I filled her in on the trip to the Solstice Fitness Center and my return visit to Colby, Daltree & Levine.

“Either Vincent is playing me,” I said, “or somebody is trying to frame him. We’ve got death by a forbidden martial arts move and young Colby studying with a tenth-degree black belt trainer. We’ve got a series of murders all connected in some way to our client’s son, with one of the victims a cop who was looking at Colby like Ahab eyeing that white whale.”

At the end of her workday, Velda still looked fresh, the arcs of her dark hair touching the wide shoulders of a lime silk blouse that needed no pads to be in fashion.

She frowned in thought over the rim of her coffee cup from which she’d just sipped. “Do you think Casey Shannon was convinced of Colby’s guilt?”

I shook my head. “Probably not. Casey was still investigating.”

“What kind of unofficial case file did your friend Shannon leave behind?”

“Nothing’s been found, and Pat and his crew—including the top forensics guys—gave Casey’s pad a thorough shake.”

“And?”

“And came up with bupkis…at least as far as I know. Pat is stingier with information than usual.”

“Any chance they missed it?”

I shrugged. “Always a chance of that. And if Casey had come up with something—either indicating Colby’s guilt, or someone else’s…”

She was nodding. “And hadn’t moved on it.”

“…it could still be somewhere in that apartment.”

She sipped coffee, her expression growing thoughtful. Then she said: “The police are finished with the place, aren’t they? Can’t you get in and have a look around yourself, Mike?”

I smirked. “It’s still a crime scene, baby. Closed off with good ol’ yellow tape with DO NOT CROSS in big black letters.”

“Why, don’t you have scissors?”

That deserved a smile and I gave her one. “Normally, Pat would let me in. But he’s only dealing me cards he thinks he can use my help on. He wants Casey’s killer himself. He doesn’t want me spoiling his fun.”

Half a smirk dug briefly into a pretty cheek. “Because you’d just kill the bastard, whereas Pat wants to prolong the agony.”

“Some people just aren’t nice.”

A waitress came by and refilled my coffee. I nodded thanks, then stirred in sugar and cream and said, “There won’t be any cop on the door or anything…but I could be seen by a neighbor, working my little lock-pick routine. Still, it might be worth the risk.”

She gestured with a tapered hand, its nails bright red. “Why not get some help? Call Shannon’s peach-fuzz partner, Chris Peters. You said he was pretty broken up about his mentor buying it. If they were that close, good chance he has a key.”

I sipped and smiled. “Doll, you could get by on looks alone… but you don’t. That is a damn good suggestion.”

“Thank you. Want my company?”

I shook my head. “If I can get hold of Chris…and he gave me his card, with his home number on the back, offering to help if I needed any on this thing…two will be company, and three a crowd.”