“Can I—” Blue eyes swept up and down doubtfully. help you?”

“Uh, yeah. Was this—did Burt Marshall used to own this place?” Velvet shifted uncomfortably. Robby’s penny loafers seemed Payless Shoe Store tacky, the clothes one step above homeless shelter giveaways.

“Marshall?” The woman gave her a brief contemptuous smile. Her outfit cost more than Velvet would have earned for a good round-the-world with a drunken stockbroker. “I’m sorry, miss, are you a customer?”

“No.” Velvet shoved her hands in her coat pockets. Not likely to be, either. “No, I guess not. I was just looking for somebody who knew Burt Marshall. I got « something for his family.”

“I’m afraid—”

“What is it, Stacie?” a man asked. He swept in from the back, burdened with two handfuls of plastic-shrouded suits that he hung on gold hooks on the wall. “These are the special orders for Mr. Novacek. He’ll be in at four-thirty.”

He turned—a small man, thin, weak-chinned. Wide dark eyes that locked with Velvet’s and got wider.

It was the guy from the funeral.

“Oh, Mr. Julian, this lady wants to talk to you about Mr. Marshall.” Stacie’s tone was as dry as the Sahara, but it got odd at the end. She’d noticed, too.

Noticed Mr. Julian’s shock.

“Uh, look, I don’t want trouble or anything,” Velvet blurted out. All of a sudden the idea of giving him two hundred bucks for Burt’s family seemed pathetic, and even dangerous. There was something weasel-bright in Julian’s eyes, a panic that looked rabid. “Never mind, okay? Just never mind. It was a mistake.”

She backed up and stumbled on a Persian throw rug, caught herself with one sweaty palm on expensive wood paneling. Mr. Julian swung up the divider in the marble counter. God, she didn’t like this, it looked wrong, all wrong.

When she reached for the door it swung open, blasting her with winter. An Arab guy stood in her way, big, staring over her shoulder at Mr. Julian. He had a face as sharp as a switchblade, and no expression at all. She’d seen enough enforcers to recognize the eyes of a killer when she saw them. The damn Persian carpet tripped her up again as she stepped back.

The model—what’s her name, Stacie—behind the counter, said chirpily, “Sir, how may I help you?”

Mr. Julian said, from somewhere behind Velvet’s left shoulder, “That’ll be all, Stacie. Why don’t you go in the back?”

I’m going to die, Velvet thought. In a fucking dry cleaners. Oh my god, but I just made it up, I didn’t know, I didn’t—

The Arab took a step inside. The door started to swing shut.

They’re gonna lock the door. Turn the sign to CLOSED. I’m gonna—