“What I told him, about her being dead when she was raped? True. But she suffered, Alex. Sixty-four stab wounds and plenty of them landed before she died. That kind of revenge—rage? Someone must have gotten fucked up big-time.”

CHAPTER 19

CHAPTER

19

I made it to Beverly Hills with five minutes to spare for my one o'clock with Jean Jeffers. Parking was a problem and I had to use a city lot two blocks down from Amanda's, waiting at the curb as a contemplative valet decided whether or not to put up the FULL sign.

He finally let me in, and I arrived at the restaurant five minutes late. The place was jammed and it reeked of Parmesan cheese. A hostess was calling out names from a clipboarded list and walking the chosen across a deliberately cracked white marble floor. The tables were marble, too, and a gray faux-marble treatment had been given to the walls. The crypt look, nice and cold, but the room was hot with impatience and I had to elbow my way through a cranky crowd.

I looked around and saw Jean already seated at a table near the back, next to the south wall of the restaurant. She waved. The man next to her looked at me but didn't move.

I recalled him as the heavyset fellow from the photo in her office, a little heavier, a little grayer. In the picture, he and Jean had been wearing leis and matching Hawaiian shirts. Today, they'd kept the Bobbsey twins thing going with a white linen dress for her, white linen shirt for him, and matching yellow golf sweaters.

I waved back and went over. They had half-empty coffee cups in front of them and pieces of buttered olive bread on their bread plates. The man had an executive haircut and an executive face. Great shave, sunburnt neck, blue eyes, the skin around them slightly bagged.

Jean rose a little as I sat down. He didn't, though his expression was friendly enough.

“This is my husband, Dick Jeffers. Dick, Dr. Alex Delaware.”

“Doctor.”

“Mr. Jeffers.”

He smiled as he shot out his arm. “Dick.”

“Alex.”

“Fair enough.”

I sat down across from them. Both their yellow sweaters had crossed tennis-racquet logos. His bore a small, gold Masonic pin.

“Well,” said Jean, “some crowd. Hope the food's good.”

“Beverly Hills,” said her husband. “The good life.”

She smiled at him, looked down at her lap. A large, white purse sat there and one of her arms was around it.

Dick Jeffers said, “Guess I'll be going, Jeanie. Nice to meet you, doctor.”

“Same here.”

“Okay, honey,” said Jean.

Cheek pecks, then Jeffers stood. He seemed to lose balance for a second, caught himself by resting one palm on the table. Jean looked away from him as he straightened. He shoved the chair back with the rear of his thighs and gave me a wink. Then he walked off, limping noticeably.