MacLeish’s face didn’t change, but Escobar sat forward, elbows on knees. I knew this man. I knew this type of man. Titillated and ready to judge in equal measure. I brushed my hand against my blouse, pretending not to notice the way it drew tight against my chest, careful to make the move reflexive almost, refusing to look at Escobar to see how it landed.

“We’re only looking for information on Ms. Howard,” MacLeish said. “Not anything else.”

The best bluffs have a little bit of truth, Lou had said when we’d been figuring out our official story. And trust me, these cops don’t care if a well-heeled white girl hustles a little extra on the side in this zip code. It ain’t fair, but them’s the breaks. Then Lou had grazed my chin lightly with her nails, turning my face. Besides, you could proposition the pope and get away with it, with your mug.

“Occasionally I make ends meet as a working girl,” I said. I turned to Escobar, tried not to scan the chair arms too obviously for any long golden strands. “You understand what I mean?”

“I understand,” he said, but he’d gone red again.

“Ellen and I sometimes worked the same circuit. The other thing about the St. Leo, they have good rates for a girl looking to rent by the hour. Discreet personnel.”

MacLeish was dutifully jotting notes in his flipbook, back to business. I let myself relax an inch. Escobar was trying to regain his composure, but I could see him wondering what it would be like to pay someone for a fuck, wondering my price. Men always think it must be special if someone’s willing to pay for it. I winked at him. He coughed and turned away.

I’d waited long enough to ask it. I forced my eyes wide. “But hey, I thought the papers said she killed that movie man before she crashed his car. Do you think she was murdered?”

MacLeish deflected beautifully. “We’re just trying to answer some questions about Ms. Howard’s last days, what she did, where she went. Ms. Howard was a prostitute as well?”

I thought of all the care Lou had taken drilling our terminology into my head—we were consultants, and our girls, specialists. “A working girl. That’s right.”

“A working girl,” MacLeish repeated, letting me know he’d caught the difference.

“We’ve spoken with her friends and family,” Escobar said. “No one mentioned anything about her being a pro.”

“It probably didn’t come up at Christmas.”

“Was Hiram Klein a client?”

I sucked on the inside of my cheeks, pretended to think about it. “Not if she killed him, no.”

“Why not? You think the deceased was having an affair with Mr. Klein?”