I stood up and leaned across the desk. My voice had dropped so low I wasn’t sure she’d hear what I was saying unless she knew how to read lips. “Please get out of my office. I don’t want to see you. I don’t want to talk to you. If you so much as catch sight of me, you better run the other way. Have I made myself clear?”

She got up without another word and left, slamming the door behind her.

After I’d cleaned the office from top to bottom, I realized I’d probably gone too far with her. What difference did it make if he knew where to find me? True, I harbored the suspicion that he might have had a hand in Pete’s death, but he didn’t know that. As far as I was concerned, he had no power over me and he had no leverage, so what was there to sweat? If he had the gall to come knocking at my door, I’d tell him I’d tossed the pills. That settled, I retrieved said bottle from my shoulder bag, pulled the rug back, opened my floor safe, and locked the pills away.

•   •   •

Cheney called late in the afternoon, saying, “I have a one-hour dinner break. I’m buying if you want to join me.”

He knew full well I wouldn’t refuse.

I said, “You did talk to Sanford Wray, right?” I held the handset loosely, pen and paper at the ready in case I needed to take notes.

“First thing this morning. Hey, we’re old friends by now. He asked me to call him Mr. Wray. That’s how tight we are.”

“What’d he say about the gun?”

“I’m not doing this on the phone. We’re starting to cook on this, I can tell you that. We picked up partial prints. Thumb and index finger.”

“Oh, come on, Cheney. Don’t make me wait. I want to know what went on.”

“I’ll pick you up in an hour. How do you feel about eating breakfast at dinnertime?”

“I love the idea.”

•   •   •

I was home and waiting at the curb when Cheney came around the corner in his red Mercedes-Benz Roadster. I found myself mentally cocking my head. I was thinking about Robert Dietz and his red Porsche, wondering if Jonah Robb had a little red sports car as well. Cheney leaned across the seat and opened the passenger-side door. I slid into the black leather bucket seat and said, “Is this the car you had when I saw you last?”

“That was an ’87. This is the ’88. A 560SL. You like it?”

“I thought the other one was a 560SL.”

“It was. I was so crazy about the car I got a duplicate.”