"Someone sent it to her mother."

Danielle barked out a laugh. "You're kidding. That's gross. What kind of jerk would do a thing like that?"

"I don't know yet. I'm hoping to find out. What else can you tell me?"

"No, no. You ask and I'll answer. I can't think of anything off the top of my head."

"Who's Lester?"

"Lester had nothing to do with Lorna."

"But who is he?"

She gave me a look. "What's it to you?"

"You're afraid of him, and I want to know why."

"Get off it. You're wasting your money."

"Maybe I can afford it."

"Oh, right. On what you make? That's bullshit."

"Actually, I don't even know what you're charging."

"Trick rates. Fifty bucks."

"An hour?" I yelped.

"Not an hour. What's the matter with you? Fifty bucks a trick. Nothing about sex takes an hour," she said contemptuously. "Anybody says it's an hour is rippin' you off."

"I take it Lester's your pimp."

"Listen to her. 'Pimp.' Who taught you to talk that way? Lester Dudley—Mr. Dickhead to you—is my personal manager. He's like my professional representative."

"Did he represent Lorna?"

"Of course not. I already told you, she was smart. She declined his services."

"You think he'd have any information about her?"

"Not a chance. Don't even bother. The guy's a real piece of shit."

I thought for a moment, but I'd covered the questions that came readily to mind. "Well. This should do for now. If you think of anything else, will you get in touch?"

"Sure," she said. "As long as you got the money, I got the mouth ... so to speak."

I picked up my handbag and took out my wallet. I gave her a business card, jotting my home address and telephone number on the back. Ordinarily I don't like to give out that information, but I wanted to make it as easy for her as possible. I reviewed my cash supply. I thought maybe she'd be magnanimous and waive her fees, but she held her hand out, watching carefully as I counted bills into her palm. I had to make up the last dollar with the loose change in the bottom of my bag. Of course, I was short.

"Don't worry about it. You can owe me the dime."

"I'll give you an IOU," I said.

She waved the offer aside. "I trust you." She tucked the money in her jacket pocket. "Men are funny, you know? Big male fantasy about hookers? I see this in all these books written by men. Some guy meets a hooker and she's gorgeous: big knockers, refined, and she's got the hots for him. Him and her end up bonking, and when he's done, she won't take his money. He's so wonderful, she doesn't want to charge him money like she does everyone else. Now that's bullshit for sure. I never knew a hooker who'd do a guy for free. Anyway, hooker sex is for shit. If he thinks that's a gift, then the joke's on him."