Murder in Focus by Medora Sale

informer like Maurice Charbonneau, but you couldn’t tell with Steve. He had that nasty, stubborn streak in him.
    A very slight smile creased Andy’s lips and he shook his head. No. His death had to be . . .
    His death had to be connected with the secure site. Because if you believed that some wino had managed to jump Steve Collins and kill him for the sake of his jacket and boots, and a few bucks in cash, you’d believe anything. Cassidy slammed his fist on the desk. It hurt. “Jesus, Cassidy,” he said to the walls, “can’t you think of something more original to do? Like look at his desk and see what he thought he was working on.” He stood up and walked to the door, rubbing his throbbing hand against the rough tweed of his jacket.
    A black Lincoln picked its way carefully through the quiet streets of Sandy Hill and pulled up smoothly in front of the entrance of the Austrian embassy. Karl Lang, entrepreneur, patron of the arts, scion (on the maternal side) of ancient and now outlawed nobility, slipped out, murmured a few words to his chauffeur, and headed in to the reception. He was greeted cheerfully enough by the staffers darting tensely back and forth; he was hardworking, conscientious, and affable, the sort of businessman you did a few favors for and then felt you’d helped save the national economy. For months now he had been setting up a network of independent franchise outlets for the sale of Austrian sports equipment and clothing in Canada, and the Austrian embassy staff had all become rather used to seeing him drop in for coffee, news, and gossip. This evening he entered the large reception room and paused unobtrusively to line up his targets. He noted that the ambassador’s wife was firmly tied up in conversation with someone from External Affairs and abandoned her until later; instead he wandered over to the cultural attaché, a handsome, brown-haired, not particularly cultured skier with an enviable body. Herr Bleibtreu’s twin obsessions were mountains and money, and he had spent many idle hours that spring with the ever-sympathetic Herr Lang, spinning out ingenious schemes that combined life above twenty-five hundred feet and getting rich. As far as he was concerned, Herr Lang could do no wrong.
    Bleibtreu raised a hand in greeting, although at the moment his mind seemed to be on other things. Standing beside him was an awesomely beautiful woman, small and slightly built, with long blonde hair and enormous blue eyes. Her face was high-cheeked and broad at the temple, coming down to a foxy point at the chin. The cultural attaché was leaning yearningly over her, one hand poised as if to capture her and bear her away. “Karl!” he cried. “Delighted to see you. And even more to introduce you to our guest of honor.” He dropped the arm slightly and insinuated it around her waist in order to draw her slightly forward. “This is Fräulein Anna Maria Strelitsch. She is performing tomorrow night at the Arts Centre. Fräulein Strelitsch, may I present Karl Lang, a representative from Vienna for a confederation of sports equipment manufacturers. It is he who is generously giving the little supper party after your performance on Tuesday,” he added in a lower voice.
    â€œMadame,” murmured Lang with a slight bow. “I have already had the great good fortune to meet Fräulein Strelitsch—and to hear her play many times. It is always a joy to find incomparable artistry matched to such unsurpassed beauty.”
    She laughed. “Save your flattery for your business associates, Herr Lang. It’s wasted on me.”
    â€œAh, Fräulein Strelitsch, I deal not in flattery but in truth.” He looked narrowly at the simple white dress she was wearing, reached out a tentative hand, and gently touched the material of one sleeve. “And if I am not mistaken, that is one of our dresses. You inspire me.”
    Toni Bleibtreu