Jennifer Sheridan walked into my office as if she were Fay Wray and I was King Kong and a bunch of black guys in sagebrush tutus were going to tie her down so that I could have my way with her. It’s a look I’ve seen before, on men as well as women. “I’m a detective, Ms. Sheridan. I’m not going to hurt you. Perhaps I’ll even be polite.” I gave her my best Dudley Do-Right smile.

She smiled back but she didn’t look any less uncomfortable. If Dudley Do-Right didn’t work, maybe the Groucho Marx nose?

Jennifer Sheridan said, “Is what we say privileged, Mr. Cole?”

“As in, attorney-client?”

“Yes.”

I shook my head. “No. My records and my testimony can be subpoenaed and, under California law, I must provide them.”

“Oh.” She didn’t like that.

“But there is latitude. Sometimes I forget things.”

“Oh.” She liked that better, but she still wasn’t convinced. We were standing in the doorway to my office, four stories above West Hollywood on Santa Monica Boulevard. I was holding the door, but Jennifer Sheridan couldn’t seem to make up her mind whether to come in or to leave. Across the hall you could hear laughter coming from the insurance office and one door down two very attractive Hispanic women came out of the beauty products distribution outlet. One of them had about nine cubic feet of teased hair and probably kept the distributor in business by buying hair spray. They went to the elevator. Jennifer Sheridan said, “This isn’t easy for me, Mr. Cole. I’m not sure I should be here and I don’t have much time. I’m on my lunch hour.”

“We could talk over sandwiches, downstairs.” There was a turkey and Swiss on a French baguette waiting for me in the deli on the ground floor. I had been thinking about it for most of the morning and with each passing moment seemed to be thinking about it all the more.

“Thank you, no. I’m engaged.”

“That wasn’t a sexual proposition, Ms. Sheridan. It was a simple offer to share lunch and perhaps more efficiently use both our times.”

“Oh.” Jennifer Sheridan turned as red as a beating heart. She was wearing a light-blue cotton skirt with a white blouse and a matching light-blue bolero jacket and low-heeled navy pumps. The clothes were neat and fit well, and the cuts were stylish but not expensive. She would have to shop and she would have to look for bargains, but she had found them. I liked that. She carried a black imitation leather purse the size of a Buick. She held it with both hands.

“Also, Ms. Sheridan, I’m getting tired of holding the door.”