Samson's Deal: A Laid-Back Bay Area Mystery (The Jake Samson & Rosie Vicente Detective Series) by Shelley Singer Page A

me, so I played it like poker.
    “I’m looking for Edward Cutter.”
    “Yeah? Who wants him?” He didn’t sound hostile, just chilly.
    “A friend of Margaret Bursky.”
    He threw me a suspicious look. “Wait a minute,” he said, turning away from the window.
    He was my friend from the campus fire. The young guy who’d been standing in the front row. The one who had known it was Harley’s office that was burning and hadn’t looked at all sad about it.

– 12 –
    The door jerked open in front of me, but he didn’t step out of the way. He stood blocking the entry.
    I detected a tiny shift in his regard, and then it was gone. He’d remembered me but he wasn’t going to admit it.
    “I’m Cutter.”
    “Can I come in and talk to you?”
    “No. You can talk to me right here. What do you want?”
    I gave him the stuff about the magazine article. If anything, he looked colder, more rock-faced. He was crossing the line into hate.
    “Fucking leeches,” he muttered, challenging me in direct eye-to-eye confrontation.
    I ignored his student demonstration. “I hear you were pretty close to her,” I said smoothly.
    He was having a little trouble staying focused on my eyes, but he managed. He shook his head. “I don’t know who told you that. I didn’t hardly know the woman.”
    I sighed for the days when people who’d gotten as far as college usually knew how to speak the language. “You did know her. Look, can I come in and talk to you? She deserves this article, the recognition—”
    He grunted. “What the hell kind of difference is it gonna make to a dead woman? You want anything else?” I started to open my mouth. “You make me sick. I got nothing to say. I didn’t know her. Fucking leech.” And he slammed the door in my face.
    I was elated. Either this guy was just crazy or I’d gotten my first break. He was hiding something. And he certainly fitted Cavour’s description of a peculiar young man, a student, who seemed to be close to Margaret Bursky.
    It was nearly five o’clock, and I realized I hadn’t had any lunch. I was hungry and energized and felt like eating, drinking, and celebrating. Iris? I thought it would be better strategy to take her at her word, at least for a while. There was Alana, but the thought of her made me uncomfortable, as though the strength of my reaction to Iris nullified the mild pleasure of Alana’s company. Sometimes it is not easy to be a combination of romantic and nice guy. Not only self-destructive and naive but also frustrating as hell. Could it be I was meant to marry and have babies?
    I dialed Rosie’s number. No answer. Maybe Rebecca could tear herself away for an hour or so. I rang her office. She said I’d just caught her and that she’d be delighted to have a drink with me. Even dinner.
    She was waiting at the restaurant when I got there, a hamburger and beer place, but a good one. She ordered wine. I went off my diet.
    Rebecca looked weary and tense around the eyes, and the corners of her mouth were even more deeply cut.
    “Relax,” I told her. “He lived through it, didn’t he?”
    She shrugged dismally. “It’s all such a mess. You’d think that at least now we’d be able to”—she stopped short and glanced at me with just a touch of guilt—“you know what I mean.”
    “Give it time,” I said meaninglessly, and took a big bite of my burger.
    “You’re looking happy,” she accused me.
    “Things are moving along.”
    She leaned back in her chair, making a visible try at relaxation, and studied my face. “You’re making progress?”
    “I think so.”
    “Tell me.” She leaned forward, eager.
    But I wasn’t ready to tell her. Telling her would be like reporting to Harley and I wanted more to go on. “Not yet.”
    “Why not?” She was disappointed, maybe even angry.
    “Because I don’t have anything definite yet. I’m just following some leads that may go somewhere. And of course there’s the fire. The police are going to think