They knew several other things about Cassandra Jean Ridley.
She had been a pilot in the U.S. Army.
She had lived in Eagle Branch, Texas.
This last bit of information might not later have proved significant if Ollie Weeks wasn’t at that very moment speaking to Jerome Hoskins’ sales manager in the publishing offices of Wadsworth and Dodds.
KAREN ANDERSEN was a tall brunette wearing a charcoal black business suit with wide lapels and white pin stripes. Her handshake was firm and her smile was welcoming. Ollie wondered at once if she was wearing black thong panties and a garter belt under the tailored slacks. Halloway filled her in on the reason for Ollie’s visit—
She seemed equally appalled by the news of Hoskins’ murder.
—and then left them alone in his office while he attended a meeting in the firm’s conference room. Karen asked Ollie if he’d care for a cup of coffee. It was close to twelve noon; he was beginning to get hungry. He wondered if the offer included a croissant, a donut, or at least a slice of toast. He accepted it nonetheless, watching Karen’s ass as she walked to a folding door that opened to reveal a small kitchen unit. A coffee maker was already prepared for brewing. She hit a button. A red light went on. Karen walked to a chair facing him. She crossed her long legs. He wished she was wearing a skirt. She tented her hands. Long narrow fingers, the nails painted a red to match her lipstick. The savory aroma of perking coffee set Ollie’s salivary glands flowing.
“So,” she said, “what is it you want to know?”
“What was he doing in Diamondback?” Ollie asked.
“Selling books, I’d expect.”
“At oneA.M . on Christmas Eve?”
Karen looked at him.
“That’s the ME’s estimated post mortem interval. The time of his death. The time someone fired a nine- millimeter pistol into the base of his neck.”
“I can’t evenimagine what he was doing up there at that hour.”
“How many bookstores was he selling to?” Ollie asked. “In Diamondback?”
“Four. We’re trying to expand our market there.”
“What sort of books do you sell?”
“Mostly non-fiction. We have a small fiction list, but nothing significant.”
“Books that would appeal to a Negro audience?”
“To a what?”
“A Negro audience.”
“You said Negro.”
“Yes.”
“Some of them.”
“Like what?”
“Oh, any number of our titles.”
“Was Hoskins having any kind of trouble with his accounts?”
“Trouble?”
“Deadbeats. Slow payers. Whatever. Personality differences?”
“No problems that I know of. We’re an easy firm to deal with. As I said, we’re trying to expand our markets. Not only in Diamond-back, but all over the United States. Coffee’s ready,” she said, and uncrossed her legs. She rose, walked to the kitchenette, poured coffee for both of them. “Sugar?” she asked. “Cream?”
“Both,” he said.
He was hoping she’d offer him something to eat. His eyes whipped the counter top, saw nothing but an open box of granulated sugar. She knelt to open a mini-fridge under the counter, took from it a container of skim milk. She spooned sugar into his cup …
“Two, please,” he said.
… added milk, carried it to where he sat. She smelled of expensive perfume. He wondered what the hell she was doing selling books for a rinky-dink firm like Wadsworth and Dodds.
“Five salesmen,” Ollie said. “Was what Mr. Halloway told me. Charmaine’s supposed to be getting me their names and phone numbers.”
“Why?” Karen said.
“I want to talk to them. See what they can tell me about him.”
“I doubt if any of them knew him that well. Aside from sales conferences, their paths wouldn’t have crossed all that often.”
“Worth a few phone calls,” Ollie said, and shrugged.
“I’ll see how she’s doing,” Karen said.
She lifted the phone on Halloway’s desk, stabbed at a button on the face of the cradle. “Hi,” she said, “it’s
