Twist by John Lutz

but it did suggest that the computer might have held a clue to the killer’s identity, something incriminating. Something as traceable as a computer, you didn’t steal it and risk tying yourself to a murder unless you had a good reason.
    Of course, all of this assumed that Bonnie Anderson hadn’t been killed by a stranger. A certain hairstyle, smile, a mere tilt of the head, could be enough to trigger an attack by a psychotic serial killer.
    That was something most women knew, but could do nothing to guard against without joining a nunnery. Even then, the terrible truth pursued them.
    Death was as random as life.

11
    “I read about that in the paper,” a busty Hispanic bar tender said to Fedderman. She seemed fascinated but shaken, staring at the postmortem photo of Bonnie Anderson after she’d been cleaned up and her features rearranged. Something clever had been done to make it appear that she had closed eyelids. False lashes had even been applied. But there was no doubt that she wasn’t asleep.
    Fedderman was in the Lap Dog Lounge in the West Seventies. It was cool and dim, and not a bad place to be during a hot day in Manhattan. On richly paneled walls were framed photographs of various Westminster Dog Show winners, posing proudly. All breeds seemed to be represented. There were messy paw prints on some of the photos. Autographs, Fedderman assumed.
    Along the wall of photos were two rows of wooden tables and chairs. Across from them, facing the wall of canine royalty, was a long mahogany bar, where Fedderman slouched on a stool.
    It was too early for most drinkers, which was okay with Fedderman. He wanted to talk without being interrupted, and here he was alone with a fetching bartender. Though she didn’t look like a breed that would fetch.
    He was in the Lap Dog only because a coaster from the place had been in Bonnie Anderson’s purse. It was a circular vinyl or plastic coaster with the likeness of a little long-haired dog with its tongue hanging out. It was cute, all right. Fedderman could understand why Bonnie would steal the coaster.
    The bartender, whose name was Rose, looked up from the morgue photo and gave him a sickly smile. “You a cop?”
    “Yeah,” Fedderman said, figuring that technically he was telling the truth, what with Q&A’s contract with the NYPD.
    “You here to ask me questions?”
    “Sure am.”
    “You gonna put handcuffs on me?”
    Hoo boy! “Do you want me to?”
    “I should think about that.” She leaned on the bar, causing her blouse to part and reveal considerable cleavage. Fedderman was having second thoughts about being alone with her. “Ask away,” Rose said.
    “You obviously knew the dead woman.”
    “Yeah. Bonnie, the papers said her name was. Some guys in here called her Bon Bon because she was such eye candy.”
    “Was she that attractive? I mean, I only saw her . . . afterward.”
    “A beautiful woman, I’m not so sure. But she was a cutie who knew how to make the most of herself. And kind of a semi-regular here.”
    “And that would be . . . ?”
    “She’d be in here maybe twice a week, different nights. She tried to hook up with the right guy now and then, but pickings are scarce, maybe because of the economy. Anyway, nothing seemed to work for her until the last one.”
    Huh?
    “Who was the last one?” Fedderman asked, keeping his expression neutral.
    “I don’t know. Didn’t know Bonnie all that well, tell you the truth. We talked some when business was slow, is all.”
    They talked together. Rose, you’re a treasure trove of information.
    “What did you two talk about?” Fedderman asked in an offhand way.
    Rose lifted a shoulder. More cleavage.
    Fedderman gulped. Heaven help me ,
    “I don’t know,” Rose said. “Girl stuff, is all. And how this place might become a fruit and veggie juice health bar.”
    “Fruit and veggie juice? You kidding me?”
    “Nope. Some idea of the mayor’s. He wants a fruit and veggie drink establishment every