“She thinks there’s a connection between his murder and Kathy.”

“So the plot thickens. Are we going to help her?”

“Yes.”

“Goodie. So do we think there is a connection?”

“Yes.”

“Yes,” Win agreed.

They pulled into the driveway of a building that could have been either a nice warehouse or low-rent office space. No elevator, but then again, only three levels. HDP, Inc., was on the second floor. When they entered the outer office, Myron was a bit surprised. He was not sure what he’d expected, but he had thought the dwellings of a sleaze merchant would not be so … nondescript. The walls were white with inexpensive but tastefully framed art posters—McKnight, Fanch, Behrens. Mostly scenery shots of beaches and sunset. Nothing with naked breasts. Surprise number one. Surprise number two was the unremarkable receptionist. She was strictly standard issue, not an overaged, bleach-blond, flabby ex-bunny/sexpot/porno starlet with a breathy giggle and seductive wink.

Myron was almost disappointed.

“May I help you?” the receptionist asked.

Win said, “We’re here to see Mr. Nickler.”

“Your names, please?”

“Windsor Lockwood and Myron Bolitar.”

She picked up the phone, buzzed in, and a moment later said, “Right through that door.”

Nickler greeted them with a firm handshake. He was dressed in a blue suit, red tie, white shirt—conservative as a Republican senatorial candidate. Surprise number three. Myron had expected gold chains or a Joey Buttafuoco earring or at the very least a pinkie ring. But Fred Nickler wore no jewelry, except for a plain wedding band. His hair was gray, his complexion a bit washed out.

Win whispered, “He looks like your uncle Sid.”

It was true. The publisher of Nips magazine looked like Sidney Griffin, popular suburban orthodontist.

“Please have a seat,” Nickler said, moving back behind his desk. He smiled at Myron. “I was at the Final Four when you guys beat Kansas. Twenty-seven points including the game winner. Hell of a performance. Incredible.”

“Thank you,” Myron said.

“Never seen anything like it. The way that final shot kissed the backboard.”

“Thank you.”

“Just incredible.” Nickler renewed his smile, shaking his head in awe at the memory. Then he sat back. “So, what can I do for you gentlemen?”

Myron said, “We have a couple of questions about an ad in one of your, uh, publications.”

“Which one?”

“Nips.” Saying the word felt grungy. Myron tried not to make a face.

“Interesting,” Nickler replied.

“What makes you say that?”

“Nips is a relatively new publication, and it’s doing poorly—far and away the worst of HDP’s monthlies. I’m going to give it another month or two, and then it’ll probably fold.”

“How many magazines do you publish?”

“Six.”

“Are they all like Nips?”

Nickler chuckled lightly. “They are all pornographic magazines, yes. And they are all completely legal.”

Myron handed him the magazine Christian had given him. “When was this printed?”

Fred Nickler barely glanced at it. “Four days ago.”

“That’s all?”

“It’s our most recent issue—they’ve barely hit the stands. I’m surprised you found one.”

Myron opened to the proper page. “We’d like to know who paid for this advertisement.”

Nickler put on a pair of half-moon glasses. “Which one?”

“Bottom row. The Lust Line.”

“Oh,” he said. “A sex phone.”

“Is there a problem?”

“No. But this ad wasn’t paid for.”

“What do you mean?”

“It’s the nature of the business,” Nickler explained. “Someone calls me up to place an ad for a dial-a-porn line. I tell him it costs X amount. He says, wow, I’m just starting out, I can’t afford it. So if it looks like a good idea, I go in fifty-fifty with him. In other words, I take care of the marketing, if you will, while my partner takes care of the technical side—phones, cables, girls to work the phones, whatever else. Then we split it down the middle. It limits both of our risks.”

“Do you do this a lot?”

He nodded. “Ninety percent of my advertising comes for fantasy lines. I’d say I have a piece of the action in three-quarters of them.”

“Can you give us the name of your partner on this particular venture?”

Nickler studied the picture in the magazine. “You’re not with the police, are you?”

“No.”

“Private investigators?”

“No.”

He took off his glasses. “I’m fairly small-time,” he said. “I have my own little niche. It’s the way I like it. No one bothers me, and I don’t bother anybody else. I have no interest in a lot of publicity.”

Myron shot a glance at Win. Nickler had a family, probably a nice house in Tenafly, told the neighbors he was in publishing. Pressure could be applied. “I’ll be frank with you,” Myron said. “If you don’t help us out, it may blow up into something major. Newspapers, TV, the works.”

“Is that a threat?”

“Absolutely not.” Myron reached into his wallet and took out a fifty-dollar bill. He placed it on the desk. “We just want to know who put this ad in.”

Nickler pushed the bill back toward Myron, his expression suddenly irritated. “What is this, a movie? I don’t need a payoff. If the guy has done something wrong, I want no part of him. This business has enough problems as it is. I run a straight operation. No underage girls, nothing illegal in any way, shape, or form.”

Myron looked at Win. “Told you he was a prince.”

“Think what you want,” Nickler said in a voice that said he’d been down this road many times before. “This is a business like any other. I’m just an honest guy trying to make an honest buck.”

“Real American of you.”

He shrugged. “Look, I don’t defend everything about this business. But there are plenty of worse. IBM, Exxon, Union Carbide—these are the real monsters, the real exploiters. I don’t steal. I don’t lie. I satisfy a societal need.”

Myron had a quick comeback, but Win stopped him with a shake of his head. He was right. What was the point in antagonizing the guy?