the other side into a small hallway, where the stairs were located.
The cellar was cold, perfect for archives. It was always cold down there, even when it was hot as blazes upstairs in summer, with all the windows open and the fans blowing.
“What are you after?” she asked, frowning at me.
Her fierce expression didn’t fool me. I knew she was just as happy to be down here, away from the patrons of the library. She might have had to be polite to them up there.
“ Journal-Review , Monday morning edition, police blotter,” I said.
I planted the back of my lap on the table and swung my legs as she went to the shelf and extracted a reel of film.
“I’ll thread it for you.”
“I can do it,” I offered.
“It’ll be quicker if I do it.” She peered into the viewer, pulling the film along until she reached the right section. She stepped away and let me sit down to look at it. “What’re you working on?”
“Murder. Some girl named Saint-Ville was offed Sunday night behind the train station,” I said.
“Woman,” Charlie corrected me automatically.
I ignored her. “And here it is.”
“I said I’d cue it up for you,” Charlie snapped. “She was young, beautiful, and someone strangled her. Her valuables were stolen. She Lily White, Rose Red: Grey Randall, Private Dick Casefile #1
43
was found in an unusual place where she had no business to be that late at night—”
“Blaming the victim, Charlie?”
“It was probably something to do with a man ,” she spat in disgust. “She probably thought she was in love! ”
“Just because you were disappointed in love—”
“Have you ever heard me say so?” she exclaimed. “Just because I’m sensible and don’t go around falling for men’s lines—”
“Can it, Charlotte!”
“You call me that again and the cops will be investigating your murder,” she said grimly.
“You’re too smart for them, they’d never put the finger on you, Charlie. ” I went back to reading my article. I peered at the accompanying picture, but it was just the empty alley. The Journal-Review didn’t print photographs of murder victims, deeming the citizens to be too delicate for images of that nature, despite the fact that Vegas was a tough town and half the population had flocked to the site for a glimpse. But they did print a photo of the victim while still alive, the same publicity still that Miss McIntyre had given me. It didn’t tell me any more about Miss Saint-Ville this time around.
Neither did the article. Either the cops were sitting on the facts, or the paper preferred lurid speculation to reporting. Captain Woods had been interviewed and had a few words to say about the horrible nature of the crime and how his department would never rest until they found the killer, the usual stuff about their high percentage rates in solving crimes and getting a conviction. The Las Vegas Police always gets their man—or a man, at any rate.
“What else have you got on this case?”
Her voice dripping poisoned honey, Charlie said, “If only you’d called ahead, I would have spent all my spare time researching it for you, but since you didn’t—”
44
CATT FORD
“Would you mind? So far I know nothing about the victim. I don’t know who she knew, or where she worked or lived. I don’t know if she preferred coffee or tea. I don’t know who to ask about her.”
“Who’s your client? Can’t you ask him?”
I knew this would impress her. “Her. Miss Lily McIntyre.”
“Hot stuff.” She was impressed. And why shouldn’t she be? Lily McIntyre was a legend in this town. “What’d she say?”
“Not a lot. She gave me the impression she didn’t know her very well, but someone had to.”
“And if they do, why would anyone print it up?”
“Because she was a dancer, an entertainer. Surely her name must appear on some list of wherever she worked,” I explained. “Public relations.”
Charlie heaved a deep sigh, but I could see from the
The cellar was cold, perfect for archives. It was always cold down there, even when it was hot as blazes upstairs in summer, with all the windows open and the fans blowing.
“What are you after?” she asked, frowning at me.
Her fierce expression didn’t fool me. I knew she was just as happy to be down here, away from the patrons of the library. She might have had to be polite to them up there.
“ Journal-Review , Monday morning edition, police blotter,” I said.
I planted the back of my lap on the table and swung my legs as she went to the shelf and extracted a reel of film.
“I’ll thread it for you.”
“I can do it,” I offered.
“It’ll be quicker if I do it.” She peered into the viewer, pulling the film along until she reached the right section. She stepped away and let me sit down to look at it. “What’re you working on?”
“Murder. Some girl named Saint-Ville was offed Sunday night behind the train station,” I said.
“Woman,” Charlie corrected me automatically.
I ignored her. “And here it is.”
“I said I’d cue it up for you,” Charlie snapped. “She was young, beautiful, and someone strangled her. Her valuables were stolen. She Lily White, Rose Red: Grey Randall, Private Dick Casefile #1
43
was found in an unusual place where she had no business to be that late at night—”
“Blaming the victim, Charlie?”
“It was probably something to do with a man ,” she spat in disgust. “She probably thought she was in love! ”
“Just because you were disappointed in love—”
“Have you ever heard me say so?” she exclaimed. “Just because I’m sensible and don’t go around falling for men’s lines—”
“Can it, Charlotte!”
“You call me that again and the cops will be investigating your murder,” she said grimly.
“You’re too smart for them, they’d never put the finger on you, Charlie. ” I went back to reading my article. I peered at the accompanying picture, but it was just the empty alley. The Journal-Review didn’t print photographs of murder victims, deeming the citizens to be too delicate for images of that nature, despite the fact that Vegas was a tough town and half the population had flocked to the site for a glimpse. But they did print a photo of the victim while still alive, the same publicity still that Miss McIntyre had given me. It didn’t tell me any more about Miss Saint-Ville this time around.
Neither did the article. Either the cops were sitting on the facts, or the paper preferred lurid speculation to reporting. Captain Woods had been interviewed and had a few words to say about the horrible nature of the crime and how his department would never rest until they found the killer, the usual stuff about their high percentage rates in solving crimes and getting a conviction. The Las Vegas Police always gets their man—or a man, at any rate.
“What else have you got on this case?”
Her voice dripping poisoned honey, Charlie said, “If only you’d called ahead, I would have spent all my spare time researching it for you, but since you didn’t—”
44
CATT FORD
“Would you mind? So far I know nothing about the victim. I don’t know who she knew, or where she worked or lived. I don’t know if she preferred coffee or tea. I don’t know who to ask about her.”
“Who’s your client? Can’t you ask him?”
I knew this would impress her. “Her. Miss Lily McIntyre.”
“Hot stuff.” She was impressed. And why shouldn’t she be? Lily McIntyre was a legend in this town. “What’d she say?”
“Not a lot. She gave me the impression she didn’t know her very well, but someone had to.”
“And if they do, why would anyone print it up?”
“Because she was a dancer, an entertainer. Surely her name must appear on some list of wherever she worked,” I explained. “Public relations.”
Charlie heaved a deep sigh, but I could see from the
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