There were still things she did not know about horse racing, and while the story on the computer looked pretty definitive, locking up the details was something she could do while she got used to the sickening idea that she would not have Johnny Comstock in her life in future. The phone continued to ring, six or seven times. Each time she waited until the answering service cut in before she picked up the receiver and, each time, it was Johnny trying to find her. The novels that Trimble had accumulated provided Lucy a starting point. She picked out a Dick Francis and placed it open in front of her on the desk, putting the Racing Guide and the diary printout into a drawer. Then she unlocked the door, left it slightly ajar, and waited. Peter appeared in half-an-hour. “Watcha doin’, Lucy?” She held up the novel. “Doesn’t look too good if a customer comes in.” “You’re the only one who doesn’t knock.” “Don’t leave your door open, then. Hungry?” “I guess so.” Then with elaborate casualness, “You read Dick Francis?”
