remember the last time I wore a necktie.”
“You should more often. You’re too old to pass for the drummer in a grunge band.”
“Says you. I’ve still got one of my baby teeth. You lose the habit of duding up when you spend as much time as I do rummaging through the dusty back rooms of junk shops looking for Charlie Chan Carries On.”
“You’re better equipped for that than you are to interrogate suspects in homicides.”
“That again. There’s no law against being curious.” He’d confided his idea to her, and had regretted it almost immediately. It was easy to forget, once she’d hung up her green work smock, that she was basically a cop.
“There is when it involves obstruction of justice. This beef with Padilla’s going to land you in the pokey.”
“Do they still call it that?”
“Don’t try going off topic with me. My powers of concentration are my livelihood.”
“I’m responding to a social invitation. I didn’t even know about the missing letters when I accepted. If the subject comes up—”
“It will. You’ll make sure of that.”
“If it does,” he pressed on, “I have the right to ask a question or two. But I’m looking forward to a pleasant evening. I admire our host. After the weekend he’s had, the fact that he’d rather entertain you and me than turn in early and try to forget it is flattering.”
“The last time he invited you to his home it was to bribe you to commit a felony.”
“He had an agenda then, I admit. But he’s as good as free and clear now. His secret is out, or soon will be; you said yourself the police can’t plug all the leaks, and anyway it’s a lie. And his claim of self-defense is holding. All he wants us to do for him is enjoy the poached salmon.”
“I hope he doesn’t serve it with the head still on.”
“You’re funny. You dissect dead people all day but you can’t eat a fish when it’s staring at you.”
“I don’t eat the people either.”
**
Because though he was, and notwithstanding the experience of the past few days, Matthew Rankin proved a charming host. He greeted them in a large quiet living room with a full-length portrait of his late wife hanging above a massive fireplace of marble and brushed steel, served cocktails from an elaborate bar, and told Harriet she must never again impersonate anyone else and let others aspire instead to her loveliness.
“I said almost the same thing,” Valentino said. “Maybe she’ll believe it coming from you.”
“Maybe if you expressed yourself as well.” She sipped at her martini.
Rankin wore a midnight blue suit that fit him like a sheath, with a liquid-silk necktie that made Valentino feel as under-dressed as Ray Padilla. Apart from a slight puffiness beneath his eyes, the department-store magnate looked as rested as if he’d spent the weekend in the country. He’d steered aside words of sympathy, showing more concern for Valentino’s embattled face. His brow darkened when he heard the explanation.
“Did the pests follow you here? I pay a private security company to throw people like that into the street.”
“That won’t be necessary tonight. Campus police escorted me to my car and I was able to leave the stragglers behind in city traffic. One of the advantages of earning an archivist’s salary is I drive a car that doesn’t stick out.”
“A gang of them was camped on the curb when I got home,” Rankin said. “The police sent a squad-car team to break them up as a traffic obstruction. Clifford Adams says the department is trying to get on my good side before I take it to court.”
Harriet asked if Beverly Hills had dropped the charges against him.
Rankin gulped single-malt Scotch and shook his head. “Adams says they will tomorrow. If they moved as fast to clear an innocent man as they did to besmirch his reputation in the first place”—he smiled
“You should more often. You’re too old to pass for the drummer in a grunge band.”
“Says you. I’ve still got one of my baby teeth. You lose the habit of duding up when you spend as much time as I do rummaging through the dusty back rooms of junk shops looking for Charlie Chan Carries On.”
“You’re better equipped for that than you are to interrogate suspects in homicides.”
“That again. There’s no law against being curious.” He’d confided his idea to her, and had regretted it almost immediately. It was easy to forget, once she’d hung up her green work smock, that she was basically a cop.
“There is when it involves obstruction of justice. This beef with Padilla’s going to land you in the pokey.”
“Do they still call it that?”
“Don’t try going off topic with me. My powers of concentration are my livelihood.”
“I’m responding to a social invitation. I didn’t even know about the missing letters when I accepted. If the subject comes up—”
“It will. You’ll make sure of that.”
“If it does,” he pressed on, “I have the right to ask a question or two. But I’m looking forward to a pleasant evening. I admire our host. After the weekend he’s had, the fact that he’d rather entertain you and me than turn in early and try to forget it is flattering.”
“The last time he invited you to his home it was to bribe you to commit a felony.”
“He had an agenda then, I admit. But he’s as good as free and clear now. His secret is out, or soon will be; you said yourself the police can’t plug all the leaks, and anyway it’s a lie. And his claim of self-defense is holding. All he wants us to do for him is enjoy the poached salmon.”
“I hope he doesn’t serve it with the head still on.”
“You’re funny. You dissect dead people all day but you can’t eat a fish when it’s staring at you.”
“I don’t eat the people either.”
**
Because though he was, and notwithstanding the experience of the past few days, Matthew Rankin proved a charming host. He greeted them in a large quiet living room with a full-length portrait of his late wife hanging above a massive fireplace of marble and brushed steel, served cocktails from an elaborate bar, and told Harriet she must never again impersonate anyone else and let others aspire instead to her loveliness.
“I said almost the same thing,” Valentino said. “Maybe she’ll believe it coming from you.”
“Maybe if you expressed yourself as well.” She sipped at her martini.
Rankin wore a midnight blue suit that fit him like a sheath, with a liquid-silk necktie that made Valentino feel as under-dressed as Ray Padilla. Apart from a slight puffiness beneath his eyes, the department-store magnate looked as rested as if he’d spent the weekend in the country. He’d steered aside words of sympathy, showing more concern for Valentino’s embattled face. His brow darkened when he heard the explanation.
“Did the pests follow you here? I pay a private security company to throw people like that into the street.”
“That won’t be necessary tonight. Campus police escorted me to my car and I was able to leave the stragglers behind in city traffic. One of the advantages of earning an archivist’s salary is I drive a car that doesn’t stick out.”
“A gang of them was camped on the curb when I got home,” Rankin said. “The police sent a squad-car team to break them up as a traffic obstruction. Clifford Adams says the department is trying to get on my good side before I take it to court.”
Harriet asked if Beverly Hills had dropped the charges against him.
Rankin gulped single-malt Scotch and shook his head. “Adams says they will tomorrow. If they moved as fast to clear an innocent man as they did to besmirch his reputation in the first place”—he smiled
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