Pat’s grin was a scoffing thing. “Right. The guy intentionally stepped out in front of a speeding Jaguar, why? To get his jollies?”

“I don’t know why. And don’t know that he did. And that was a Ferrari.”

He shook his head. “You have to be the most suspicious son of a bitch I ever knew.”

“Really? How often am I wrong when I am?”

He didn’t have an answer to that. He asked me if I needed a lift and I said yes. On the way to my place, I said damn near nothing. My mind was busy replaying what I’d seen, and wondering why it felt wrong somehow.

CHAPTER TWO

Velda and I lived in the same apartment building, but in separate digs on separate floors. We were a couple in every way except a diamond ring and a marriage certificate, but part of me was set in my bachelor ways with my own quirky mode of doing things.

For instance, I usually only spent the night with her on weekends. That was our wacko way of keeping work and play separate. And even then I would go down to my own pad to shower and shave, then make a breakfast for both of us, and she’d come down and join me.

Weekdays, she had her own schedule, heading to the office early, catching a bus. I would sometimes walk, sometimes run the ten blocks to the Hackard Building, changing out of sweats into fresh clothes I kept at the office. Certain mornings I worked out at Bing’s Gym, taking a cab there and, later, to the office. It all had a rhythm, a regularity to it, that seemed random unless you were keeping track.

What never (or anyway rarely) changed was Velda getting in at the office on the eighth floor of the Hackard before me. She would get the coffee going (Dunkin’ Donuts brand, the only way to fly) and organize any materials or matters that needed going over by either or both of us—client phone calls, insurance reports, letters, invoicing, bill-paying, appointments that took me out of the office, the routine stuff that doesn’t make it into these write-ups.

My job was to pick up fresh Danish at the little restaurant around the corner. I would bring two, eat one and a half, and Velda would gorge herself on the remaining half. Like I told that redheaded hostess at Pete’s the night before, my secretary/partner was watching her figure.

And what a figure.

This morning, like so many mornings when I came in through the pebbled glass door that said MICHAEL HAMMER INVESTIGATIONS, I was suspicious that Velda had heard my footfall in the hall and assumed the position, bending over to access a lower drawer of her file cabinet, presenting that world class fanny of hers for my inspection and delight. Her attire this morning was typical—a black pencil skirt and a pale blue silk blouse.

“Good morning, Mike,” she said, without even looking.