Fugitive Nights by Joseph Wambaugh Page A

jammed under her holstered two-inch revolver. Everyone said that after she’d been retired a few months she’d stop carrying a gun. Most P.I.’s wouldn’t carry one even if, like Breda, they were retired from police work on a service pension and could do so anywhere in the state. P.I.’s who weren’t retired from police work seldom even bothered to try for a gun permit. But Breda was used to having a gun handy, and hadn’t broken the habit as yet.
    Rhonda Devon had assured her that her private line was safe and that Clive Devon seldom answered it. If he did he wouldn’t think anything of a woman asking for his wife. It was Rhonda Devon who picked it up on the second ring.
    â€œMrs. Devon?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œIt’s Breda Burrows.”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œCan you talk?”
    â€œNot really. We’re having early dinner.”
    â€œI want you to ask your husband where he went today. Don’t press him, but try to get a few details about how his day went and if he was alone.”
    â€œWhy?”
    â€œHe went on a picnic with a young woman, a woman with long black hair, maybe Mexican. She has a big brown dog and drives a rusty old Plymouth. Do you know anyone fitting that description?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œDoes it surprise you?”
    â€œVery much.”
    â€œCan you talk to him and phone me?”
    â€œWe can get together.”
    â€œSoon?”
    â€œYes.”
    When Breda told Rhonda Devon where she was, her client said, “I can be over in fifteen minutes, Margie. But don’t show me too many vacation pictures, okay?”
    By the time Breda had returned to the bar, Lynn Cutter was leaning on the baby grand, talking to an attractive female piano player who had just come to work and was warming up with a Cole Porter medley.
    The piano player was blond like Rhonda Devon, but not a real blonde. She wore slinky black, and the way she smiled at Lynn made Breda take a closer look at him. He really wasn’t a bad-looking guy if only he could get that smart-mouthing under control, and damn it, he did have nice buns. Suddenly Breda realized that she hadn’t been to bed with a man since she’d left L.A.!
    Lynn returned to the bar after Breda sat down. He held his empty glass in his hand with a wistful look.
    â€œ One more,” Breda said. “We’re meeting Rhonda Devon.”
    â€œYeah? Where?”
    â€œHere.”
    â€œAll right! That glimpse through the oleander was interesting.”
    â€œTry to maintain,” Breda said. “We don’t fraternize with clients.”
    As the bartender set the Chivas in front of Lynn, Breda decided she ought to deduct his drinks from any fee she owed him. Then he’d owe her money before the week was out.
    Rhonda Devon was thirty minutes and two drinks late, as far as Lynn was concerned. The reason was understandable. She looked like Rodeo Drive, before going shopping at Chanel Boutique, or after lunch at The Bistro Garden. Breda recognized the Liz Claiborne persimmon leather handbag, the cheapest item on her person. Breda could only wonder where she’d bought the persimmon and black velvet jacket with all those pleats. And her black suede pumps probably cost more than Breda’s entire outfit.
    And yet, the soft dim bar light had an effect not intended. Rhonda Devon looked sleeker but older than she had when Breda Burrows had seen her in her living room in the late afternoon twilight. Breda was certain that Rhonda Devon was several years older than she’d admitted.
    It was easy to see that Lynn wasn’t thinking about calendars. He was looking at money. Ogling, actually. Breda couldn’t wait to be rid of this guy.
    She said, “Mrs. Devon, this is Lynn Cutter. He’s helping me with your problem.”
    â€œI thought you worked alone,” Rhonda Devon said, not offering her hand to Lynn. She wore an eighteen-karat canary diamond on her left