That evening I had an early dinner at a Hell’s Kitchen red-sauce joint with Luce Guidry. She was all decked out in a narcissus-yellow two-piece suit featuring a gigantic strawberry pinned to the lapel. I showed her the pictures. “Think it could have anything to do with the skanks I took down at Neon the other night?” “Could. Even morons know how to operate a camera these days. Just point and click.” “Turn up any witnesses?” “Not a one. Nobody saw anything, or too afraid to talk. Hard to blame them.” “The pictures might have come from another source.” I told her about Ferris. “I always liked Ginny,” she said. “Too damned bad, Jackson. I gotta give her a call.” “She’d appreciate that.” “Who’s working the case?” “Pete Toal and his sidekick. Guy likes to be called Swede.” She made a face. “Don’t expect much, Jackson. The word is, Toal is mailing it in. Just about everything he touches seems to wind up on the back burner. I guess that’s what happens when you’re nearing the end of your string .
