David Becker stood in a phone booth across the street from LaClínica de Salud Pública; he'd just been ejected forharassing patient number 104, Monsieur Cloucharde.

Things were suddenly more complicated than he'danticipated. His little favor to Strathmore—picking up somepersonal belongings—had turned into a scavenger hunt for somebizarre ring.

He'd just called Strathmore and told him about the Germantourist. The news had not been received well. After demanding thespecifics, Strathmore had fallen silent for a long time."David," he had finally said very gravely, "findingthat ring is a matter of national security. I'm leaving it inyour hands. Don't fail me." The phone had gone dead.

David stood in the phone booth and sighed. He picked up thetattered Guía Telefónica and began scanning the yellowpages. "Here goes nothing," he muttered to himself.

There were only three listings for Escort Services in thedirectory, and he didn't have much to go on. All he knew wasthat the German's date had red hair, which conveniently wasrare in Spain. The delirious Cloucharde had recalled theescort's name as Dewdrop. Becker cringed—Dewdrop? Itsounded more like a cow than a beautiful girl. Not a good Catholicname at all; Cloucharde must have been mistaken.

Becker dialed the first number.

"Servicio Social de Sevilla," a pleasant female voiceanswered.

Becker affected his Spanish with a thick German accent."Hola, ¿hablas Aleman?"

"No. But I speak English" came the reply.

Becker continued in broken English. "Thank you. I wonderingif you to help me?"

"How can we be of service?" The woman spoke slowly inan effort to aid her potential client. "Perhaps you would likean escort?"

"Yes, please. Today my brother, Klaus, he has girl, verybeautiful. Red hair. I want same. For tomorrow, please."

"Your brother Klaus comes here?" The voice wassuddenly effervescent, like they were old friends.

"Yes. He very fat. You remember him, no?"

"He was here today, you say?"

Becker could hear her checking the books. There would be noKlaus listed, but Becker figured clients seldom used their realnames.

"Hmm, I'm sorry," she apologized. "Idon't see him here. What was the girl's name your brotherwas with?"

"Had red hair," Becker said, avoiding thequestion.

"Red hair?" she repeated. There was a pause."This is Servicio Social de Sevilla. Are you sure your brothercomes here?"

"Sure, yes."

"Señor, we have no redheads. We have only pureAndalusian beauties."

"Red hair," Becker repeated, feeling stupid.

"I'm sorry, we have no redheads at all, but ifyou—"

"Name is Dewdrop," Becker blurted, feeling evenstupider.

The ridiculous name apparently meant nothing to the woman. Sheapologized, suggested Becker was confusing her with another agency,and politely hung up.

Strike one.

Becker frowned and dialed the next number. It connectedimmediately.

"Buenas noches, Mujeres España. May I helpyou?"

Becker launched into his same spiel, a German tourist who waswilling to pay top dollar for the red-haired girl who was out withhis brother today.

This time the response was in polite German, but again noredheads. "Keine Rotköpfe, I'm sorry." Thewoman hung up.

Strike two.

Becker looked down at the phone book. There was only one numberleft. The end of the rope already.

He dialed.

"Escortes Belén," a man answered in a very slicktone.

Again Becker told his story.

"Sí, sí, señor. My name is SeñorRoldán. I would be pleased to help. We have two redheads.Lovely girls."

Becker's heart leapt. "Very beautiful?" herepeated in his German accent. "Red hair?"

"Yes, what is your brother's name? I will tell you whowas his escort today. And we can send her to youtomorrow."

"Klaus Schmidt." Becker blurted a name recalled froman old textbook.

A long pause. "Well, sir… I don't see a KlausSchmidt on our registry, but perhaps your brother chose to bediscreet—perhaps a wife at home?" He laughedinappropriately.

"Yes, Klaus married. But he very fat. His wife no lie withhim." Becker rolled his eyes at himself reflected in thebooth. If Susan could hear me now, he thought. "I fatand lonely too. I want lie with her. Pay lots of money."

Becker was giving an impressive performance, but he'd gonetoo far. Prostitution was illegal in Spain, and SeñorRoldán was a careful man. He'd been burned before byGuardia officials posing as eager tourists. I want lie withher. Roldán knew it was a setup. If he said yes, he wouldbe heavily fined and, as always, forced to provide one of his mosttalented escorts to the police commissioner free of charge for anentire weekend.

When Roldán spoke, his voice not quite as friendly."Sir, this is Escortes Belén. May I ask who'scalling?"

"Aah… Sigmund Schmidt," Becker inventedweakly.

"Where did you get our number?"

"La Guía Telefónica—yellow pages."

"Yes, sir, that's because we are an escortservice."

"Yes. I want escort." Becker sensed something waswrong.

"Sir, Escortes Belén is a service providing escorts tobusinessmen for luncheons and dinners. This is why we are listed inthe phone book. What we do is legal. What you are looking for is aprostitute." The word slid off his tongue like a viledisease.

"But my brother…"

"Sir, if your brother spent the day kissing a girl in thepark, she was not one of ours. We have strict regulations aboutclient-escort contact."

"But…"

"You have us confused with someone else. We only have tworedheads, Inmaculada and Rocío, and neither would allow a manto sleep with them for money. That is called prostitution, and itis illegal in Spain. Good night, sir."

"But—"

CLICK.

Becker swore under his breath and dropped the phone back intoits cradle. Strike three. He was certain Cloucharde had said theGerman had hired the girl for the entire weekend.

Becker stepped out of the phone booth at the intersection ofCalle Salado and Avenida Asunción. Despite the traffic, thesweet scent of Seville oranges hung all around him. It wastwilight—the most romantic hour. He thought of Susan.Strathmore's words invaded his mind: Find the ring.Becker flopped miserably on a bench and pondered his next move.

What move?