Chapter 3

"Breakfast is ready," Pamela Lee called up the stairs.

Jeff didn't answer his wife's call., but walked down the stairs, stopping for a moment in front of a mirror to straighten his tie. At forty he already had a distinguishing streak of grey at his temples that offset his youthful-looking face. He thought that the grey was one of his rewards for being the managing editor of one of Miami's largest newspapers. His professionalism had earned him an impeccable reputation across the country, as well as in the city, a reputation he sometimes regretted.

"Hi, Honey," he greeted his wife as he entered the dining room, and looked at her admiringly.

Though ten years younger than her husband, Pamela made an almost perfect wife. She loved her husband as much as he loved her, and focused all of her concern around him and their life together.

They had met in Washington, had dated for nearly a year before they were married. And each day of the past three years had been good to them both, even through the small quarrels that all married people suffer.

Pamela ensured good food, a clean house and good company for her husband without fail. Only one point of friction remained between them. Her concern for social acceptance. She felt it proper that they be a part of the same circle of socially elite people that she had known before they were married. She had argued that it was important for his work, but he countered that he didn't give a damn. Pamela knew it irritated him, but thought she was right and would not relent, though she tried not to bring the subject into conversation too often. She hoped to convert him by a soft-sell technique.

But society pages were the furthest from Jeff's mind as he sat at the table and unfolded his napkin. For more than two years, ever since he had been offered the job in Miami, Jeff had been occupied by one thought: prostitution.

He examined his poached egg and began to eat. His morning occupation consisted of scanning his own paper's night edition, then his competitors' products, making mental notes of errors in each between bites of breakfast.

"Hmmf," he grunted after he finished and picked up his coffee cup. There had been nothing of any consequence in any of the papers, with the exception of the editorials in his own. I wish no news were really good news, he thought.

Every morning Pamela watched him read the papers and wolf down his breakfast, while she sat silently across from him. She knew that he didn't want to be disturbed, and so never said anything until he finished reading and gave his usual, "Hmmf." She knew now, that he was ready for conversation.

"What's the matter, Jeff," she asked as she did every morning.

"The same old thing," he replied, not really wanting to talk.

"How's your other work going then," she asked, slightly annoyed by his curt answer.

"Don't get me started on that so early," he answered her, not wanting to get into an argument. Pamela would always listen, he thought, but it all goes right over her head. She was too naive to believe that anything like organized prostitution would take place in Miami.

"Please," she asked, "I want to know."

"Alright," he said, "You asked for it. Yesterday I finally got a name. Not just any name, but the name of the head of this organization that you don't think exists."

Pamela looked at him attentively, though she didn't really care about the so-called syndicate because she had made up her mind that there was no such thing.

"Ready for a shock," he continued. "Try Wade Jackson."

Pamela uttered an audible gasp and for a moment was stunned. Then it came to her; he was only joking, and she began to laugh.

"Think it's funny?" he asked, his brow furrowed in growing anger.