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Cynthia led me by the hand into her i
Cynthia was wearing a black two-piece suit. The jacket was double-breasted with a shawl collar, the skirt was tight without being too tight and came to the top of her knees, and her blouse was white silk. Lately, that was all she wore. Black and white. I asked her about it once, and she said she was establishing a “definitive image all her own.” More likely it was the definitive image of the consultant at the store where Cynthia bought most of her clothes. Not that I’m complaining. She looks stu
“So, are you working?” Cynthia asked.
It was an honest question. I’m a one-man band, and I usually take on only one case at a time, so I often suffer through periods of unemployment. Occasionally, when those droughts linger long enough to cause me financial distress, I’ll obtain lists of unclaimed property from various government agencies and then locate the missing owners for a percentage of the property’s value. Sometimes—when money is real tight—I’ll do bounty work for a Mi
“As a matter of fact I am working,” I told Cynthia. “I’m trying to learn what happened to a woman who disappeared last October.”
“I thought you didn’t do runaways.”
“This is a little different. The smart money bets the woman was murdered, but the police can’t find a body or evidence of foul play. I was hired to come up with an explanation that the woman’s attorney can live with.”
“Who’s the lawyer?”
“Ahh, well …” I stammered.
“Not Monica Adler?” Monica was Cynthia’s most hated rival.
“No, no, no,” I assured her. “I haven’t seen Monica since— well, quite awhile. Why would I talk to her?”
“Good question.”
“No, it’s not her.”
“Who, then?”
“He came to my office—”
“Who?”
“Hunter Truman.”
“That piece of shit?”
“You’ve met?” I asked.
“Bastard works the court like a fucking whore; that’s how he peels his banana.”
“Do you eat with that mouth?”
Cynthia flushed a deep crimson and not just from embarrassment. I am always amused when Cynthia’s carefully constructed facade of upper-class gentility slips and the street kid peeks over the top, but she certainly is not. She works hard—and pays a great deal of money—to make sure the facade never slips.
“I am surprised that you would deign to accept employment from that gentleman,” she said, her voice calm and well modulated.
“A buck’s a buck.”
“If you are financially embarrassed, I could lend—”
“Oh, stop it,” I told her. “It’s a job like any other job, maybe a little more interesting than most.”
“But Hunter Truman?!” Cynthia asked, making the name sound like a disease usually treated with penicillin.
“He’s no worse than most of the lawyers I’ve worked for.”
“It hurts me to hear you say that.”
I have to admit it gave me a twinge, too, defending him.
“Will you forgive me if I buy lunch?” I asked.
“I’ll buy lunch,” Cynthia replied. “I don’t want to be eating on that … gentleman’s money.” She opened her office door and a
“You’re lunching with Judge Ke
“I am?”
“Twelve-thirty at Gallivan’s. You need to leave in ten minutes.”
Cynthia closed the door again. “Sorry,” she said.
“It’s okay,” I told her. “Actually, I came over to invite you to the Twins game tonight. They’re playing the hated Cleveland Indians.”
“I have a meeting tonight.”
“Who with?”
“My ETOS Club.”
“ETOS?”
“It’s a club several women and I started in law school. Once a month we get together and discuss the various sides of social issues. Exploring the Other Side, get it?”
“Yeah, I do. What kind of social issues?”
“Tonight we’re discussing why men embrace sports so dearly.”
“That’s a social issue?”
“Why do men like sports? Give me an argument,” Cynthia said.
“It’s a better excuse for getting together than forming a lame club.”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I. Where are you holding this meeting?”
“Don’t get angry.”
“Why would I get angry?”
“One of the members arranged for a private suite at the Metrodome, along the third-base line.”
“You’re watching the ball game? From a private suite? With booze and food and instant replay on TV monitors?”
She gri
three
The snow had killed them. Twenty-three inches of it. It had kept the heads of witnesses low and their eyes down. It had clouded windshields, giving drivers a colorless, out-of-focus view of the world. It had buried footprints and tire treads and any hope of deploying dogs. One investigator had suggested that Alison Do
All this was duly noted in A
A
One piece of evidence that had been released to the news media was the small amount of blood discovered on the carpet just inside Alison’s front door and the few drops found on the doorframe. Citing the shape of the drops and the laws of flow dynamics, forensics concluded that the victim was standing just inside the door when she was struck hard enough to cause instantaneous bleeding and that the force of the blow splashed the frame and carpet. The blood was Type A Positive. Same as Alison’s. And it had been there less than twenty-four hours. It supported A
Officers had searched every room in the house three times, using spirals and zones and strip patterns, and came up empty. No hair samples that did not belong to Alison or her husband. No fibers that weren’t accounted for. No unexplained dirt or stains. There were plenty of unidentified fingerprints, but most were in high-traffic areas where you would expect them: the kitchen, the living room. There were none on the door or the doorframe. And none that matched Raymond Fleck’s.