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The night before, I waited in the alley near a doorway alcove at the side of the Montana. At 8:34 Bob Acres, dressed in a sweat suit, came out. He walked two blocks west, where he was met by a black Lincoln Town Car.

Twenty-four hours later I was ready.

The moment he walked through the front door of the Montana I drove to the block where he’d met the black car. There was another limo parked at the far corner.

There I waited.

Thelonious had moved on to “Bright Mississippi.” While he played that fairly traditional number I took out the pink envelope from Minnesota, sniffed its mild scent, and tore it open.

Dear Mr. Joseph K. Oliver,

Pardon my intrusion into your life but my name is Beatrice Summers and I believe that I have very important information for you. We are not unknown to each other. When you met me I was going by the name Nathali Malcolm. I fooled you into believing that I was the victim of a cruel man, seduced you, and then blamed you for sexual assault. You have always been in my mind since that time. I was forced to entrap you by a policeman named Adamo Cortez. He came to me after I’d been arrested with a large amount of cocaine and I was facing a long prison sentence. But since then I moved to Saint Paul, got off drugs and into a Christian community that knew my sins and forgave them. I am now married with two beautiful children and a wonderful husband from whom I hide nothing. We, Darryl and I, discussed what I had done to you and we agreed that I should write and offer to come back to New York and testify on your behalf. We were both sinners, Mr. Oliver, but I believe that you have paid for your transgressions while I have not. Below you will find my home phone number. I am a stay-at-home mother and housewife these days and there’s an answering machine. I hope to hear from you soon.

Yours in Christ,

Beatrice Summers

Reading that letter I felt both numb and jittery. I knew, of course, that there had been a conspiracy behind my arrest, but it was so well done and I had come so close to being locked in a cell forever that I let that truth fade until it was almost completely hidden behind the memory of those prison walls.

But here was an answer to a question that I was afraid to ask; afraid because I didn’t want to go back into that cell. I didn’t want to, but there was the evidence right there in my hand…right there.

The unstable mixture of rage and fear caused me to raise my head just as Representative Bob Acres was opening the back door of the hired transport.

I am a lifelong Democrat, as my father and his father had been. Bob Acres was a dyed-in-the-wool Republican, but I would have cast my ballot for him right then. His appearance purged the past for a moment, allowing me to concentrate.

The limo made its way to the West Side Highway and then through to the Holland Tunnel. We crossed the state line somewhere under the Hudson River, but it was a short trip.

Exiting in Jersey City, New Jersey, the limo took the first right and pulled into the parking lot of the Champagne Hour Motel on Clarkson. I stopped across the street and snapped pictures with my high-resolution digital camera. The first-floor rooms’ doors opened onto the parking lot. Through the high-powered lens I saw Acres entering room number thirty-nine.

The limo drove off.

I waited seven minutes, then drove into the lot, parked, and went to the glass-encased office, which had a high pink desk, turquoise walls, and a ceiling paved with glittering red tiles. Behind the high counter stood a lovely young black woman with thick braids of dark brown and cherry red. Her face was broad, but there was no smile attending her beauty.

I had my go bag at my side. It might have been a travel bag.

“Good evening,” I said.

“Hello,” she replied without a hint of welcome.

I was glad to see her despondence. Happiness rarely wants to do business with a man in my trade.

I put a hundred-dollar bill down on the desk and said, “I have fond memories of rooms thirty-seven and forty-one.”

“That ain’t enough,” she said, sneering at the bill. “It’s a hundred eighteen dollars a night.”

“That’s for you,” I said, putting two more C-notes next to the one I’d already dropped. “This is for the room.”

She smiled, said “Forty-one is free,” and I secretly cheered for my country, where, over and over again, the almighty dollar proves its superiority.

There were a few sounds coming through the wall from thirty-nine. I opened my bag and took out a small hand drill with a one-eighth-inch bit. The device was almost silent, and when I just tapped the diamond-crusted bit every second or so against the locked door that connected the two rooms, there was hardly even a whine.

My room was dark, and when the light of thirty-nine shone through I took the surgical fiber-optic lens from my bag, connected it to the all-purpose digital camera, and then attached the camera to my iPad. I threaded the laser-wire lens through the hole and an image of what can only be called matchless debauchery filled the screen.

The pair of transgender prostitutes must have been waiting for him. The three of them were already naked and erect. I watched the play closely, mostly to avoid thinking about the intelligence that Beatrice Summers had bestowed.

The T-girls were good at their job. They played feminine very well.

Bob, for his part, was passionate and very, very happy.