I slid off the stool. It definitely was not Monica Fullbright. The woman standing before me was blond. An aging Vegas showgirl with legs up to her neck. She must have been a regular in the toughest aerobics workout in town, because even under twenty pounds of imported cashmere she looked slim. She must have been sweltering in that outfit, but she gave me a beautiful smile. I wondered if she could tell I wasn’t going to buy anything.

“I came to see Monica Fullbright.”

The woman studied me without replying, quickly assessing my shoes and clothes. I was glad I was always willing to pay top dollar for good shoes. She immediately dismissed my inexpensive white suit but took another peek at my navy Bruno Magli shoes.

“I’m with the Angel City Credit Agency. We’re doing an investigation in connection with a loan application.” I lied with such alacrity I was astonished. I consider myself very honest.

“We do not give out our customer list nor any information about our customers.”

“I was told she was the manager.”

“Who told you that?” she demanded in a voice like gravel.

Monica Fullbright had told me she was the manager. Granted, I don’t get out much, but there’s only one Crystal’s. It occurred to me that all my instincts about her had been correct. That there was something innately fraudulent about her story. I didn’t want the woman to see the confusion I was experiencing.

“On the loan application, she listed this as her job.”

“She’s not the manager,” the woman snapped. “Never has been. I’ve been here three years and I never heard of her.”

The woman was angry, but I decided to press on. She listened to the description I gave her. She even pursed her lips slightly while thinking about this so that tiny lines formed above her mouth and the lipstick seeped in like an unattractive road map.

“No, she’s never worked here.”

“Well, we certainly can’t be approving a loan in that case.” I tried to chuckle knowledgeably as if I’d had this experience many times before and wasn’t really surprised. “People do these things all the time. That’s why we have to go around and ask questions. Thanks for talking to me.” I wanted to get out of there before she could ask me anything. I backed toward the door. Picking up one of Crystal’s charge applications from a Baccarat bowl, I waved and hurried out.

I didn’t look back until I got to the car, which I had parked a couple of blocks away in the residential area known as the Flats.