“She was L.A. serious, which meant a loose-fitting, ankle-length flowered dress, some Native-American jewelry and dark leather sandals. Her blond hair was done in a single long braid that reached nearly to her waist. She wore no makeup and despite her best efforts, she was pretty good-looking. When she opened the door she kept the chain bolt on. I gave her my card. I introduced myself. I explained what I wanted, and I smiled at her. None of it seemed to make her more welcoming. ‘Why do you want ...to talk to me about Steve Buckman?’ she said. ‘He’s just somebody I knew at work.’ ‘Well, that’s why,’ I said. ‘I was hoping for some of your insights.’ She liked insights. ‘Why do you want that?’ she said. There was never a good way to say it. I’d learned over the years to just say it. Which I did. ‘Steve’s been murdered.’ She looked at me as if I had commented on the dandiness of the weather. ‘What?’ ‘We could talk out here on the porch,’ I said, ‘if you’d feel more secure.’ She didn’t speak for a moment, then she closed the door, unchained it, opened it again and stepped out.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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