Private Dick Casefile 01 - Lily White Rose Red

edition, police blotter,” I said.
    I planted the back of my lap on the table and swung my legs as she went to the shelf and extracted a reel of film.
    “I’ll thread it for you.”
    “I can do it,” I offered.
    “It’ll be quicker if I do it.” She peered into the viewer, pulling the film along until she reached the right section. She stepped away and let me sit down to look at it. “What’re you working on?”
    “Murder. Some girl named Saint-Ville was offed Sunday night behind the train station,” I said.
    “Woman,” Charlie corrected me automatically.
    I ignored her. “And here it is.”
    “I said I’d cue it up for you,” Charlie snapped. “She was young, beautiful, and someone strangled her. Her valuables were stolen. She Lily White, Rose Red: Grey Randall, Private Dick Casefile #1
    43

    was found in an unusual place where she had no business to be that late at night—”
    “Blaming the victim, Charlie?”
    “It was probably something to do with a man ,” she spat in disgust. “She probably thought she was in love! ”
    “Just because you were disappointed in love—”
    “Have you ever heard me say so?” she exclaimed. “Just because I’m sensible and don’t go around falling for men’s lines—”
    “Can it, Charlotte!”
    “You call me that again and the cops will be investigating your murder,” she said grimly.
    “You’re too smart for them, they’d never put the finger on you, Charlie. ” I went back to reading my article. I peered at the accompanying picture, but it was just the empty alley. The Journal-Review didn’t print photographs of murder victims, deeming the citizens to be too delicate for images of that nature, despite the fact that Vegas was a tough town and half the population had flocked to the site for a glimpse. But they did print a photo of the victim while still alive, the same publicity still that Miss McIntyre had given me. It didn’t tell me any more about Miss Saint-Ville this time around.
    Neither did the article. Either the cops were sitting on the facts, or the paper preferred lurid speculation to reporting. Captain Woods had been interviewed and had a few words to say about the horrible nature of the crime and how his department would never rest until they found the killer, the usual stuff about their high percentage rates in solving crimes and getting a conviction. The Las Vegas Police always gets their man—or a man, at any rate.
    “What else have you got on this case?”
    Her voice dripping poisoned honey, Charlie said, “If only you’d called ahead, I would have spent all my spare time researching it for you, but since you didn’t—”

    44

    CATT FORD

    “Would you mind? So far I know nothing about the victim. I don’t know who she knew, or where she worked or lived. I don’t know if she preferred coffee or tea. I don’t know who to ask about her.”
    “Who’s your client? Can’t you ask him?”
    I knew this would impress her. “Her. Miss Lily McIntyre.”
    “Hot stuff.” She was impressed. And why shouldn’t she be? Lily McIntyre was a legend in this town. “What’d she say?”
    “Not a lot. She gave me the impression she didn’t know her very well, but someone had to.”
    “And if they do, why would anyone print it up?”
    “Because she was a dancer, an entertainer. Surely her name must appear on some list of wherever she worked,” I explained. “Public relations.”
    Charlie heaved a deep sigh, but I could see from the gleam in her eyes that I had her hooked. There was nothing she liked better than the challenge of a difficult research job. “Only a thousand places she might have danced in Vegas, but I’ll see what I can find. There are a couple of magazines that might have something. The street guide will give me her address, and that will tell you something about how she lived.”
    “You’re wasted in your job, you know.”
    Charlie could look really pretty when she smiled, and she smiled at that. “Sometimes you know how to pay a pretty compliment. But I don’t come cheap.”
    The five large Lily McIntyre had given me was burning a hole in my pocket, so I said rather grandly, “You never do, but I’m flush this time. Name your price.”
    “There’s a new Jane Austen collection coming out next year,” Charlie said hopefully.
    “Knew you were a closet romantic,” I teased, and I ducked when she reached for the empty film canister, pretending she was going to throw it at me. I knew I was safe