K Is for Killer

Even at that distance, I could see slim hips, a flat belly, and the breasts of early adolescence, a body type much admired by the postmenopausal male. She was wearing lime-green satin hot pants and a halter top with a lime-green bomber jacket over it.
    We made our way across the room. At a certain point in our progress, she spotted Cheney's approach. He pointed toward the courtyard. She pivoted and went out in advance of us. Outside, the temperature dropped dramatically, and the sudden absence of cigarette smoke made the air smell like freshly cut hay. The chill felt like liquid pouring over my skin. Danielle had turned to face us, hands in her jacket pockets. Up close, I could see the skillful use of cosmetics in the battle she must have fought with her own youthful looks. She could have passed for twelve. Her eyes were the luminous green of certain tropical fish, and her look was insolent.
    "We have a car parked around the corner," Cheney said without preamble.
    "So?"
    "So we could have a little talk. Just the three of us."
    "About what?"
    "Life in general, Lorna Kepler in particular."
    Danielle's eyes were fixed on mine. "Who's she?"
    "This is Kinsey. Lorna's mother hired her."
    "This is not a bust," she said warily.
    "Oh, come on, Danielle. It's not a bust. She's a private investigator looking into Lorna's death."
    "Because I'm telling you, Cheney, you set me up for something, you could get me in real trouble."
    "It's not a setup. It's a meeting. She'll pay your regular rates."
    I gave Cheney a look. I'd have to pay the little twerp?
    Danielle's gaze raked the parking lot and then strayed in my direction. "I don't do women," she said sullenly.
    I leaned forward and said, "Hey, me neither. In case anybody gives a shit."
    Cheney ignored me and addressed himself to her. "What are you afraid of?"
    "What am I afraid of?" she said, finger pointing to her own chest. Her nails were bitten to the quick. "I'm afraid of Lester, for one thing. I'm afraid of losing my teeth. I'm afraid Mr. Dickhead's going to flatten my nose again. The guy's a bastard, a real prick..."
    "You should have pressed charges. I told you that the last time," Cheney said.
    "Oh, right. I should have gone ahead and checked into the morgue, saved myself that messy middle step," she snapped.
    "Come on. Help us out," Cheney coaxed.
    She thought about it, looking off into the dark. Finally, grudgingly, she said, "I'll talk to her, not to you."
    "That's all I'm asking."
    "I'm not doing it because you're asking. I'm doing it for Lorna. And just this once. I mean it. I don't want you to set me up like this again."
    Cheney grinned seductively. "You're too perfect."
    Danielle made a face, mimicking his manner, which she wasn't buying for a minute. She headed off toward the street, talking back across her shoulder. "Let's get it over with before Lester shows up."
    Cheney walked us to the car, where we went through the requisite door-wrenching exercise. The ensuing squawk was so loud, a couple halfway down the block stopped necking long enough to see what kind of creature we were torturing. I took the passenger seat and let Danielle take the driver's side in case she needed to make a hasty getaway. Whoever Lester was, I was getting nervous myself.
    Cheney leaned toward the wing window. "Back in a bit."
    "You see Lester, don't you tell him where I'm at," she warned.
    "Trust me," Cheney said.
    "Trust him. What a joke," she said to no one in particular.
    We watched him through the front windshield as he disappeared into the dark. I sat there hoping her Monday night rates were low. I couldn't remember how much cash I had on me, and I didn't think she'd take my Visa, which was maxed out anyway.
    "You can smoke if you want," I said, thinking to ingratiate myself.
    "I don't smoke," she said, offended. "Smoking wrecks your health. Know how much we pay in this country for smoking-related illnesses? Fifteen billion a year. My father died of emphysema. It was like walking suffocation every day of his life. Eyes bugging out. He's breathing... he's like this..." She paused to demonstrate, hand on her chest. The sounds she made were a combination of rasping and choking. "And he can't get any air. It's a horrible way to die. Dragging around this old oxygen tank. You better quit while you're ahead."
    "I don't smoke. I thought you might. I was being polite."
    "Don't be polite on my account," she said. "I hate smoking. It's very bad for you, plus it stinks." Danielle looked around