The limo was so long that the man across from me was probably sitting eight feet away. He appeared to be in his sixties, short and blocky, balding on top. His face was dotted with miscellaneous moles, the skin as heavily lined as a pen-and-ink sketch. His cheeks bowed out almost to a heart shape, his chin forming the point. His eyebrows were an unruly tangle of white over dark, sunken eyes. His upper lids sagged. His lower lids were pouched into smoky poufs. He had thin lips and big teeth, set slightly askew in his mouth. He had big hands, thick wrists, and heavy gold jewelry. He smelled of cigars and a spicy after-shave. There was something distinctly masculine about him: brusque, decisive, opinionated. He held a small notebook loosely in one hand, though he didn't seem to be referring to it. "I hope you'll forgive the unorthodox method of arranging a meeting. We didn't intend to alarm you." No accent. No regional inflection.

The guys on either side of me sat as still as mannequins.

"Are you sure you have the right person?"

"Yes."

"I don't know you," I said.

"I'm a Los Angeles attorney. I represent a gentleman who's currently out of the country on business. He asked me to get in touch."

"Regarding what?" My heartbeat had slowed some. These were not robbers or rapists. I didn't think they were going to shoot me and fling my body out into the parking lot. The word M-A-F-I-A formed at the back of my mind, but I didn't allow it to become concrete thought. I didn't want confirmation, in case I was forced to testify later. These guys were professionals. They killed for business, not pleasure. So far, I had no business with them, so I figured I was safe.

The alleged attorney was saying, "You're conducting a homicide investigation my client has been following. The dead girl is Lorna Kepler. We'd appreciate it if you'd apprise us of the information you've acquired."

"What's his interest? If you don't mind my asking."

"He was a close friend. She was a beautiful person. He doesn't want anything coming to light that might sully her reputation."

"Her reputation was sullied before she died," I pointed out.

"They were engaged."

"In what?"

"They were getting married in Las Vegas on April twenty-first, but Lorna never showed."

14

I stared across the dark of the limousine at him. The claim seemed so preposterous that it might just be true. I'd been told Lorna met some heavy hitters in the course of her work. Maybe she fell in love with some guy and he with her. Mr. and Mrs. Racketeer. "Didn't he send someone up here to find her when she didn't show?"

"He's a proud man. He assumed she'd had a change of heart. Naturally, when he heard what had happened to her, the news was bittersweet," he said. "Now, of course, he wonders if he could have saved her."

"We'll probably never have the answer to that."

"What information do you have so far?"

I was forced to shrug. "I've only been working since Monday, and I haven't come up with much."

He was silent for a moment. "You spoke to a gentleman in San Francisco with whom we've had dealings. Mr. Ayers."

"That's right."

"What did he tell you?"

I paused. I wasn't sure whether Joe Ayers's cooperation or his failure to cooperate would generate disfavor in this crowd. I pictured Ayers hanging from his chandelier by his dick. Maybe the Mob didn't really do things that way. Maybe they'd picked up a bad rep these days. Living in Santa Teresa, we didn't have a lot of experience with these things. My mouth had gone dry. I was worried about my responsibility to the people I'd spoken with. "He was courteous," I said. "He gave me a couple of names and telephone numbers, but I'd already checked them out, so the information wasn't that useful."

"Who else have you spoken to?"

It's hard to sound casual when your voice starts to quake. "Family members. Her boss. She'd done some house-sitting for the boss's wife, and I talked to her." I cleared my throat.

"This was Mrs. Bonney? The one who found her?"

"That's right. I also talked to the homicide detective who handled the case."

Silence.

"That's about it," I added, sounding lame.

His eyes drifted down to his notebook. There was a glint of light when his gaze came up again. Clearly he knew exactly whom I'd spoken to and was waiting to see how candid I intended to be. I pretended I was in a courtroom on the witness stand. He was an attorney, according to his claim. If he had questions, let him ask and I'd answer. In the unlikely event that I knew more than he did, I thought it was better not to volunteer information.