, by which I mean they involved more romance than sex. They could get kinky, but they weren’t sickos. No torture or revolting bodily substances. The truth is, I don’t know anything about these women in real life. Only their fantasies.”

      “Their fantasies may be the most important thing about them,” says Lenz.

      “Maybe,” I allow, “but that’s not the sense I got. I’m not sure why. What did they have in common in real life?”

      “None of your goddamn business,” snaps Mayeux’s partner.

      “I see. Well, I guess that’s my position too.”

      Dr. Lenz inclines his head toward Baxter, who says, “All the victims were under twenty-six years old except Karin Wheat, who was forty-seven. All were college educated, all Caucasian except one, who was Indian.”

      “Native American?” asks Chief Tobin.

      “Indian Indian,” says Mayeux’s partner, tapping a file on the table. “Dot on the fucking forehead.”

      “I don’t recall an Indian name,” I say, almost to myself.

      “Pinky Millstein,” says Baxter. “Maiden name Jathar. Married to a litigation attorney who traveled a lot. There was also an Indian hair found at one of the other crime scenes. Does that mean anything to you?”

      “Well … one of Strobekker’s aliases is Shiva. That’s Indian, isn’t it?”

      “Yes, it is,” Dr. Lenz says softly. “Shiva the Destroyer. What are his other aliases?”

      “Prometheus. Hermes.”

      The psychiatrist remains impassive. “What about the victims? Does anything come to mind that links their online code names?”

      “Not that I could see.”

      “What else stands out in your mind?” asks Baxter.

      “Strobekker himself. No matter what alias he uses, his style is unmistakable.”

      “How so?”

      “He’s very literate, for one thing. Intuitive, as well. One minute he’s writing extemporaneous poetry, the next he cuts right to the bone with some insight into a woman’s character, almost as though he can answer whatever question