K is for Killer (Kinsey Millhone 11)

"Who else?" he asked.

Another trickle of sweat slid down my side. "That's all I can think of offhand," I said. The car seemed hot. I wondered if they had the heater turned on.

"What about Miss Rivers?"

I looked at him blankly. "I don't know anyone by that name."

"Danielle Rivers."

"Oooh, yeah. Right. I did speak to her. Are you guys connected to that fellow on a bike?"

He ignored that one. He said, "You talked to her twice. Most recently tonight."

"I owed her some money. She came by to collect. She gave me a haircut and we ordered a vegetarian pizza. It was no big deal. Really."

His gaze was cold. "What has she told you?"

"Nothing. You know, she said Lorna was her mentor, and she passed along some of Lorna's financial strategies. She did mention her personal manager, a guy named Lester Dudley. You know him?"

"I don't believe Mr. Dudley is relevant to our discussion," he said. "What's your theory about the murder?"

"I don't have one yet."

"You don't know who killed her?"

I shook my head.

"My client is hoping you'll pass the name along when it comes into your possession."

Oh, sure, I thought. "Why?" I tried not to sound impertinent, but it was tough. It's probably smarter not to quiz these guys, but I was curious.

"He would consider it a courtesy."

"Ah, a courtesy. Got it. Like between us professionals."

"He could also make it worth your while."

"I appreciate that, but… mmm, I don't mean to sound rude about this, but I don't really want anything from him. You know, that I can think of at the moment. Tell him thanks for the offer."

Dead silence.

He reached into the inside breast pocket of his coat. I flinched, but all he did was take out a retractable ballpoint pen, which he clicked. He scribbled something on a business card and held it out to me. "I can be reached at this number at any hour."

The guy on my right moved forward, took the card, and passed it to me. No name. No address. Just the handwritten number. The attorney continued, his tone pleasant. "In the meantime, we'd prefer that you'd keep this conversation confidential."

"Sure."

"No exceptions."

"Okay."

"Including Mr. Phillips."

Cheney Phillips, undercover vice cop. I said, "Got it."

I felt cool air on my face and realized the limo door had been opened. The guy on my right got out, extending a hand to me. I appreciated the assist. It's hard to hump your way across a seat when the sweat on the back of your knees is causing you to stick to the upholstery. I hoped I hadn't wet myself. In this situation, I didn't even trust my legs to work. I emerged somewhat ungracefully, butt first, like a breech birth. To steady myself, I put a hand against the car parked next to mine.

The guy got back in the limo. The rear door closed with a click and the car eased away, gliding soundlessly out of the parking lot. I checked for the license plate, but the number had been obscured by mud. Not that I'd have had the plate run. I didn't really want to know who these guys were.

Under my jacket, the back of my turtleneck was cold and damp. An involuntary spasm scampered down my frame. I needed a hot shower and a slug of brandy, but I didn't have time for either. I unlocked my car and got in, slapping the lock down again as if pursued. I peered into the backseat to make sure I was alone. Even before I started the car, I flipped the heater on.

I sat in a back booth at Frankie's Coffee Shop, as far from the windows as I could get. I kept searching the other patrons, wondering if one of them was tailing me. The place was moderately full: older couples who'd probably been coming here for years, kids looking for some place to hang out. Janice had spotted me when I came in, and she appeared at the table with a coffeepot in hand. There was a setup in front of me: napkin, silverware, thick white ceramic cup turned upside down on a matching saucer. I turned the cup right-side up, and she filled it. I left it on the table so she couldn't see how badly my hands were shaking.

"You look like you could use this," she said. "You're white as a sheet."

"Can you talk?"

She glanced behind her. "Soon as the party at table five clears out," she said. "I'll leave you this." She put the pot down and moved back to her station, pausing to pick up an order from the kitchen pass-through.

When she returned, she was toting an oversize cinnamon roll and two pats of butter wrapped in silver paper. "I brought you a snack. You look like you could use a little jolt of sugar with your caffeine."