working on it, and if I push them, they're liable to get pissed off and stall just to teach me a lesson. That's the way the world works."
"Tell me about it," Dora said. "I have the same problem in my shop."
Then she told him she would return to Manhattan on January 2nd and would call him when she got back. She wished him a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year.
"Likewise," John said.
So she went home, feeling guilty about leaving him alone for the holidays, and thinking what an irrational emotion that was. But he seemed such a weary, lost man that she worried about him and wished she had bought him a Christmas gift. A maroon cashmere muffler would have been nice. But then she wondered if NYPD detectives wore mufflers.
Mario was at work when Dora arrived home, so she was able to conceal his gift in the back of her closet. In the living room he had erected a bushy six-foot Douglas fir and alongside it, brought up from the basement, were boxes of ornaments, tinsel, garlands, and strings of lights. There was a big bottle of Frascati in the fridge, and in the wine rack on the countertop were bottles of Lacrima Cristi, Soave, Valpolicella, and-Dora's favorite-Asti Spumante.
They had a splendid holiday, all the better because they spent it alone. On Christmas Eve they made love under the glittering tree because it seemed a holy thing to do. Mario gave her a marvelous tennis bracelet, and even if the diamonds were pebbles compared to the rocks that Star-rett women wore, Dora thought it the most beautiful gift she had ever received, and her happiness was doubled by Mario's joy with his new espresso machine.
During the remainder of the week, Dora went to the office every day and wrote a progress report on the word processor, consulting her spiral notebook to make certain she could justify her surmises and conclusions. She left the nineteen-page report on Mike Trevalyan's desk late one evening, and the next morning she was summoned to his office, a dank chamber cluttered with files and bundles of computer printout tied with twine. The air was fetid with cigar smoke; during crises or explosions of temper, Tre-valyan was known to keep two cigars going at once.
He was a porcine man with small eyes, a pouty mouth, and all the sweet reasonableness of a Marine drill instructor. But the Company didn't pay him an enormous salary for affability. They wanted him to be irascible, suspicious, and to scan every insurance claim as if the money was coming out of his own pocket. He had worked as a claims adjuster all his life, expected chicanery and, it was said, was furiously disappointed when he couldn't find it.
"This case," he said, pointing his cigar at Dora's report, "it reeketh in the nostrils of the righteous. There's frigging in the rigging going on here, kiddo, and I'm not paying a cent until we know more."
"I agree," Dora said. "Too many unanswered questions."
"The cops think it was a disgruntled ex-employee taking out his grudge on Starrett executives?"
"That's what they think," she said.
"You know what's wrong with that theory?" Trevalyan demanded.
"Of course "I know," Dora said. "It doesn't account for the knife disappearing from the Starretts' apartment, maybe on the night Lewis was killed. That's the first thing I want to check out when I get back to New York."
"This Detective Wenden you mention-he should have seen that. Is the guy a bubblehead?"
"No, he's just overworked, running a half-dozen homicide cases at the same time. He happens to be a very experienced and conscientious professional."
Trevalyan stared at her. "You wouldn't have the hots for this guy, would you?"
"Oh Mike, don't be such an asshole. No, I haven't got the hots for him. Yes, we are friends. You want me to make an enemy of the detective handling the case?"
"Just don't get too close," he warned. "It's your brains I'm buying, not your glands. If he's as overworked as you say, he might try to sweep the whole thing under the rug."
"No," Dora said
"Tell me about it," Dora said. "I have the same problem in my shop."
Then she told him she would return to Manhattan on January 2nd and would call him when she got back. She wished him a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year.
"Likewise," John said.
So she went home, feeling guilty about leaving him alone for the holidays, and thinking what an irrational emotion that was. But he seemed such a weary, lost man that she worried about him and wished she had bought him a Christmas gift. A maroon cashmere muffler would have been nice. But then she wondered if NYPD detectives wore mufflers.
Mario was at work when Dora arrived home, so she was able to conceal his gift in the back of her closet. In the living room he had erected a bushy six-foot Douglas fir and alongside it, brought up from the basement, were boxes of ornaments, tinsel, garlands, and strings of lights. There was a big bottle of Frascati in the fridge, and in the wine rack on the countertop were bottles of Lacrima Cristi, Soave, Valpolicella, and-Dora's favorite-Asti Spumante.
They had a splendid holiday, all the better because they spent it alone. On Christmas Eve they made love under the glittering tree because it seemed a holy thing to do. Mario gave her a marvelous tennis bracelet, and even if the diamonds were pebbles compared to the rocks that Star-rett women wore, Dora thought it the most beautiful gift she had ever received, and her happiness was doubled by Mario's joy with his new espresso machine.
During the remainder of the week, Dora went to the office every day and wrote a progress report on the word processor, consulting her spiral notebook to make certain she could justify her surmises and conclusions. She left the nineteen-page report on Mike Trevalyan's desk late one evening, and the next morning she was summoned to his office, a dank chamber cluttered with files and bundles of computer printout tied with twine. The air was fetid with cigar smoke; during crises or explosions of temper, Tre-valyan was known to keep two cigars going at once.
He was a porcine man with small eyes, a pouty mouth, and all the sweet reasonableness of a Marine drill instructor. But the Company didn't pay him an enormous salary for affability. They wanted him to be irascible, suspicious, and to scan every insurance claim as if the money was coming out of his own pocket. He had worked as a claims adjuster all his life, expected chicanery and, it was said, was furiously disappointed when he couldn't find it.
"This case," he said, pointing his cigar at Dora's report, "it reeketh in the nostrils of the righteous. There's frigging in the rigging going on here, kiddo, and I'm not paying a cent until we know more."
"I agree," Dora said. "Too many unanswered questions."
"The cops think it was a disgruntled ex-employee taking out his grudge on Starrett executives?"
"That's what they think," she said.
"You know what's wrong with that theory?" Trevalyan demanded.
"Of course "I know," Dora said. "It doesn't account for the knife disappearing from the Starretts' apartment, maybe on the night Lewis was killed. That's the first thing I want to check out when I get back to New York."
"This Detective Wenden you mention-he should have seen that. Is the guy a bubblehead?"
"No, he's just overworked, running a half-dozen homicide cases at the same time. He happens to be a very experienced and conscientious professional."
Trevalyan stared at her. "You wouldn't have the hots for this guy, would you?"
"Oh Mike, don't be such an asshole. No, I haven't got the hots for him. Yes, we are friends. You want me to make an enemy of the detective handling the case?"
"Just don't get too close," he warned. "It's your brains I'm buying, not your glands. If he's as overworked as you say, he might try to sweep the whole thing under the rug."
"No," Dora said
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