"Well, I don't know," Moza said defensively.

"You have a woman living in your house and you don't know what town she comes from?"

"What difference does it make?"

"And you don't know what difference it makes?" Rosie stared at her with exaggerated astonishment. Moza broke eye contact and folded the towel into a bishop's miter.

"You do me a favor and you find out," Rosie said. "Can you manage that?"

"I'll try," Moza said. "But she doesn't like people prying. She told me that and she was quite definite."

"I'm very definite too. I'm definite about I don't like this lady and I want to know what she's up to. You find out where she comes from and Kinsey can take care of the rest. And I don't have to tell you, Moza, I don't want Lila Sams to know. You understand?"

Moza looked cornered. I could see her debate, trying to decide which was worse: infuriating Rosie or getting caught spying on Lila Sams. It was going to be a close contest, but I knew who I was betting on.

Chapter 16

Chapter 16

I went back to my office late in the day and typed up my notes. There wasn't much, but I don't like to get behind. With Bobby dead, I intended to write regular reports and submit itemized bills at intervals, even if it was just to myself. I had tucked his file back in the drawer and I was tidying up my desk when there was a tap at the door and Derek Wenner peered in.

He said, "Oh. Hello. I was hoping I'd catch you here."

"Hi, Derek. Come on in," I said.

He stood for a moment, undecided, his gaze tracing the perimeters of my small office space. "Somehow I didn't picture this," he said. "Nice. I mean, it's small, but efficient. Uh, how'd you do with Bobby's box? Any luck?"

"I haven't had a chance to look closely. I've been doing other things. Have a seat."

He pulled a chair up and sat down, still looking around. He was wearing a golf shirt, white pants, and two-tone shoes. "So this is it, huh?"

This was his version of small talk, I assumed. I sat down and let him ramble briefly. He seemed anxious and I couldn't imagine what had brought him in. We made mouth noises at each other, demonstrating goodwill. I'd just seen him a few hours earlier and we didn't have that much to talk about.

"How's Glen doing?" I asked.

"Good," he nodded. "She's doing pretty well. God, I don't know how she's gotten through, but you know she's made of substantial stuff." He tended to speak in doubtful tones, as if he weren't absolutely certain he was telling the truth.

He cleared his throat and the timbre of his voice changed.