The Third Figure by Collin Wilcox

gone.
    “You don’t really have any idea who did it, then?” I asked.
    He spread his hands. “None at all. I’m as much in the dark as Aidia, except that I’m not as bugged. Everything’s settled down, and Dom was dead weight anyhow. There’s no sweat. I’d still like to know who did it, but I’m not hurting.” He drained his own drink, glanced at his watch and heaved himself to his feet. As I also stood, he looked me up and down, smiling.
    “You know,” he said, clapping me heavily on the shoulder and turning me toward the grape stake fence. “You know, you don’t look to me like a real rugged guy. You’d better take care of yourself. Don’t take any chances, and stay loose. If you need anything, let me know. Call me anytime. I have someone that answers the phone, most of the time. I’ll give him the word. He’ll know where to find me, and he’ll put you right through.”
    “All right, I will.”
    “Good.” We’d reached the gate, which my host opened. Montez was standing by the Buick, waiting. Russo extended his hand.
    “Good luck, Steve,” he said smiling. Then, allowing the smile to fade, he said, “And be sure and remember what I said. Everything I said.”
    “Thanks, Frank. I will.”
    “Good.” He nodded, unsmiling now. Then he turned back to the pool, closing the gate behind him.

4
    I ’D HALF-EXPECTED FAITH HANSON to put me off, but when I called her later Sunday afternoon she seemed almost anxious to talk with me. She spent several minutes giving me detailed driving directions, and with the aid of a La Palada Chamber of Commerce map I easily found her house.
    It was a modest stucco bungalow, California-ersatz-Spanish, with an imitation-tile roof and matching red tile entryway. Three spiky palms dominated the small, neatly mowed front lawn, and a flagstone sidewalk led to an ornately paneled front door.
    As I rang the bell I tried to picture her, finally deciding on the image of a medium-sized brunette, full-figured and heavily made up, wearing capri stretch pants and a pastel-colored bulky-knit sweater.
    The image was wrong. She was rather small, almost petite. Her ash-blond hair was simply worn, and her heather-hued dress was conservatively cut. Her wide-set gray eyes were calm and appraising.
    We introduced ourselves, and she showed me into her small living room. The furniture was richly carved in the Mediterranean style; the polished floors were covered with a colorful collection of small oriental rugs.
    As we sat in facing easy chairs, I decided that Mrs. Hanson possessed taste, composure and probably intelligence. The restrained, graceful economy of her movements suggested a kind of elegant, understated sensuality—something special for a special man, but not for public display.
    “Would you like a drink?” she asked.
    “No, thanks. I, ah, won’t stay very long, Mrs. Hanson. I just wanted to ask you a few questions.” I drew a deep breath, deciding to come directly to the point.
    “As I told you on the phone, I’ve been retained to look into the death of Dominic Vennezio. I’ve talked to Mrs. Vennezio, and I’ve talked to Frank Russo. Now, if it’s all right, I’d like to talk to you.”
    “You didn’t say who retained you.” As she spoke, she held herself rigidly—back arched, knees tight together. Her voice had a low, breathless quality. She was obviously exercising a painful, precarious self-control.
    “Mrs. Vennezio retained me,” I answered, content for the moment merely to watch her. Against what emotion was she bracing herself so rigidly? Was it grief? Fear? Guilt? If fear or guilt were her problem, why had she so willingly agreed to see me?
    “Mrs. Vennezio,” she repeated, her voice expressionless. Her eyes were fixed unblinkingly on my own, yet I felt that only an enormous effort of will kept her eyes so steady. She seemed somehow strangely compelled to respond to my questions, almost as if she were speaking from the depths of a hypnotist’s