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Conrad Deeb had arrived ten minutes early. The following morning, as if some sort of cosmic balance was being laid in place, my doorbell rang ten minutes late.
I opened, expecting a woman, saw a man.
“Doctor? Lewis Evan Porer.” Outstretched hand. I took it briefly, remained in the doorway.
Porer was younger than I’d expected. Mid-thirties, narrowly built, sporting slicked-back dark hair and an extravagantly curled handlebar mustache. He wore a red candy-striped shirt, a floppy blue bow tie, gray twill pants with generous cuffs, suspenders patterned with birds, and brown-and-white saddle shoes.
One quarter of a barbershop quartet.
Parked down below was an iridescent, lime-green Porsche 911 Targa. Behind the Porsche sat a silver Range Rover.
He said, “Toni’s in the Rover.”
I said, “Please tell her to come up.”
“I was wondering if we might chat a mite beforehand.”
“We might not.”
I looked at my watch. Lewis Evan Porer extracted an engraved gold pocket watch from a slit below his waistband. Antiquarian tendencies? Not when it came to his ride: The Porsche was the latest model, still sported paper plates.
He moved his lips, turned his mustache into a writhing snake. I stood there. He sighed. “If you insist.”
Rather than go downstairs and fetch his client, he whipped out a phone and said, “Time, Toni.”
A blond woman in all-black stepped out of the Ranger Rover’s driver’s side, hurried to the staircase, and jogged up athletically.
When she arrived, I looked past Porer and said, “Ms. McManus, please come in.”
Porer said, “So where should I wait?”
I said, “If you need to wait, your car.”
“It can get a little warm. You don’t have a waiting room?”
Toni McManus squeezed past him. “Lewis, I told you, no need to stick around.”
Porer unfurled a mustached end and recurled it. “Very well.” Shooting me a sharp look, he descended.
Toni McManus said, “Please don’t hold him against me. He wasn’t my idea.”
I smiled.
She said, “Thank you,” and followed me to my office.
CHAPTER
35
My job has trained me to conceal surprise. This morning would be a test of that.
Nothing in Toni McManus’s demeanor said I’d blown it.
First surprise: I’ve seen her before.
The all-blond member of the duo that had buttonholed Moe Reed the morning of the Gannett/Delage murders. Her companion, platinum with black streaks. The two of them pressuring Reed to open the street so they could get their days going. Eventually, Milo had pacified them.
Shedidn’t recognizeme.I’d been standing well away, no reason for her to notice. But just in case, I fussed with papers and gave her time to recall.
