Sinister Heights by Loren D. Estleman Page A

inheritance and if she preferred to be the one who did the calling she could reach me at that number or the office later. I left the usual references—police, lawyers, a couple of state legislators not yet under indictment—and threw in the name of a social services caseworker from a child-abandonment job, to knock the sharp corners off the testosterone; but she stepped all over the names, insisting someone had given me the wrong number, said good-bye, and went away with the connection.
    I got out of the robe and into the shower, scraped off the Cro-Magnon growth of the night, put on a suit fresh from the cleaners, and drove to the office, where I sat around making a good impression on the walls until the telephone rang at ten.
    â€œAmos?”
    That Jamaican lilt sent me way back. I felt the outer layers of shell dropping off like something I didn’t need anymore, or hadn’t yet needed then; or maybe I was just coming down from a hot flash.
    â€œIris?”
    â€œOnly to you. I’m Mrs. Emory Chapin to everyone else. You need to work on your people skills. You didn’t make a hit with Ms. Stainback.”
    â€œIf she’d let me get as far as knowing her name was Ms. Stainback I’d have sent flowers.”
    â€œThat’s what I mean. She isn’t the type that appreciates them.”
    â€œTo hell with her, then. You got married, I heard. The name wasn’t Chapin. And it was Kingston town, not Monroe.”
    â€œKingston. Roger Whittaker’s the only one who calls it Kingston town. Charles died; leukemia. I won’t discuss Emory. I only wear the name because if he heard what it’s connected with now he’d have a stroke. And how are you? Still single and mean as a sewer cat?”
    I didn’t deny either assumption. I’d known Iris when she worked the streets for a needleful of Mexican brown; any secrets we had were new since then. “How long have you been running a shelter?”
    â€œTwo years. Five years before that running errands and observing while I waited out accreditation. I saw things I never saw in a crackhouse. I thought I was a tough little street rat before I got this gig. I can’t blame Ms. Stainback for being the way she is. I’d have got that way myself if I didn’t know there was more to the world than this. What do you want with Constance Glendowning?”
    That was Iris: business up front, no sitting around chewing over old times and Ferris wheels. I told her what I’d told the other woman. “It isn’t a cover,” I added. “There’s serious money involved.”
    â€œMoney’s always serious. I’m giving a deposition in Detroit today, and I’m late. Where would you like to take me to dinner?”
    â€œMs. Stainback might not approve.”
    â€œTo hell with her, to quote a wise old sage. Make it some place that serves steak without a pile of underdone Brussels sprouts on the side. I gave up vegetarianism when I gave up Mr. Ghapin.”
    â€œSmoking or no?”
    â€œNo. The son of a bitch may drive up my cholesterol, but he won’t give me cancer. I’ve had my fill of hospitals after Charles.”
    I said there was a place I hadn’t tried down the street from the MGM Grand. “It should be quiet. People who lost the rent don’t whoop it up. We can meet there.”
    She got the name of the restaurant and the location and said six-thirty. “If you get there early, go down the street and put down fifty for me on seven.”
    â€œRed or black?”
    â€œWhat you think?” She could still put on the Twelfth Street twang when she wanted to. “Don’t bring flowers.”
    â€œHow about a Hummel?”
    â€œWhat’s a Hummel?”
    â€œA kewpie doll with a pedigree. Bum joke. Will I know you?”
    â€œYou’re still a detective, right?”
    When we were through talking I sat thinking for a little while, about a Detroit with