“Uh, that would be Mr. Donaldson,” she said. “But he’s not the CEO. That would be Mr. Cartwright. And he’s in Paris.”

“Tell Mr. Donaldson that Detective Sergeant Decker from LAPD Homicide is here to speak with him.”

“He’s involved in a long-distance phone conference.”

Decker didn’t answer.

“I’ll buzz his secretary,” the woman said.

A minute later, Decker was sitting with a cup of coffee in the executive office of Mr. Creighton Donaldson—first vice president in charge of acquisition and development for Manfred and Associates. His secretary was around sixty, her gray tresses styled in a bouffant hairdo. A busty woman, she wore her glasses around her neck, the spectacles bouncing on her bosom whenever she walked. Mr. Donaldson would be right out, she informed Decker.

“Right out” was a half hour later. Decker was escorted into Donaldson’s inner sanctum, full of rich, burnished leather and high-polished wood scented with lemon oil. Decker was motioned to sit in a brocade wingback while Donaldson took the chair behind a rosewood desk, its right corner covered by framed pictures of two little girls.

The vice president was much younger than Decker had expected—forty-five, tops. About 6' even, with a tennis player’s build. Black hair, gray temples, sharp brown eyes, straight nose, and cleft chin. His white smile contrasted nicely against his deep tan. Suddenly, Decker felt scruffy.

“I apologize for the delay,” Donaldson said. “How can I help you, Detective?”

Decker glanced at his watch. He was due back in court in thirty minutes. No time for niceties. Just cast the rod and see what you pull up.

“Name Linda Darcy ring a bell?” Decker asked.

Donaldson’s eyebrows rose a millimeter. “Yes. What about her?”

“Tell me about your dealings with her,” Decker said.

“They’re business,” Donaldson said. “And they’re confidential.”

“Not anymore, Mr. Donaldson,” Decker said. “She’s dead.”

Donaldson immediately slumped into his desk chair, a seasick pallor washing over his skin. The man was sinking fast. Decker said, “If you want a drink, Mr. Donaldson, it’s okay with me.”

“Thank you.” Donaldson stood and walked to a portable bar on the other side of the room. “Thank you, I will.” He took out a cut-crystal tumbler and cleared his throat. “How about yourself? Or aren’t you allowed to do that?”

Decker told him he didn’t drink on duty, noticing the VP’s hands were trembling. Donaldson poured himself something straight up.

“What was your connection to Linda Darcy?” Decker asked again.

Donaldson gulped down the first shot, poured himself another.

“It wasn’t what you’re thinking,” he said. “Nothing sexual, although Linda was a very sexy lady…and it might have been nice.” He turned to Decker. “Don’t repeat that. I’m a married man, and I’m quite shaken. I’m not as controlled as I usually am.”