Flesh and Blood by Thomas H. Cook Page A

a little embarrassed by Karen’s speedy defense. “Well, that’s the plan anyway,” he said.
    Karen turned back to Frank. “Listen, Frank,” she said.”We were thinking of having dinner and then a show.” There was a moment of awkward hesitation, then she went on.”Well, how about joining us?”
    â€œNo, thanks,” Frank said.
    â€œI wish you would,” Jeffrey said. “We’ve never gotten to know each other, really.”
    â€œI have this case,” Frank said quietly. “I have to meet a guy.” His eyes drifted over to the bronze statue once again, drifted down the rounded shoulder and along the rolled-up sleeve to where the hand pressed downward into the flap of cloth.
    â€œWell, we wouldn’t have dinner until six or seven,” Karen told him.
    â€œNo, thanks,” Frank said. He looked back toward her, and for a moment lost himself in the face, not as he saw it now, but as he had seen it the first time, so silent, dark, grave. He could feel something in him sinking slowly toward the bottom. “I have this case,” he added.
    â€œWe’d really like to have you,” Karen said.
    He shook his head. “I can’t do it, Karen,” he said softly.
    Her eyes stared at him with a sudden, inexpressible resolve. “Okay,” she said.
    He offered her a thin, resilient smile. “But you have fun, though.”
    â€œI’ll be back home before midnight,” she said, as if to reassure him. “Will you be home by then?”
    â€œI guess.”
    â€œGood,” Karen said. “See you then.” She turned quickly, her long, slender arm curling for just a moment around Lancaster’s waist as she led him up the avenue toward the spinning lights of Times Square.

9
    The directory in the lobby of the building listed Imalia Covallo Enterprises in bold white letters. It was on the twenty-second floor, and its outer office was elegantly decorated, Beautifully designed fabrics covered the walls, some framed like paintings, some simply hung in large pleated waves that seemed to flow in a gently rolling stream along the four lavender-colored walls.
    There was an enormous antique desk at the far end of the vestibule. A woman with long dark hair sat behind it. She smiled sweetly as Frank stepped up to her.
    â€œI’m here to see Mr. Riviera,” he said.
    â€œIs he expecting you?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œAnd your name?”
    â€œFrank Clemons.”
    â€œJust a moment, please,” the woman said. She picked up a phone and said something into it. Then she turned back to Frank. “He’ll be right out. Take a seat if you like.”
    Frank remained standing for the few seconds it took for Riviera to join him in the foyer.
    He was older than Frank expected, probably in his sixties, and he had close-cropped white hair along the sides of his head. He wore thick wire glasses, and behind the lenses his eyes were an unexpected pale blue. His skin was brown and slightly wrinkled, but he looked strong, robust, someone who could give orders well.
    â€œMr. Clemons,” he said cheerfully. “Tony Riviera.” He thrust out his hand and Frank shook it.
    â€œImalia says that I should help you in any way I can,” Riviera said, “but she didn’t exactly say what it was all about.”
    â€œHannah Karlsberg,” Frank told him.
    â€œWhat about her?”
    â€œHer murder,” he answered, before he could stop himself.
    Riviera’s face seemed to tighten somewhat. “Aren’t the police handling that?”
    â€œYes,” Frank said.
    â€œBut you’re not with the police?”
    â€œNo,” Frank told him. “I’m sort of looking into it on my own.”
    â€œOn your own?” Riviera asked unbelievingly.
    â€œThat’s right.”
    Riviera stared at him evenly. “I see.” For a moment his body seemed to hang in suspension. Then, suddenly,