Dead on the Level by Helen Nielsen

stopped talking to himself. Even in that leaden light he could see that the portrait had moved and was coming toward him.

CHAPTER SEVEN
    PHYLLIS BRUNNER WAS very much alive. She came forward hesitantly, uncertain of who had entered the studio, and then Casey snapped on the lights. It was the first time he could remember seeing her in a bright light. Her face was very pale, and the mink coat resembled a drowned rat, but she was still beautiful. She stopped about two feet away from him and waited for the words he couldn’t find.
    “I—I was waiting for Maggie,” she began at last. “I used to live here.”
    “I know,” Casey said.
    “I still have a key. I guess the same key must fit all the doors.”
    There was no logic in her standing there holding up an irrelevant door key in one hand—just as if it meant anything. Just as if this small talk meant anything at all. Casey wanted to grab her by the shoulders and give her a good shaking until she started making sense. But her eyes were strange and fearful, and he couldn’t seem to lift the weight of his own arms.
    “I wanted to find you again,” she added.
    “I’ll bet you did!”
    “I did, really. I wanted to explain why I brought you here last night. Why else do you think I came back?”
    “I don’t know,” Casey admitted, “and I’m afraid to guess. You might have another job for me.”
    The last bit of color drained out of her face, and her hands formed small, tight fists. “What do you mean?” she demanded. “What are you insinuating?”
    “What I’m insinuating is something you should know a lot more about than I do,” Casey replied quietly. “Frankly, my memory isn’t too good. All I know for certain is that you came up to my booth in the Cloud Room yesterday and started talking up some mysterious job you had for me. This morning your father’s found with his head bashed in, and I wake up with a bloody coat sleeve and five thousand dollars. What do you expect me to insinuate?”
    That was giving it to her straight and it hurt. Either Phyllis Brunner was really as shocked as she looked, or she was the greatest actress in the world. She swayed a little, but Casey let her right herself without any help from him. She was an awful liar. Those were Maggie’s very words, and Casey wasn’t a trusting soul.
    “Oh, no—” she finally gasped out. “It wasn’t what you’re thinking. I didn’t hire you to kill my father!”
    He could almost believe her, but that could be because he wanted so badly to believe. “Who said you did?” he countered. “All you needed was a fall guy to take the blame when things got rough. How did you happen to lose your nerve? Why didn’t you go ahead and scream for the cops? Did you think anybody would doubt your sad story?”
    Casey hauled the roll of bills out of his pocket and weighed it in his hands. “Motive and everything,” he added. “And a man without a memory can’t fight back.”
    It was a desperate, defensive kind of cry she made. “You’ve got it all figured out, haven’t you?”
    “I may have missed a few details.”
    “You’ve got it all figured out!”
    There was something proud about Phyllis Brunner, even in dripping mink. She didn’t seem to be the kind of girl who would cry easily, and she didn’t come right out with her tears now. She didn’t make a sound, but her shoulders were shaking as she turned aside.
    “Of course,” Casey said, “if you have another version—”
    “Oh, thank you! Thank you so much!”
    “For the love of God, what do you expect me to think?”
    He hadn’t meant to cry out that way. He hadn’t meant to betray the fact that he could have any doubts at all, and he didn’t want any doubts. All day he had been telling himself what kind of a girl Phyllis Brunner was, and that’s how he wanted things to remain. But all the time, he knew that he was lying. He knew it even more now that she was turning toward him again, staring at him in a puzzled, searching