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Lump in bed with me at the same time as being out of the body. Furtiveness only added to the intensity of my lust.
We cannot wake Chanya,
I tried to say, even as Damrong’s mouth descended on my quivering member. Liberated from time and space, she was able to project a multiplicity of images: naked; half naked; wearing a black ballgown with silver jewelry; topless in tight-fitting jeans with her long black hair intermittently covering her breasts; bent over me in the attitude of total submission; standing above me in a posture of command. The point, really, was the overwhelming sexual power of her spirit, which somehow was able to trigger hormones from the other side. Men, let me be frank, there is no erotic experience that compares to being fucked by a ghost. When she had finished with me, I took myself off to the yard to hose down my feverish body. Thankfully Chanya was still fast asleep when I slipped back beside her.

    Back to the case. I have used Colonel Vikorn’s security clearance to penetrate the deeper reaches of the national database. When I plug in Damrong’s ID number, I find a curious surname:. It takes me a few moments to process this odd couple of syllables. I try out various possibilities before light dawns: the name is Baker. Armed with this clue, I make a few cross-checks and discover that her Thai family name is Tarasorn, and her parents were Cambodian refugees. She married an American named Daniel Baker just over five years ago and, according to the Immigration data, went to live with him in the United States until she returned about two years later. On official documents she was still obliged to sign her name as Mrs. Damrong Baker, which is the name that will appear on her death certificate.
    From the database I extract Mr. Daniel Baker’s American Social Security and passport numbers. I call Immigration to have them check if Baker happens to have returned to Thailand recently. It’s a long shot, but you never know. Then I call Kimberley at the Grand Britannia to give her Baker’s Social Security number.
    I am afraid the FBI is the first to respond. Within less than half an hour she calls me back, slightly breathless.
    “Okay, this could be your big lead. Dan Baker has a conviction for pimping.”
    “Pimping?” I give this information the reverence it deserves. “No illicit porn videos?”
    “No, but these days that’s pretty well implied in the act of pimping, at least in the States.”
    “And?”
    “She was prosecuted for running a bawdy house, in Fort Lauderdale, Florida. They both pleaded guilty. He got twelve months plus one year probation. She got six months, but they deported her.”
    “When?”
    “Just over four years ago.”
    A pause, then Kimberley says, “It must have been right after she was deported that she went to work for you.”
    Fighting a certain internal resistance, I say, “Yes. We always thought she was way too upmarket for us. I guess she was just using us as a stepping-stone while she readjusted to Bangkok. It must have been quite a letdown after the States.”
    “I don’t know about that. Prostitutes in the States don’t have such an easy ride.”
    “Anything else?”
    “I’m working on it. The whole case rings a bell. I think it got a lot of publicity because some of the city fathers were involved.”
     
    Mrs. Damrong Baker: the asymmetry in the name might say it all. I have to call Immigration five more times before I am able to convince them to get off their backsides. When they do, it is simply a matter of plugging Dan Baker’s passport number into their database. Finally my desk phone rings.
    “He’s here in Bangkok.”
    “As a tourist?”
    “No. He has a license to teach English as a foreign language. Yearly renewable visa plus work permit, signs in every three months to confirm his residential address.”
    “Which is?”
    “Sukhumvit Soi Twenty-six.”
    I call Lek, my assistant. While I am waiting for him, I walk to the window to look down.