“For me, common.”
The waitress bounced over and took the orders of two men in business suits who sat at a table a few feet away. Frank’s eyes involuntarily followed her. She was young, and she had a light, exuberant step, the sort he noticed in people who still thought their luck might change.
Karen glanced around the room. “I’ve never been here,” she said.
“Neither have I.”
“You just picked it at random?”
“The first one on the right,” Frank said. “It looked nice. Better than the traffic.” He looked at his watch. “Things’ll clear up in about an hour. We’ll leave then.”
Karen pulled a pack of cigarettes from her purse and offered one to Frank.
“No, thanks.”
Karen lit her own. “You look like a smoker.”
“I do? How do smokers look?”
“Like certain things don’t really matter to them.”
“Health, you mean?”
“Too long a life,” Karen said.
“Then give me one.”
Karen held the pack up to him. “Angelica and I didn’t get along very well,” she said.
“I gathered that,” Frank said. He lit the cigarette. “Of course, that’s nothing new.”
“But I have no idea what happened to her,” Karen said, “and if she was murdered, I don’t know who killed her.”
“It’s her life I’m looking for right now,” Frank said.
“Why?”
“So I can trace it.”
“To its end?”
“That’s the way it works when you do it by the book,” Frank told her. He took a sip of Scotch, and the warmth hit him suddenly like a sweet promise of relief. He realized he’d want another after this, and then another. He placed the glass firmly down on the table.
Karen looked at him oddly. “What’s the matter?”
“Nothing,” Frank said quickly. He leaned back in his seat, drawing himself away from the beckoning glass. “Did you really not know anything about how Angelica lived?” he asked.
“I tried to watch out for her. I was her sister, after all. But she resented the intrusion.”
“Well, the only things I know right now are that she was rich and beautiful.”
Karen leaned forward. “Does that make it more likely that she was murdered, money and beauty?”
“Less likely, I’d say,” Frank told her. He took a draw on the cigarette. “There’s a saying in a homicide investigation: Follow blood or money.”
“Which means?”
“Well, in most cases people kill each other over money or some family matter.”
Karen shook her head gently. “I didn’t kill my sister, Mr. Clemons.”
“I was thinking more of money,” Frank said. “Did Angelica have much of her own?”
“Yes. She had a trust fund.”
Frank took out his notebook. “She had access to it?”
“Not until recently,” Karen said. “Arthur Cummings administered it. He was my father’s lawyer. And he was, you might say, Angelica’s guardian. At least, he was the guardian of her money.”
“Did he keep tabs on her?”
“I don’t think so,” Karen said. “I don’t think she would have let anyone do that.”
Frank wrote Cummings’ name in his notebook. “Where can I find Arthur Cummings?”
“Cummings, Wainwright and Houstan,” Karen said. “Have you heard of it?”
“No. Should I have?”
“Well, not really. It’s a major law firm, that’s all.”
The sort of high-powered legal muscle that people in Karen’s circle knew about, Frank realized immediately, and people in his circle didn’t.
“I know mostly bailbondsmen and ambulance chasers,” he said.
“You think Cummings is any different?” Karen asked.
“Better suits,” Frank said. He allowed himself to smile with her for the first time. “With the guys I deal with, it’s mostly Mart.”
Karen snuffed out her cigarette, but said nothing.
“Was Cummings your guardian, too?” Frank asked.
“For a few years,” Karen said. “I was almost of age when my parents died. He was my guardian until then.”
“How well do you know him?”
“Not very well,” Karen said. “I recognize his signature. It was always on my checks.”
“And nothing else?”
“He was my father’s best friend. That’s all I know.”
“And as far as you know, Angelica was no closer to him than you?”
“As far as I know,” Karen said. She took a sip of wine. “Besides, if Angelica was murdered, it could have been anybody.”
“Why?”
“Because she was beautiful,” Karen said firmly, “and anyone could have desired her: Arthur, the taxi driver, the kid with the groceries, the stranger in an elevator.” She paused. “Even you, Mr. Clemons.” She picked up the now-empty glass of wine and twirled it in her hands. “Anyone could have desired her, and because of that, anyone could have killed her.” She placed the glass back down on the table and leaned slowly toward him. “Was my sister raped?”
“I don’t know,” Frank said.
For what seemed a very long time, she simply continued to look at him. Then, slowly, a line of moisture gathered in her eyes.
5
When Frank got back to headquarters, he found Caleb already waiting for him, his huge frame slumped in a padded metal chair beside his desk.
“Two things for you,” Caleb said.
“What?”
“Message from your wife.”
“Ex-wife.”
“In my opinion there’s no such thing,” Caleb said. He shrugged. “Anyway, from Sheila.”
“What’s the message?”
“She just wants you to drop by after work.”
“Okay, what else?”
“This,” Caleb said. He took a thin manila folder from his lap and dropped it on Frank’s desk. “Lab work on Angelica Devereaux.”
“Have you read it?”
“Just finished.”
“Any surprises?”
“Well, she wasn’t raped, if that’s what you mean.”
“Does that surprise you?”
Caleb shook his head. “Not much. In my experience, you don’t have to be a looker to get raped. Fat or thin, old or young, it don’t matter.” He smiled sadly. “Like the saying goes, Frank, beauty is in the eye of the beholder.” He slid the folder across the desk. “Take a look.”
