Yesterday's Shadow by Jon Cleary

husband—or rather, she got his secretary. All she said was that she would be catching a later plane back than she'd booked.”
    Malone switched continents: “What have you heard from your FBI mates?”
    â€œThey expect to tell me something tomorrow. They're already down in Corvallis.” Himes was starting to sound not aggressive but certainly more definite, as if to say the FBI, we Americans , were not dragging their feet. “If there's anything more to find out about Mrs. Pavane, they'll find it.”
    â€œI'm sure they will, Joe—”
    â€œWhat have you come up with?” Definitely an edge to his voice now.
    â€œWe're tracing the feller who tried to speak to Mrs. Pavane at the restaurant a couple of weeks ago. And we know she had a Japanese meal the night before last, some time before she was murdered. We're doing a trace through them, the better ones.”
    â€œOkay, I'll be back to you soon's I hear from our Portland office.” He hung up, the line cold in Malone's ear.
    Malone put down the phone. “I've trodden on his toes . . . Put someone on that Japanese restaurant trace. What are you grinning at?”
    â€œYou said she'd had a Jap meal before her murder. We'd have had a mess if she'd had it after the murder.”
    â€œDon't be such a bloody smartarse. Or are you trying to lighten my mood or something?”
    â€œIt needs it.” Clements stood up. “You're getting shit on the liver again—”
    â€œHang on. Sorry. Sit down. Now what have we got on who had lunch at Catalina that day the stranger thought he recognized Mrs. Pavane?”
    Clements sat down again. “Andy Graham is on it.”
    Graham was Homicide's bloodhound; he would follow a trail to the moon. He was big and awkward and always in a hurry, but he produced. Some men, like seamstresses in invisible mending workrooms, can weave loose threads together till a pattern is regained or established. Andy Graham, for all his blundering rush through life, had patience. And the seamstresses, searching for a loose thread, would have agreed that patience was necessary. They would not, however, have tolerated any canine comparison. No woman would want to be referred to as a bloodhound bitch.
    Then Malone's phone rang again: “Scobie? It's Romy. I've just finished the p-m on Boris Jones—you'll have the full report this afternoon. But there is something interesting—”
    Malone waited.
    â€œâ€”Mr. Jones had sex with someone, I'd say not long before he was murdered. He hadn't washed his penis, there was dried semen on it.”
    Malone took his time: “You're suggesting Mr. Jones might've had sex with Mrs. Pavane and then strangled her?”
    â€œI'm not suggesting anything. I'll let you know when we get a DNA report on her from Biology at Lidcombe. You're still coming to dinner tonight?”
    â€œWe'll be there.” If only to keep life on an even keel . He hung up. “That was your wife.”
    â€œI gathered. Good news or bad news?”
    â€œI dunno. Mr. Jones had dipped his wick not long before Mrs. Jones did him in.”
    Clements thought about that for a long moment; then he said, “It's against the odds. Why would an ambassador's wife take on some rough trade with a guy she couldn't have known? A cleaner.”
    â€œAgain, I dunno. Why would a film star pick up a street hooker, instead of a call girl, to go down on him? That happened. I've been in this game long enough never to make guesses about why people do things. You're the same.”
    â€œOkay, the first thing we do is find out if he had it off with his wife before she stuck the knife in him. I'll send Gail and Sheryl out, that'll be better than you and me leaning on her.”
    â€œInfinitely.”
    â€œIt's long odds, but if he did get into bed with Mrs. Pavane and then killed her, you'd better get off both cases right now.”
    â€œI couldn't think of a better