It didn’t take a trained investigator to see that she’d already spent some of the day crying, but the lack of any makeup and a blotchy complexion couldn’t disguise the basic truth of Ian’s description of her. She was, at the very least, kind of pretty. And obviously braless under a San Francisco Zoo T-shirt tucked into the slim waist of a pair of red-striped running shorts. The day was warm, the sky clear blue, the air windless. A table with four chairs and a Cinzano umbrella graced the small brick patio area just outside her door, and after the introductions, the three of them gravitated there and sat down. “So,” Mickey began, “no cops so far today?” “No.” “And how long did they talk to you yesterday?” “About an hour. There were two of them, a man and a woman.” “Did you get their names?” She shook her head no, but then said, “Wait,” and suddenly jumped up, heading back to the house. She reemerged a few seconds later and handed Mickey two business cards.
