guy, but, baby, you do now."
She sipped at her coffee again.
I said, "So why did you accept my invitation? Well, I'd say it has something to do with that crime scene last night—doesn't it, Angela?"
When I used her first name, her eyes tightened.
"You should have let your assistant call security," I said, "when I walked into your office."
Another raised eyebrow accompanied a very pretty smirk. "Would that have done any good?"
"Nope. But now think of the reputation you'll have."
"Maybe I'll just tell people I'm thinking of starting up that office pool again."
"Maybe." My eyes were tightening now and I let her see the edge of my teeth again. "What took you to that crime scene last night, Angela?"
Her face became a pale mask. Lovely, but a mask. "What took
you
there, Mike?"
"Coincidence, I think. I'm the rare cop who does believe in coincidence. Who thinks fate likes to move things around sometimes, like a chess master with a sick sense of humor."
"Not very scientific."
"Not scientific at all. But I do have my inquisitive side. For example—why would a powerful woman like you rush to the scene of such an insignificant kill?"
She shifted in her seat. "It wasn't so insignificant to Virginia Mathes."
"That was her name, huh?"
She nodded.
"What else do you know about her?"
"Nothing. She was a mugging victim. I was out driving and heard the call on the scanner. Murder is serious where I come from, Mike."
"Serious enough to accept a breakfast offer from an obnoxious bastard like me?"
"
Just
that serious," she said. Then she checked her watch and gave me a look that said it was time to go.
I left a three-buck tip, grabbed the check, and we slid out of the booth. I tried to pay but Herman wouldn't take my money.
Outside, I asked, "Want a cab?"
"No, I'll walk back." She reached in her purse and took out the ruined lighter. Looked at it. "Somebody I respect gave this to me."
"Right. You bought it for yourself."
Her smile was automatic, uncontrolled, unaffected. "You're a bastard, all right."
"I don't make a secret of it," I said.
She paused, looked at me very directly for a moment. "Will you tell me one thing?"
"Ask."
"Was
I
an exercise for
you?
"
A truck roared by and a taxi squealed into the curb beside us. A guy with a briefcase got out, paid the driver, and walked away. The driver looked at us and I lifted my finger to claim the ride.
But before I climbed in back, I said, "I already got my exercise today, honey."
Over at the chief medical examiner's office on First Avenue, I managed to get hold of Dr. Adam MacCaffrey, the assistant medical examiner who had been called in when Doolan died.
He was a type I had seen before, a man who had been edged into something he could do well, but didn't like at all. He was about fifty with a perpetual expression of puzzlement, as if he were wondering what he was doing there.
Slender, mustached, and about as pale as his customers, he said from behind his desk, "I really don't see how you can question all the facts, Mr. Hammer."
I shook my head. "I'm not questioning anything, doctor. I'm just looking for a little more information."
"Well," he said, his eyes appraising me over his wire-rimmed glasses, "if I can help, I'll be glad to. Frankly, it's a pleasure to be asked to do anything around here that doesn't involve a scalpel." He found the loose-leaf pad he was looking for, fingered it open, and spread it out in front of him on the desk. "I may not be fast, Mr. Hammer, but I am thorough. Now, what is it you want?"
"Doolan's right arm, principally, the wrist."
He turned a page, then looked up at me again. "Yes?"
"Any abrasions, marks of struggle?"
"None," he said, without referring to the pad. "The victim was quite old, and any sign of a struggle would have been most evident. The skin would have shown even mildly rough treatment." He saw me frown and added, "I know what you're thinking. Could somebody have grabbed his hand and twisted it around on him, then
She sipped at her coffee again.
I said, "So why did you accept my invitation? Well, I'd say it has something to do with that crime scene last night—doesn't it, Angela?"
When I used her first name, her eyes tightened.
"You should have let your assistant call security," I said, "when I walked into your office."
Another raised eyebrow accompanied a very pretty smirk. "Would that have done any good?"
"Nope. But now think of the reputation you'll have."
"Maybe I'll just tell people I'm thinking of starting up that office pool again."
"Maybe." My eyes were tightening now and I let her see the edge of my teeth again. "What took you to that crime scene last night, Angela?"
Her face became a pale mask. Lovely, but a mask. "What took
you
there, Mike?"
"Coincidence, I think. I'm the rare cop who does believe in coincidence. Who thinks fate likes to move things around sometimes, like a chess master with a sick sense of humor."
"Not very scientific."
"Not scientific at all. But I do have my inquisitive side. For example—why would a powerful woman like you rush to the scene of such an insignificant kill?"
She shifted in her seat. "It wasn't so insignificant to Virginia Mathes."
"That was her name, huh?"
She nodded.
"What else do you know about her?"
"Nothing. She was a mugging victim. I was out driving and heard the call on the scanner. Murder is serious where I come from, Mike."
"Serious enough to accept a breakfast offer from an obnoxious bastard like me?"
"
Just
that serious," she said. Then she checked her watch and gave me a look that said it was time to go.
I left a three-buck tip, grabbed the check, and we slid out of the booth. I tried to pay but Herman wouldn't take my money.
Outside, I asked, "Want a cab?"
"No, I'll walk back." She reached in her purse and took out the ruined lighter. Looked at it. "Somebody I respect gave this to me."
"Right. You bought it for yourself."
Her smile was automatic, uncontrolled, unaffected. "You're a bastard, all right."
"I don't make a secret of it," I said.
She paused, looked at me very directly for a moment. "Will you tell me one thing?"
"Ask."
"Was
I
an exercise for
you?
"
A truck roared by and a taxi squealed into the curb beside us. A guy with a briefcase got out, paid the driver, and walked away. The driver looked at us and I lifted my finger to claim the ride.
But before I climbed in back, I said, "I already got my exercise today, honey."
Over at the chief medical examiner's office on First Avenue, I managed to get hold of Dr. Adam MacCaffrey, the assistant medical examiner who had been called in when Doolan died.
He was a type I had seen before, a man who had been edged into something he could do well, but didn't like at all. He was about fifty with a perpetual expression of puzzlement, as if he were wondering what he was doing there.
Slender, mustached, and about as pale as his customers, he said from behind his desk, "I really don't see how you can question all the facts, Mr. Hammer."
I shook my head. "I'm not questioning anything, doctor. I'm just looking for a little more information."
"Well," he said, his eyes appraising me over his wire-rimmed glasses, "if I can help, I'll be glad to. Frankly, it's a pleasure to be asked to do anything around here that doesn't involve a scalpel." He found the loose-leaf pad he was looking for, fingered it open, and spread it out in front of him on the desk. "I may not be fast, Mr. Hammer, but I am thorough. Now, what is it you want?"
"Doolan's right arm, principally, the wrist."
He turned a page, then looked up at me again. "Yes?"
"Any abrasions, marks of struggle?"
"None," he said, without referring to the pad. "The victim was quite old, and any sign of a struggle would have been most evident. The skin would have shown even mildly rough treatment." He saw me frown and added, "I know what you're thinking. Could somebody have grabbed his hand and twisted it around on him, then
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