opened out onto a patio. On the right-hand wall a large marble-faced fireplace, above it another picture of purple mountain's majesty. In the left corner was a bar, directly beside the step down, and in between the bar and the French doors were several beige armchairs and a large beige couch. The walls were beige, the carpet was beige. The woodwork was walnut.
'Won't you sit down?' She gestured carefully at the sofa.
'Thank you.' I sat on the sofa.
'Would you care for a drink?'
Was it legal for a child to serve beer to a consenting adult in the privacy of her home? What if the Alcoholic Beverage Commission had the place bugged? There was one way to find out.
'I'll take a beer if you have one,' I said.
If she was an agent, undercover for ABC, I could claim entrapment.
'Certainly,' she said. 'Excuse me.' She walked behind the bar and bent over. I heard a door open. She stood up with a bottle of Molson Golden Ale. She found an opener, popped the top, reached under her bar, came up with a beer mug, poured the beer into the glass, taking her time, trying to get the whole bottle into the mug without overflowing the foam. When she had it full to the brim and the bottle was empty, she put the bottle out of sight, put the mug on a little walnut tray, and brought it to me. From a drawer in the coffee table she took out a coaster, put the coaster in front of me, and carefully put the beer on the coaster. She smiled again and then brought the tray back and put it out of sight behind the bar. She then came back and sat down in one of the armchairs across from me and crossed her legs, smoothing her skirt over her thighs.
'I am Amy Gurwitz,' she said.
I picked up my beer mug, carefully so as not to spill, and took a small sip. I didn't dare guzzle it-she'd think she had to get me another one and that would kill the afternoon.
'Do you know where April Kyle is?' I said.
She frowned slightly, and I knew she was trying to think. 'May I ask why you wish to know?' Amy said. Her hands were folded still in her lap. She had her head tilted delicately so that she seemed to be looking down over her cheekbones at me. Elegant.
'Her parents think she's become a prostitute, and they are worried about her.'
'You a cop… policeman?'
'I am a private detective,' I said.
She raised her eyebrows and smiled. 'Oh, isn't that interesting.'
I nodded and sipped a little more beer. She smiled at me.
'Are you thinking?' I said.
'Excuse me?'
'Are you thinking about my question?'
'Oh… No.'
'Can you put me in touch with April? Do you know where she is?'
She smiled again, the apex of courtesy. 'No, I'm terribly sorry. I don't know where April is.'
I didn't get a ring of sincerity in her voice. Or insincerity. I didn't hear the ring of anything in her voice. She was like a kid playacting. Playing grown-up. She offered me a filter-tipped cigarette from a box on the coffee table. I said, 'No, thank you.'
She said, 'Do you mind if I smoke?'
I said, 'No.'
She lit her cigarette with a big silver table lighter.
'Would you have any ideas on where I might look for April?' I said.
Amy held her cigarette carefully out near the fingertips of her index and middle fingers. She inhaled and exhaled, carefully blowing the smoke away from me. 'Gracious, I really couldn't say. I haven't seen April since I moved from Smithfield.'
I nodded. 'You think she might be a whore?' I said.
'Oh, I hope not. She was always so nice. I don't think she'd do that.'
'Do you live here with Mitchell Poitras?'
She smiled and shook her head vaguely. It was neither a negative nor affirmative movement-it was something in between, an avoidance gesture.
'Do you work?'
'I'm at home just now,' she said. Her eyes were shallow and meaningless as she spoke. Her smile was polite. She looked like a Barbie doll.
'So who pays the rent?'
She made her vague head movement again and smoked some more of her cigarette.
'What does Mitchell do for a living?' I said.
She looked up at the clock. 'I really must be starting my dinner pretty soon. I'm afraid you'll have to excuse me.' She stood. I was being outclassed by a sixteenyear-old girl. Should I give her the famous Spenserian arm squeeze? Or I could shoot her. I said, 'Okay, thanks for your time.' I took a card from my shirt pocket and gave it to
