Brazen Virtue

make arrangements for her to have him for a time during his school vacation.”
    “She was going to fight you for him. She was afraid of you and your family, but she was going to fight for Kevin.”
    “I’m aware of that.”
    “You knew,” Grace said slowly. “You knew what she was doing?”
    “I knew she’d hired a lawyer and a detective.”
    “And what would you have done to keep her from winning custody?”
    “Whatever became necessary.” Again, he glanced at his watch. “It appears we’re holding up the service.”
    He opened the door to the vestibule and stepped inside.

    B EN PULLED A GLAZED doughnut out of a white paper bag as he stopped at a red light. It had warmed enough to have the windows at half mast so that the tunes from the easy listening station on the radio of the car beside him drifted over his own choice of B. B. King.
    “How can anybody listen to that crap?” He glanced over, saw the car was a Volvo, and rolled his eyes. “I figure it’s a Soviet conspiracy. They’ve taken over the airwaves, filled them with inane orchestrated pap, and are going to keep playing it until the minds of average Americans turn to Jell-O. Meanwhile, waiting for us to fall over in a Manilow coma, they’re listening to the Stones.” He took another bite of doughnut before turning King up another notch. “And we’re worried about midrange missiles in Europe.”
    “You ought to write the Pentagon,” Ed suggested.
    “Too late.” Ben drove through the intersection and turned right at the next corner. “Probably already piping in Carpenters ballads. They’re mellowing us out, Ed, mellowing us out and just waiting for us to mold.”
    When his partner didn’t comment, Ben switched the radio down again. If he wasn’t going to be able to take Ed’s mind off it, he might as well shoot straight on.
    “The funeral’s today, isn’t it?”
    “Yeah.”
    “When we finish this, you could take a couple hours of personal time.”
    “She’s not going to want to see me unless there’s something I can tell her.”
    “Maybe we’ll have something.” Ben began checking numbers on the narrow side street. “When’s she going back to New York?”
    “I don’t know.” And he’d done his best not to think of it. “A day or two, I guess.”
    “You serious about the writer?”
    “I haven’t had time to think about it.”

    Ben swung the car over to the curb. “Better think fast.” He looked beyond Ed to the tiny little shop nestled in the middle of a half-dozen others. It might have been a trendy boutique once, or a craft shop. Now it was Fantasy, Incorporated.
    “Doesn’t look like a den of iniquity.”
    “You’d know about that.” Absently, Ben licked glaze from his thumb. “For a business that’s chugging along at a steady profit, they don’t seem to be putting much into their image.”
    “I watch Miami Vice.” Ed waited until two cars passed before opening his door to step out on the street.
    “I wouldn’t guess they’d get many social visits from clients.”
    Inside, the office was the size of an average bedroom, with no frills. The walls were painted white and the carpet was industrial grade. There were a couple of mismatched chairs that might have been picked up at a yard sale. Space was at a premium because the pair of desks stretched nearly wall-to-wall. Ben recognized them as Army issue, sturdy and unimpressive. But the computer was top of the line.
    Behind one of the monitors, a woman stopped tapping keys as they entered. Her fall of brown hair was pulled back from a round, pretty face. Her suit jacket was draped behind her chair. Over a white silk blouse she wore a trio of gold chains. With a half smile for both men, she rose.
    “Hello. May I help you?”
    “We’d like to talk to the owner.” Ben pulled out his badge. “Police business.”
    She held out a hand for Ben’s identification, studied it, then handed it back. “I’m the owner. What can I do for you?”
    Ben pocketed his badge again. He wasn’t sure what he’d been expecting, but it hadn’t been a tidy young woman who looked as though she’d just come from planning a field trip for Brownies. “We’d like to talk to you about one of your employees, Miss …”
    “Mrs. Cawfield. Eileen Cawfield. This is about Kathleen Breezewood, isn’t it?”

    “Yes, ma’am.”
    “Sit down, please, Detective Paris.” She glanced at Ed.
    “Jackson.”
    “Please, sit down. Can I get you some coffee?”
    “No,