“As I was saying, I found you. Women in this business always interest me, and your background was…intriguing. Unfortunately, travel to Canada is a bit problematic for me. Some bad business in Quebec back in the seventies, which I’m sure your authorities have forgotten all about, but I prefer not to test that theory. So I decided to send my favorite protégé—”

“Favorite?” Jack muttered. “Only one still talking to you.”

“I sent Jack to check you out, to assess your suitability as a protégée. He comes back and says, ‘Nah. Forget her.’ Which”—another lethal glare at Jack—“apparently meant that I was supposed to forget you, not that he planned to. How long have you been traipsing across the border, cultivating my contact?”

Jack shrugged.

“Often enough, clearly. When were you going to tell me?”

“Brought her here, didn’t I? We need information.”

She laughed. “Don’t you love this guy? He lies to me, steals from me, then has the gall not only to bring you here, but to ask me for help.”

Evelyn didn’t sound betrayed or even surprised. The look she gave Jack reminded me of a parent complaining about a rebellious teen, exasperated pride masquerading as pique.

“There’s a fresh pot of coffee in the kitchen,” Evelyn said. “Pour us some, and I’ll think about talking.”

Jack heaved himself from the love seat and headed into the hall. Evelyn watched him over her shoulder, then turned to me.

“Don’t tell her anything,” Jack’s voice floated back. “She knows what she needs to know. Rest is idle curiosity.”

Evelyn mouthed an obscenity. She listened for Jack’s movements in the kitchen, as if gauging whether he could still overhear.

“Let’s just talk about a decent nom de guerre, then. How about Diana? That’s better than Dee, isn’t it?”

“Honestly? It makes me think ‘dead princess,’ not ‘Greek goddess.’ I’m not sure ‘princess’ gives off the right vibe, and that ‘dead’ part is definitely not a good omen.”

“You have a point. Hitmen aren’t known for their classical educations. We’ll stick with Dee until I think of something better.”

“Charles Manson,” Jack called from the kitchen. “We need details.”

“Ah, so this is about the Helter Skelter killer.” She turned to me. “Now there’s a name. Say the words ‘Helter Skelter’ and everyone of a certain age immediately thinks Manson, and everything that goes with that. For a killer—”

“Yeah,” Jack said, rounding the corner with the coffees. “It’s about him.”

“You’re going after him?”

Jack passed me my mug. “Someone’s gotta. Feds are clueless. They’ll round up every pro…except the killer.”

“From what I hear they already are, which is why I’ve been trying to get in touch with you for a week now. You’ve been ignoring me.”

“Wasn’t ignoring you. Busy. Setting this up.”