“Anyone special?”
Her face brightened suddenly, and she smiled.
“They were all special,” she said.
“See any of them since your marriage?”
“Well, of course, you don’t give up all your friends when you get married.”
“Maybe you could give us a list of your friends.”
“My friends?”
“Somebody killed your husband.”
“I can’t give you a list of my friends. So you can go bother them?”
“I’m not your problem,” I said. “I’m working for you. Won’t your friends want to help you?”
“Well, of course.”
I spread my hands. It follows as the night the day. She frowned for a while. Which was apparently what she did when she thought.
“Maybe I could give you a list,” she said.
I waited. Finally she turned to her PR guy.
“Larson,” she said. “You could give them the guest list for the last party.”
“I have it in the computer,” Graff said. “If that would help.”
“Great,” I said. “That’ll be great.”
I could see Rita off to the right. She looked amused.
CHAPTER FOUR
I went with Belson to the new Suffolk County House of Correction in South Bay, where they were holding Jack DeRosa for trial on an armed robbery charge.
“So, as I understand it,” Belson said, “I’m trying to help you prove that our case against Mary Smith is no good.”
“Yep.”
“And what’s in that for me?” Belson said. “I helped put the damned case together.”
“Justice is served?”
“Yeah?”
“And I’m your pal.”
“Oh boy,” Belson said.
We met DeRosa in a secure conference room on the first floor. His lawyer was with him. DeRosa was a small guy with a big nose that had been broken more than once. There was enough scar tissue around his eyes to suggest that he’d been a fighter.
“Welterweight?” I said.
“Yeah.”
“Any good?” I said.
“I was a palooka,” he said.
“So you found another line of work.”
DeRosa shrugged. His jail fatigues were too big, and it made him look smaller than he was.
“Whaddya want?” he said.
“Woman named Mary Smith asked you to kill her husband,” I said.
“Where’d you hear that?”
“From me,” Belson said.
“We already have our deal in place,” DeRosa’s lawyer said.
She was stunning. Expensive blond hair cut short, dark blue pantsuit with a fine chalk line, white blouse, small diamond on a gold chain showing at her throat. She looked like she worked out, probably in bright tights and expensive sneakers.
“Where are you from?” I said to the lawyer.
“Excuse me?”
“What firm do you represent?”
“Kiley and Harbaugh,” she said. “I’m Ann Kiley.”
“Bobby Kiley’s daughter?” I said.
“Yes.”
