“Six degrees of separation,” Ann murmured.
Her drink was gone. So was mine. She got up, collected my glass, went to the bar, and mixed us each another drink.
“Last night,” I said, “Marvin Conroy came here and spent the night.”
Ann Kiley smiled again without meaning anything by it. I waited. She waited. I waited longer.
“And your question?” she said.
“Was it good for you, too?” I said.
“Don’t be offensive.”
“Part of my skill set,” I said. “What can you tell me that will help me with my work?”
“And your work is?”
“To find out who killed Nathan Smith.”
“Even if it’s his wife?”
“Even,” I said.
“I was under the impression you were hired to clear her,” Ann said.
“What’s the connection between you and Conroy and Smith and DeRosa?”
“The connection between me and Marvin Conroy must be obvious if you know he spent the night,” Ann said.
“Un-huh.”
“Jack DeRosa is my client.”
“Un-huh.”
“That they are both connected in some way to Nathan Smith is a coincidence.”
“Un-huh.”
“You don’t believe in coincidence?”
“It doesn’t get me anywhere,” I said.
She nodded. I noticed her second drink was not going down nearly as quick as her first.
“And where are you trying to get?” she said.
“How come you represent Jack DeRosa?” I said.
“He needed a lawyer.”
“And you were hanging around the public defender’s office smiling hopefully?” I said.
“Every lawyer has a responsibility to the law,” she said.
“So how’d DeRosa happen to hire you?” I said. “You bill more per hour than DeRosa’s life is worth.”
“Arrangements with clients are confidential.”
“How about Conroy? What can you tell me about him?”
She smiled. “Relationships with friends are confidential.”
“If there’s something, Ms. Kiley, I’m going to find it.”
“You don’t frighten me, Mr. Spenser.”
“Why not?”
“Mr. Spenser,” she said, “you are a little man in a big arena. You simply don’t matter.”
“What about my nice personality?” I said.
“It doesn’t interest me,” Ann Kiley said. “Neither do you. Go away.”
That seemed to sort of cover it. I put my drink down carefully on its coaster, got my hat and coat from the front hall closet, and left. Ann Kiley didn’t see me to the door.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
Belson called me at home, early. It was still a half hour before sunrise and the morning was still gray outside my bedroom window.
“I’m at a crime scene in your neighborhood,” Belson said. “Wanna stop by?”
“Because you’ve missed me and you want to see me?” I said.
“Corner of Berkeley and Commonwealth,” Belson said. “I’ll look for you.”
I walked over. There were the usual too many cop cars, lights still flashing. Two technicians were loading a body bag into the coroner’s van. Belson in a light raincoat and a gray scally cap was leaning against his unmarked car, talking to one of the uniform guys. As I walked over, the uniform left.
“Hit and run,” Belson said as I stopped beside him. “Vic’s name is Brinkman Tyler.”
