I gestured with an open hand. “As irrational as Don’t-Call-Me-Vince has been lately, who knows? But more likely it’s some work thing and just demonstrates what a loose cannon that concussion’s made out of our client’s baby boy.”

Her nod was in slow motion. “I can buy that.”

“But, again, doll—why was Kraft killed, and who did it…? If Pat has any ideas about that, he’s sure not sharing them.”

The waitress stopped by again and Velda held up a hand, preferring not to have her coffee cup refilled. We’d both had enough caffeine already to fuel the evening ahead.

Velda said, “All we know about Kraft is that he was part of a heist crew, and after this new heat, with their driver turning up dead? The accomplices will be in the wind.”

“Most likely. And if Kraft hadn’t been killed the same chest-crushing way as Shannon and that call girl? I would think tracking that end of things might pay off.”

“But we’re obviously dealing with one killer.”

“Right again. This doesn’t seem to have anything to do with smash-and-grab bank jobs.”

Her eyebrows rose contemplatively. “I have my own police contacts. You want me to dig into the late Mr. Kraft and his life and times?”

“Damn straight. You still know some of the undercover girls in Vice, right?”

Her dark hair bounced as she nodded. “Yeah. Nobody’s around from when I worked there, a million years ago, but yes, I have contacts. And I know some of the working girls, from that undercover job a couple of years back. Let me guess—that dead upscale hooker, what was her name?”

“Jasmine Jordan. But you’re ahead of me on this.”

“I am. I’ll see what I can find out about her and maybe we can get a line on her patrons. If one of them is Vincent Colby, we could be getting close to an answer his father—our client—won’t like.”

My grin was nasty. “I warned him this afternoon—told him I intend to follow this wherever it leads. The old man had his chance to bail.”

She raised a forefinger. “Something else.”

“Shoot. You should pardon the expression.”

“We’re assuming one killer because of the distinctive method of murder.”

“Yes we are.”

“But we’re leaving out the first two kills—the raped, strangled secretary from the Colby firm, and the suspicious-as-hell hit-and-run in that parking ramp of all places, taking down a broker from Colby, Who’s It and What’s It. Let’s call them murders, too.”

“Let’s.”

She leaned forward, keeping her voice down. The restaurant was starting to fill up and murder talk required a little discretion.