She was tall and lean, towering over me in black high-heeled boots. She wore a short white knit top over jeans that were belted low on her hips. A strip of bare midriff flashed when she moved. Her pant legs were long enough to break across her instep, which made her slim legs look even longer. I took in the rest of the picture as she crossed to the telephone and activated the message machine. Dark eyes, shoulder-length brown hair arranged in a messy tumble. Big hoop earrings, red lipstick.
I did a visual survey of my surroundings. This room had the same homey feel as the reception area. Instead of a desk, she had a refectory table, bare except for a low vase filled with drooping pink and yellow roses that had opened to the full. I could see a leather-bound appointment book, a tidy row of ballpoint pens, and color-coded file folders in an upright rack. Bookshelves lined the walls on two sides, with two windows dead ahead and an exterior door that opened onto the side of the building. One arm of the walkway probably circled to the street and the other to a parking area in the rear. If she had file cabinets, I saw no sign of them.
She offered me a choice of a couch, a sleek chair of leather and chrome, or one of two chairs upholstered in a blue-and-green floral print. I chose one of the two matching chairs, and she elected to settle on the couch with the coffee table between us. I wondered if my selection was psychologically significant, but decided not to fret about the point. Her nails were clipped short and without polish. No wedding ring and no other jewelry except a loose, bracelet-style watch that she adjusted with her free hand. I saw her flick a practiced glance at the watch face, noting the time. She seemed open, waiting for me to set the subject and tone of the conversation.
I hadn’t thought about how to summarize the story, so I was forced to jump right in. Really, I should mend my careless ways. This was the third time I’d been caught without a story prepared in advance. Oh, what the hell, I thought. “I’m a private detective looking for information. The story’s complicated, and if I stop to spell it out, it’s only going to slow us down. I thought I’d lay out the situation and you can tell me if you need anything clarified before you reply. Assuming you’re willing to answer questions.”
“Fire away,” she said.
“Does the name Pete Wolinsky mean anything to you?”
“Sure. I knew Pete. Not well, but when I heard he was shot to death, I didn’t know what to think. Is that why you’re here?”
“Not exactly. The police arrested the perpetrator, but the case hasn’t been set for trial. What interests me is peripheral. Was he a patient of yours?”
“I prefer calling them ‘clients,’ but no.”
“Good. That’s great. I’d hate asking you to violate a confidence.”
“No danger there,” she said with a polite smile.
“Can you tell me how you knew him?”
“Call it ‘old business’ for simplicity’s sake. Our paths crossed years ago, and then he showed up again last spring.”
Chances were good the “old business” she was referring to was the lawsuit she’d filed against Ned Lowe. I nearly mentioned him, but I decided to wait, curious to see if she’d volunteer the name.
“So Pete initiated contact?” I asked.
“Yep. We got together twice, with maybe three or four weeks between meetings. When I didn’t hear from him again, I didn’t think anything about it. When I found out he’d been killed, I was taken aback.”
“That was a tough one,” I said, my tone noncommittal.
“What’s the nature of your interest?”
“His widow’s a friend of mine. Pete left Ruth with a pile of debt and his affairs in disarray. She’s got an IRS audit coming up, so we’ve been going through his effects, looking for financial records. Yesterday I found a mailing pouch concealed under a false bottom in a banker’s box. The mailer was addressed to a priest in Burning Oaks, postmarked 1961. There was also a list hidden in the pages of a document in the same box. Your name was on it.”
“What kind of list?”
“Six women’s names, which he’d encrypted for reasons unknown. My landlord identified the cipher and provided me the key.”
“I didn’t know Pete was into cloak-and-dagger stuff.”
“I guess he was; in this regard, if nothing else.”
She studied me. “Now you’re trying to determine if there’s a link between the names.”
“Exactly.”
“Can you give me the other five?”
“Sure.”
I opened my shoulder bag and took out my index cards. I removed the rubber band and sorted through the first few until I found the notes I’d made. “There’s a Susan Telford in Henderson, Nevada, and a woman named Janet Macy in Tucson, Arizona.”
She shook her head to both.
“Shirley Ann Kastle from Burning Oaks?”
“I know who she is, but the reference is secondhand. I never met her myself. And the fourth?”
“Lenore Redfern, also from Burning Oaks. There’s also a Phyllis Joplin from Perdido.”
“This is about Ned Lowe, isn’t it?”
“It’s possible. I’m not sure.”