Or nonstick?” “Frank, please—” “Skillets, Reggie. Skillets are on my mind. It’s the Iron Chef idea. Is a twenty-two-inch more versatile?” “You refuse to talk about the Faiser case, is that what you’re telling me?” Devaney pops two Tums and loosens his necktie, rows of red roosters crowing at dawn. Anger rises in my chest. We’re in my front room facing one another on the sofa and rocker. It’s after seven. I’m exhausted from the StyleSmart extravaganza but bursting with these tips about the Dempseys. I’m the star informant, but as before, Devaney is dismissive. “Sylvia Dempsey was possibly killed for insurance money, Frank. That’s a lead. Can’t you put others to work on this and get back to Faiser? I think you’re blowing me off.” “I listened. I didn’t interrupt.” “You promised me the latest on the Faiser-Wald case.
