look. The chewing gum was a nice touch, too.
She goggled at the two women. Then shot a glance at Sammy. He leaned back in his seat, exhaling a jet stream of Gitane exhaust in the direction of the complainants.
The waitress rolled her eyes and chewed her gum.
“Well,” she said, “there’s nothing I can do about it. Would you mind moving over by the window? No one’s smoking over there.”
“What do you mean, there’s nothing you can do about it? Tell that asshole to butt out. Tell him to move over by the window,” said one of the women.
“Well, I can’t. He owns this place.”
“To hell with this,” said the woman. “We’re out of here. Permanently.” She scraped back her chair, scooped up the tip that had been resting on the table and shoved the bills into her jeans pocket.
The waitress watched them stomp through the front door.
She shrugged.
Sammy smirked.
The café lost some business, Pebbles lost her tip, the two women lost their warm after-lunch glow. Everyone lost except Sammy Dash.
I could tell he’d enjoyed himself.
Sammy Dash made for good watching. He was lean and sinewy, not too tall, a great build for a sleaze photographer. He was wearing a black tee-shirt and chinos, tight around the crotch. Brown hair, cut short, and blue eyes, sharp and foxy. A black leather jacket, European style, hung over the back of his chair. His legs sprawled in the aisle, feet bare inside his sandals.
The café was crowded and noisy, but no one messed around with Sammy.
I had a gut feeling he was a key factor in Mitzi’s misfortune, and I wanted to get a better sense of what made him tick before I talked to him.
I watched him all the way through an open-faced smoked salmon on brown sandwich and then through my cappuccino.
Eye contact was his specialty. He singled out women who were already escorted. Tall women. More than one had to put a hand on her partner’s arm to head off a confrontation with Sammy. Sammy grinned whenever that happened.
When he sauntered out the café doors, I was right behind him. Still behind him when he climbed into a dark green Porsche and slid into the traffic. Naturally, he had a vanity plate.
How much money do photographers make, I asked myself as I eased my way into the traffic behind him. The middle-aged man in the grey Honda Accord behind me seemed to feel he’d been cut off. I waved back at him and blew a little kiss.
* * *
Robin’s trip to the police station capped the day.
“They did what?” I asked Mrs. Findlay. The phone shook in my hand.
“They took her in for questioning. To the police station.”
“When?”
“Hmmm. Just as Another World was coming on.”
“When is that?”
“Two o’clock,” Mrs. Findlay huffed. “And there’s no reason to snap at me, Camilla MacPhee.”
Snap, I thought, I’d like to do more than snap, you vapour-brained old bat. But I injected a note of respect into my voice and asked, “Who took her in? The big guy, McCracken?”
“No, the small one with the pointed nose.”
“Who went with her?”
“With her? Nobody.”
“NOBODY?”
“I’m not going to mention your tone again.”
“She went alone with the officer?”
“That’s right. Her father was out when they came.”
“And Brooke?”
“Brooke had an important appointment this afternoon. She couldn’t break it.”
“Right. And you couldn’t leave because Another World was on.”
I hung up, resisting the urge to go over there, kick in the door and insert her, head-first, into the television set.
* * *
The police station is new and concrete and designed to create the impression of efficiency. Not even the murals can soften its sterile, forbidding atmosphere.
McCracken met me at the Criminal Investigation desk.
“Where is she?” I said. “I’ve got the right to see her.”
He had the good sense to turn red.
“She’s at the General.”
“At the General Hospital?”
McCracken’s voice was gruff. “She collapsed during questioning. Hit her head on the desk, I guess. Anyway, they took her by ambulance, and when I went by earlier, they said she was going to be all right.
“Let me get this straight. You took a sick woman from her bed, allowed her to be brought in by a sadistic little weasel, and then let her injure herself?”
He grunted.
“I’m her lawyer. Nobody called me. You think you can get away with running things like it’s a police state?”
“She tried to call you. You weren’t in your office. Nobody knew where you were.”
Alvin. I’d kill him. But I didn’t lose time plotting Alvin’s death. McCracken was my target.
“When this case gets cleared up, you guys are gonna get roasted for badgering innocent citizens.”
“Look, I understand how you feel. Mombourquette got a bit too…zealous. She’s okay. Her father’s with her now.”
“Her father!” I exploded, even though I felt a wave of relief. “This woman is not only innocent, but she might have seen the real killer. Do you think the sixty-five year old muffin-meister will be able to protect her if the killer decides to eliminate a witness?”
“This isn’t New York,” McCracken fought back. “We think your friend is the real killer.”
As I turned and stormed out, McCracken called to me, “When can I get in touch with your sister?”
When you can go ice skating in hell, McCracken, I thought.
Turning, I said, “My sister’s a busy woman and a very attractive one. She seems to have developed a strong interest in a man who’s just entered her life.”
“Who?” McCracken blurted.
I shrugged. “The woman’s got to have some privacy. But I can tell you, she’s all keyed up waiting for his phone calls.”
McCracken slumped a bit at that. What can I say, he deserved it.
* * *
Robin had been sent home by the time I reached the hospital.
When I finally got to the Findlays’, she looked as bad as I’d expected. Her father didn’t look much better, his face grey as he sat next to her, holding her pale hand.
“Oh good,” I said, “I see the family finally rallied around.”
“They couldn’t go with her,” he said.
His eyes watered, and I knew he realized what that said about his family. And he knew I did, too.
I gave him a little hug.
“Sorry,” I said, “I know you’re one of the guys in the white hats.”
But Mr. F. wasn’t thinking about himself.
“Look at her. What’s wrong with her? What’s happening