“There’s a woman in my Dumpster,” Daisy said.
“A woman,” Jesse said.
“She’s dead,” Daisy said.
Jesse took a deep breath and tipped his head back and stretched his neck.
“You know how she died?” Jesse said.
“God, no,” Daisy said. “But she’s got blood on her.”
“I’m going to have to look,” Jesse said. “And then we’re going to have to get her out of there. And then we’re going to have to . . .” Jesse spread his hands. “. . . investigate.”
“I know. I’m just worried about the fuckheads in the press ruining my business,” Daisy said.
“We’ll sneak as long as we can,” Jesse said.
“But eventually they’ll have to find out,” Daisy said.
“Day at a time,” Jesse said. “First, you take them some kind of nice snack, and let them sit at the sidewalk tables and eat it.”
“I made some rhubarb scones this morning,” Daisy said.
“Good. Give them that with coffee, and I’ll slide out the back door and look at the woman.”
“I gotta give them more than one scone?” Daisy said. 2 8
H I G H P R O F I L E
“Yes,” Jesse said and walked to the back door.
He waited there until he heard Daisy open the front door. Then he went out the back.
She was there, on her back in the Dumpster, surrounded by garbage. The blood had dried black on her chest. There was no blood visible anyplace else. Not very old. Maybe thirty. Her clothes were expensive and she had probably been goodlooking. Now she was not good-looking. He clenched his jaw and opened her blouse. There were bullet holes. He shook his head. Somebody else could count them. He closed her blouse again and wiped his hands on his pants.
“Dead for a while,” Jesse said to no one.
He glanced at the restaurant and shrugged and took out his cell phone.
2 9
9
Suitcase Simpson was the first to arrive, walking up the alley behind the restaurant.
“I parked behind the market,” he said.
He looked at the body in the Dumpster.
“You tell how she died?”
“Shot in the chest,” Jesse said.
“Why we sneaking around?”
“Stalling the press.”
