Mrs. MacIver entered now, turning to the door as she closed it quietly. Leland could see the lines of her thighs against her blue skirt. She had short, shapely legs, slender ankles, and small feet. She walked to her chair lightly, watching Florence writing in the notebook. Leland did not try to conceal his gaze; the mood pressed on him like a tidal current. He recalled what Florence had said about the hard-seeming wrists. The black hair was on her forearms, even and fine. Mrs. MacIver was wearing some kind of charm bracelet, and no rings. Her hands had the hardness, but they were delicate, too—or just thin; either way, they did not appear to be strong. She was watching Florence as she sat down, and her skirt slid up over her knees. Her knees were round and smooth; her bones were heavier than Karen’s.

Norma MacIver moved back on the chair and shifted her legs and Leland got a look above her knees. Her thighs were well fleshed, almost heavy. The stockings were stretched taut. Leland wanted to know what she looked like when she was not carrying a child. With her small breasts and doll-like face, probably a lot like a child herself.

Leland picked up his cigarette pack, not daring to look in her eyes. He was still conscious of her movements, but for another reason. She sat still, not bringing her hands toward her hem. He had been obvious, staring, but if she had seen him, she was not going to hit at his ego by showing that his interest had been unpleasant. It was a nice thing to know about her. With elaborate slowness Leland put his burnt-out match in the ash tray. The understanding between them, if there was one, was adult, but he could not help feeling a little like a kid who had got around the corner with a palmed Baby Ruth.

Florence put down the receiver. “That was Mr. Johnson’s office,” she said. “There was nothing in the criminal index, but for the summer of 1946, the last half of 1947, the summer of ’48, and all of ’49, there are notations for twenty-three parking and minor traffic tickets, all paid in full. That was before the point system went into effect on drivers’ licenses.”

Leland drew on his cigarette. “What do you think, Mrs. MacIver?”

“Why—he drove fast, but not like that. He never got a ticket while I knew him.”

Florence stood up. “Mr. Leland? I’ll type up these notes and put the addresses on index cards for you.”

“Go ahead. Thanks for your help, Flo.”

“There’s paper and pencils in your top drawer if you need them. You have that appointment at three o’clock, and you have to see Mike before you go.”

“I haven’t forgotten. Okay.”

Assembling her papers, Florence moved around behind Mrs. MacIver’s chair. Leland waited until the door latch clicked.

“Do you drive a car, Mrs. MacIver?”