Cut to the Quick by Joan Boswell Page A

of paper.
    â€œA laptop—that makes our job easier. We can take it with your permission or wait here until the warrant arrives. Up to you.” Zee Zee stared into his tiny little eyes.
    Barney sucked his teeth, a revolting sound. He appeared to be mentally reviewing his files. “Take it.”
    â€œPassword?”
    Forms filled out, Rhona tucked the computer under her arm.
    â€œWe’ll copy anything we need,” Zee Zee said.
    â€œI’m sure. Don’t forget how well you did last time,” he said mockingly.
    â€œCharming fellow. I assume we have his fingerprints,” Rhona said when they were back in the car.
    â€œIsn’t he? Yes, we do. You’ll enjoy Allie even more,” Zee Zee promised. “She lives downtown in a very nice apartment on King Street. There’s a psychiatric term for people like her, but I can’t remember exactly what it is. They’re perfectly normal unless you mention the one subject they’re fanatical about.”
    The complex on King combined townhouses with two apartment towers. They parked and walked toward the second tower. Young people in their twenties flowed in and out.
    â€œIsn’t this a funny place for a middle-aged woman to live?” “Not really. She proselytizes whenever possible. Many single young women live here.”
    Once buzzed inside, they shot up to the tenth floor and walked along the hall toward the woman who stood outside her door waiting for them.
    At nine o’clock on a hot Tuesday morning in June, Allie wore stockings, Cuban heeled sandals and a shirtwaist dress with pearls around her neck. She might have been setting out for a tea party or, had she worn a hat, to one of Queen Elizabeth’s garden parties. Over-lavish and dated makeup along with blonde hair teased and sprayed to encase her head like a helmet completed the picture. Her face revealed her age. Pouches under her eyes, drooping jaw and deep lines bracketing her mouth told their tale.
    â€œTwo women detectives, how nice. Do come in?” she invited. She didn’t seem surprised. Barney must have phoned and warned her to expect a visit.
    Chintz enveloped the living room from top to bottom and end to end. Every mahogany tabletop sported Royal Doulton figurines of women with blowing skirts. An overpowering scent of air freshener with an underlying suggestion of bleach identified a passion for cleanliness.
    â€œLet me bring you tea,” she said in a light, trilling voice.
    She must have had everything prepared. It wasn’t more than a minute before she returned, carrying a silver tray with almost translucent china tea cups, a highly polished silver pot, hot water jug, cream, sugar, a plate of lemon slices and another of cookies.
    They waited while she fussed, chattered about the weather and poured tea. Once she’d completed her task, she sat back. “Well, ladies, what can I do for you on this lovely summer morning?”
    â€œWe’re here to talk to you about Ivan Hartman,” Rhona said.
    â€œIvan Hartman.” Allie frowned. “I don’t know any Ivan Hartman.”
    â€œWhat about his father—Curt?”
    Allie Jones morphed into a hissing, spitting venomous snake. “That murderer. Don’t speak his name when you’re guests in my home.”
    No point asking her opinion of SOHD or Curt. Might as well get to the point. “We’re not guests—we’re police officers, right? Where were you on Sunday evening and overnight?”
    â€œI won’t answer— you find out where I was.” She rose. “That’s all I’m saying. If you want to ask me anything else, I’ll call my lawyer.”
    â€œWe want you to go to the nearest police station to be fingerprinted,” Rhona said, handing Allie her card.
    â€œYou have my fingerprints on file,” Allie said while she swung her arms in a repetitive sweeping motion intended to move them out of her apartment.