I was at my desk, looking at the list of people to talk with about Jumbo Nelson, when one of them walked in. Alice DeLauria looked great. Black dress, three-inch heels, diamonds, and a perfect tan. She kept her sunglasses on. She saw Z and glanced at him without interest, put her small black purse on the edge of my desk, and sat in one of my guest chairs. "You know my associate," I said. "Mr. Sixkill." "I used to," Alice DeLauria said. Z shrugged and went back to his newspaper. "Coffee's made," I said. "Would you care for some?" "This is not a social call," she said. "I'll take that as no," I said. "You recently lured my client to an office, where you bullied him and prevented him from leaving," Alice said. "I did," I said. "You admit it?" "I do," I said. If she'd had facial surgery, it was good facial surgery. It was a very good-looking face, except there was nothing about it that indicated feelings. That might well have been no fault of the surgeon, if she had one. "Our attorney has spoken to you already about harassing Mr.
