“You certainly act like one. Back to Walter. Does he think this female impersonator had something to do with Karl’s death?” The fingers of one hand began to absentmindedly drum the surface of the desk.
Dash shook his head again. “I don’t believe so. It’s what he says, but he’s after something else.” He leaned forward in his chair. “What is Walter looking for? He mentioned how this female impersonator would never leave Karl behind because Karl had something she needed.”
“That’s rather vague.”
Dash was unable to keep the urgency out of his voice. “Pru, please.”
She leaned forward on her desk, her expression shrewd. “If you think he’s lying about the reason to find her, what makes you believe him about the rest?”
Dash ran a nervous hand through his misbehaving brown hair. “I don’t know. If he is lying about that, then he’s after revenge.”
“Revenge?”
“According to Walter, this female impersonator corrupted his brother, and she was the last person to see him alive.”
“Second to last,” she said. “I believe you are the man who has that honor.”
“True enough.” He sat back in his chair. “Miss Meyers, why were you in my club that night? Karl said it was for a special event. Not a celebration, he was quick to add, but something else.”
She just stared blandly at him.
“Alright. The telephone call he was trying to make that night. Do you know why he was trying to reach Tyler Smith? Karl was most insistent about it. Panicked, really.”
No response.
Dash blew out an exasperated breath. “Pru, I could use some help here. What about your plan?”
“Are you asking because it could lead you to this female impersonator?”
“Yes.”
“What will you do if you find her? Turn her over to Walter? Turn me over as well? What is the goal you’re working towards?”
It was a good question. His response came out awkward. “If I can find you both, find out what it is Walter is really after, maybe we could work together to stop him.”
Pru processed his response behind opaque eyes. After a moment, she said, “Mr. Parker—Dash—unfortunately, I am unable to help you. Your situation comes into great conflict with an existing case of mine.”
“An existing case?”
“And client-attorney privilege means I cannot reveal my client nor the case itself. My advice to you is to go to a trusted member of the police.”
Dash smirked. “There isn’t one.”
“Or find a different attorney. I can refer you, if you like.”
“But Pru—”
She was adamant. “I’m sorry. I . . . really, truly am.”
Dash was at a loss. He had been so sure she’d help him, that they’d band together against Walter Müller with the law as their weapon. Now she was shutting the door on his hopes and all because of a case? What case? And what did it have to do with Walter or Karl? He looked into her lavender eyes and saw steely resolve. She would not budge, he knew that.
He stood up, taking a shaky breath. “Thank you for your time, Miss Meyers.”
He took out a card with the address of Hartford & Sons printed on the front.
“This is where you can reach me if you change your mind.”
Her eyes flicked down to the card, then back up again. “Good luck, Mr. Parker.”
He forced a smile. “Same to you.”
Dash returned to Hartford & Sons, defeated and in need of a drink. He’d sneak a beer out of the secret stash. Joe would give him hell for it, but he didn’t care. What a disappointing day this had been.
While he was fumbling in his pants pockets for the tailor shop keys, he slowly became aware of the leisurely tapping of a cane behind him. He didn’t make too much of it—lots of people walked with canes in the city. The sound, however, stopped abruptly behind him.
Dash turned to see an air-tight man dressed better than most who visited his shop during the week. The downward-looking gent wore a matching boater jacket and slacks, the print a luminous shade of blue with wide, tan stripes. The shoes were a sharp brown leather like teak on a boat. Atop his head was a summer straw hat with a wide navy band around the middle. The tapping was courtesy of a bamboo cane curved around the man’s wrist.
Money.
“There you are,” the man said, his voice a pleasing baritone. “And here I thought you were closed.” The man looked up and gave Dash a full view of his lovely face: warm, chocolate eyes, thick, pink lips, and a carefully cultivated jaw line. “You are the tailor, unless I am mistaken.”
The good looks of the man startled Dash. He hoped the surprise—and the attraction—didn’t show. He managed to say, “You are not mistaken.” Keys finally in hand, he said, “I’m sorry, sir, did we have an appointment?”
The man shook his head. “Not officially. I was in the neighborhood and thought I’d stop by. I have a dinner party coming up, and I’m in desperate need of a new jacket. Are you Mr. Hartford?”
Dash inserted the key into the front door’s lock. “Mr. Hartford is no longer here, I’m afraid. I’m his replacement, Dash Parker.”
“Nice to meet you, sir. My condolences for Mr. Hartford.” The man pointed to the spot where Walter had struck Dash. “A nasty bruise you have there.”
Dash reflexively reached up and rubbed his sore spot. “A bit of trouble a few nights ago.”
“The city seems to invite it.” The corners of his mouth seemed to twitch with amusement. Dash thought those lips were downright kissable.
Don’t be distracted by beauty. Keep your wits, Dash. He’s far too charming to be what he seems.
The man nodded towards the shop. “Shall we go in?”
Dash turned the key and opened the door. “After you, sir.”
The man with the kissable mouth stepped inside and took in the surroundings while Dash opened one of the windows. He hoped the stuffiness would soon dissipate.
“You’re not the father or the son?” asked the man, referring to the sign out front.
“No, sir,”
