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“Well, you’re not my secretary.”
“Assistant. And it’s for Lydia, right?”
I nodded.
“It’s notpersonal?”
“No.”
“Then it’s my job. At least until we get you a computer.”
“Oh God, no. Could I maybe have a typewriter, though?”
She opened a desk drawer and pointed at a neat stack of plastic floppies. “I can’t backup a typewriter. Besides, the last time I saw a typewriter for sale was at Goodwill.”
I frowned. They couldn’t be seriously thinking of getting me a computer. That was a disaster in the making.
“Um, also, I have some people I need to find.”
She picked up a pen, and said, “Go ahead.”
“Andy Showalter from the Downey area, Anne Whittemore also from Downey, and Candy Van Dyke possibly from Silver Lake.”
Karen gave me a look, and said, “Sometimes I don’t know why Lydia thinks you’re a good investigator.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Candy Van Dyke? She’s a real estate agent. She’s got her face on every bus bench in Belmont Shore.”
I should have known this. Not because I’m an investigator, but because my boyfriend is a real estate agent. Though to be fair, there were only two or three other real estate agents I could name, and only because Ronnie complained about how bad they were. Plus, Belmont Shore was the happening part of Long Beach for wealthy yuppies. I almost never went there.
I didn’t bother trying to explain any of this to Karen. “Thanks. Can you find out where she lives?”
“I’m going to type up the notes for Lydia first.”
“Great.”
I went back to my area and took a few deep breaths. I’d nearly blown it with Karen—on so many different levels. For one, not knowing who Candy Van Dyke is, and for two, the law firm. Maybe I’d covered that, and maybe I hadn’t.
Maybe I had bigger problems than what Karen did or didn’t think about me. Hamlet Gilbody, for example. He worked for the law firm Jimmy English used. His granddaughter Deanna Hansen probably used the same firm. I owed Deanna a lot of money—and her investigator was close to finding me.
For the moment, the best thing to do was put it out of my mind. I mean, there wasn’t much I could do about it right then, so it was best to not think about it. I decided to make a couple of calls. My first call was to Selma Martinez.
“Hi, this is Dom Reilly. I was out to visit you last week.”
“Oh, yeah,” she said, sounding disappointed.
“Sorry to bother you. I should have asked this question while I was out—”
“What’s the question?”
“You said you were shown photos of men who might have been your attacker. Do you remember if all the men were Black?”
She left a long pause before replying. Then she said, “Only two of them were Black.”
“Did Detective Wellesley give you any hints as to which one to choose?”
“Not hints exactly. I mean, she didn’t say anything. But I did… I did feel like I knew which one she wanted me to choose.”
