When she reached the foot of the stairs, she paused, giving him the same sort of visual inspection he’d been giving her.

“Hi, Dave.” Her voice, like her appearance, was both vain and absurdly seductive. Her eyes, he noted with interest, were not the dull, self-pitying eyes of the average junkie. They were sky blue, clear, bright. But the chilly substance sparkling in those eyes wasn’t the innocence of youth. Far from it.

There is an interesting thing about eyes, thought Gurney. They contain and reflect, even in the effort of concealment, the emotional sum of everything they’ve seen.

He cleared his throat and asked a perfunctory but necessary question. “Are you Alyssa Spalter?”

Her pink lips parted slightly, showing a row of perfect teeth. “That’s the question cops on TV ask before they arrest somebody. Do you want to arrest me?” Her tone was playful, but her eyes weren’t.

“That’s not my plan.”

“What is your plan?”

“No plan. I’m here because you called me.”

“And because you’re curious?”

“I’m curious about who killed your father. You told me you knew who it was. Do you?”

“Don’t be in such a hurry. Come in and sit down.” She turned at the foot of the stairs and walked through the archway into the living room, moving on her bare feet with a kind of silkiness, like a dancer. She didn’t look back.

He followed her—thinking that he’d never before encountered such a remarkable combination of over-the-top sexuality and pure cyanide.

The room itself—with its enormous fireplace, leather-upholstered chairs, and English landscape paintings—provided a bizarre contrast to the Lolita-like figure who might soon inherit it. Or maybe not such a contrast after all, considering that the house was probably no older than Alyssa, and its outward appearance no more than a clever contrivance.

“Kinda like a museum,” she said, “but the sofa is nice and soft. I love the way it feels on my legs. Try it.”

Before he could choose a place to sit—anywhere but the sofa—his phone rang. He checked the ID. It was Madeleine, right on time. He stared at the screen with an expression of consternation, as though the caller were the last person he wanted to hear from, before pressing TALK.

“Yes?” He paused. “No.” He paused again before repeating, angrily now, “I said no!” He pressed END CALL, put the phone back in his shirt pocket, looked at Alyssa and erased his frown. “Sorry for the interruption. Where were we?”

“We were about to get comfortable.” She sat at one end of the sofa and gestured invitingly toward the cushion nearest her.

Instead he sat in a wing chair, separated from her by a coffee table.

She let a pouty little look come and go. “You want something to drink?”

He shook his head.

“Beer?”

“No.”

“Champagne?”

“No, I’m fine.”

“Martini? Negroni? Tequini? Margarita?”

“Nothing.”