“I’m a writer.”
It seemed as good an answer as any after the slam Angela had given her. The woman was right. Max had meant every word she’d said, and thinking about it now, the hackles on her neck rose like an animal sensing danger.
“A reporter?” Something ugly blazed in Angela’s eyes.
“No. Novels. My character is a ... working girl.”
“Is she the heroine?” Eyes bright, lips captured in a smile. Once upon a time, Angela had read romance novels.
“No, she’s the murder victim.” Max left it at that. Too much truth might give her away. Angela could very well put her together with Lance’s death if she used the word suspect.
“Why come here? Why not the Tenderloin? Lots of potential murder victims down there.”
Max grimaced. “I wanted to observe, not get myself killed.”
Angela leaned forward, tapped her lacquered index finger on the table next to Max’s hand. “Why here, Max?” Insistent. The day of reckoning.
“The woman I’m writing about is high-priced and worth every penny. She’s not a weakling. Maybe she even likes what she’s doing. I wasn’t going to find that girl on the street. And a friend told me about a woman who approached him in a hotel bar when he was on a business trip. He said she was articulate, funny, and smart. That’s the kind of character I was looking for so...” Max paused, raising a palm. “A hotel’s where I started.”
A small lift at the corner of her mouth was all the smile Angela gave. “Did your husband travel a lot?”
Max’s jaw tightened. “No.” She bit her tongue to avoid saying the story had not come from her own husband nor even been inspired by him. She’d made it up.
The smile stayed. “If you want to know about my life, you’re going to have to tell me about yours. That’s the price.”
“You mean you want me to humiliate myself for you.”
Angela turned her head, her gaze flashing across the males in the room. For a moment, she stopped on Witt. Max’s stomach rolled over. Angela came back. “You want to research my way of life, I want to research yours.”
“Looking for a new line of work?”
“Checking out all the options. What’s it like to be homey and married?”
It was time for another truth. At least one big part of it. “My husband’s dead.”
Unlike most people, Angela didn’t issue a platitude, for which Max was grateful. “How long’s it been?”
“Two years.”
A flick to the ring on Max’s finger. “You still miss him.”
Max’s eyes burned. Her nose tingled. She wanted to sneeze, but rubbed her nose instead.
“Guess you weren’t lying when you said he didn’t give you power anymore.”
“No, I wasn’t lying.”
Angela raised her glass to her lips, drained the last of her wine, all the while staring at Max. “All right. We’ll do it.” Max didn’t dare ask what. Angela’s gaze flashed to Max’s feet. “Love the shoes, but your fashion sense bites. You’re not hanging with me unless we get you a new wardrobe.”
Max dispensed with the self-conscious touch to her hair this time. No complaints on either point. In fact, she agreed. She’d worn black far too long. “Fine.”
“You got money for a makeover?” Angela obviously remembered she’d said she was low on cash.
“Enough.” She’d dip into savings.
“So that was another lie, huh?”
Max put her hands up and tipped her head. “A girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do.”
“Tomorrow. One o’clock. City Center, the shopping mall where Nordstrom’s is. You know the place?” Angela didn’t wait for Max’s assent. “Main entrance off Market Street. Any problems”—she tapped the business card laying on the table between them—“call my cell.”
Damn. How the hell was she going to manage that with her latest temp job? She hated the idea of flaking on Sunny. But then again, she’d been willing to do it to get to Julia. This was an equally important reason.
“I’ll be there,” she agreed.
Angela smiled like a shark. “And tomorrow night you might have to turn a trick or two.”
*
Max would worry about that later.
Right now, she worried about the fact that Witt had followed her out to the front of the hotel after Angela dismissed her. And dismissal it had been. Angela had work to do. Ten o’clock was early. After agreeing to meet Angela the next day, Max exited the bar, Hammerhead tipping his non-existent hat to her as she passed.
She didn’t know if Angela believed the writer story. She couldn’t guess why Hammerhead had called her over. She understood even less why Angela had approached her. What did they want? She wasn’t sure of anything, least of all what Witt was going to do while she waited for the attendant to get her car.