"We keep ourselves in line through a series of checks and balances. Everyone owes someone something. It keeps us honest, for the most part."

"God,"Margrit said involuntarily. "I'd hate to see you with free rein." Something nasty happened to Janx's smile, a reptilian coldness coming into it. "Yes "he agreed. "You would. It begins to look something like this."

He stood with startling abruptness, scooping up the paperwork she'd shifted earlier. He flipped open a folder, dealing mug shots out of it as if they were cards from a deck. Each photograph landed with astonishing precision along the edge of the table before her. She touched the second one, frowning at it. "That's... I know him. He's the man you were going to have drive me home in January."

"Patrick. He's dead."

Margrit jerked her hand back, her gaze skittering to Janx, then to the other two photographs he'd dealt. "They're all dead," he confirmed. "Patrick, to whom you showed so little trust-how shall I put it? He oversaw the day-to-day aspects of financial fecundity."

"He shook people down for the money they owed you," Margrit translated.

Janx exhaled, a sound laced with acid humor. "He oversaw that arm of my organization, yes. You ought to have trusted him," he added petulantly. "Patrick never looked for trouble. He only hurt people when it was strictly necessary, and I can't imagine you'd have made it so."

"How reassuring. What happened to him? Them," Margrit corrected. The faces of the other two men were unfamiliar. One was extraordinarily good-looking, charismatic even in the unflattering light of a mug shot. "And who were they?"

"I assume you're more interested in their positions than their names. The handsome one ran one of my larger substance rings, and the third-"

"I really shouldn't have asked. I swear, Janx, all I need to do is wander in here with a tape recorder sometime and you'd talk yourself right into a jail cell."