"How long before I start bringing them in?"
"Listen, Mike," Vince said, not taking his eyes off the view. "Three hours ago I asked those important people outside to answer a few questions about a murder in their freakin' midst. And you know what they did?"
"No, sir."
"They were disrespectful and uncooperative. They tried to jack me around."
"Not good, sir."
"Right you are. So I gave them time to round up some local mouthpieces, and I applied myself to other freakin' aspects of the case. Because we got a duty, right, Mike? Rich people, that's the problem. Exercisin' rights poor people don't even know they have."
Knock knock knock. "I need to see the detective," an authoritative baritone announced.
Vince motioned with his finger for Mike to come closer. "Fifteen more minutes, Mikey," he said. "Let 'em stew in it, okay?" He turned back to the papers on the table.
"Yes, sir." Mike threw open the door. A balding man in a thousand-dollar suit was standing there, his Adam's apple bobbing up and down in fury. "Step back," Mike ordered. "Step back there. Detective Toscana is not ready for you yet."
Fifteen minutes later a slightly less balding man entered, ushered by Mike, clutching a heavy briefcase as if he'd already drafted a bunch of briefs and wrapped the whole thing up. The wait had fired him up and he started talking before he even sat down. Behind him came Howard Fondulac, unshaven, uncombed, and undone. Vince switched on the tape recorder.
"Outrageous," the lawyer was saying. It was a routine lawyer greeting. Sort of like "hello."
"Please," Vince said, feeling better than he had in hours. "Take a seat, gentlemen." They sat down in front of the table and right away the producer, if that was what he really was, Vince was going to check him out, spoke up. "I don't know anything. I've got to go back to LA right away. Important business. Meetings. Commitments."
"I'll do the talking," said the lawyer.
"Well, tell him."
"My name is Eric Derrick." He handed Vince a card engraved so deep it was practically coming apart. He had a slow Southern accent that gave Vince time to grind his teeth between words. "Mr. Fondulac was sound asleep from ten P.M. until eleven a.m. this morning. He is shocked and distressed at this situation, and he fears for his own safety since a killer appears to be running free on the property. He has booked a flight leaving in two hours, and-"
"He's not going anywhere," Vince said.
"But Mr. Fondulac has important business-"
"His current business is right here. Nobody's leaving at the moment."
"But you can't-there's a murderer loose!"
Vince just sat there and looked at him and let the inanity of that statement sink in. Eventually even the lawyer got it, if the merest hint of a blush on the top of the ears was any indication.
"Yeah, you got that right, and we're trying to do something about it," Vince said finally. "Like talk to the witnesses. You mind?"
"But I don't know anything!" Fondulac said.
"What do you do in Hollywood?" Vince said. "I've never been there myself."
"I'm a film producer." Vince let him explain that and came to find out that old Howard was sort of retired right now, hadn't done a movie in the last several years, in fact. He confessed he'd had a few health problems. Vince sympathized and told him about his arthritis, and Fondulac started relaxing and even getting a little garrulous, which made Derrick jump in, and old Howard shushed him this time.
"I guess a week or two at a place like this would be good for me, too," Vince said, patting his belly. "But I couldn't take the chow, I'd miss my pasta."
"Oh, there's pasta. Just no oil, you know. No cheese."
"I'd rather die young," Vince said. "No, give me my food and my liquor, you know? Speaking of which, you got a good one going this morning. Hangover, right? You ever try vitamin C for that?"
"Mr. Fondulac certainly does not have a hangover. He did not come here to be-"
"Give it a rest, counselor. Well, Howard? Big night last night?"
"That's exactly why I don't know anything," Howard said. "I'm afraid I had too much to drink. I missed breakfast. And all the rest of it."
"Do that often, do you, Howard?"
"More than I should. I know I wasn't supposed to bring liquor in at all. I admit it, I've got a problem. I've been admitting it and surrendering and making amends and relying on my higher power for twenty-five years now, and I've still got a problem."
"What's your poison? Let me guess, Chivas?"
"Jack Daniel's."
"Good sippin' bourbon, if I do say so. So where's the bottle from last night? And by the way, how big a bottle are we talkin' about?"
"A pint? I think a pint."
"That's interesting, because we just picked up this pint bottle on the path by the bathhouse where the lady was strangled." Vince held it up in its wrapping. "The security man says he made a round at midnight and there was no bottle. He saw it runnin' in to see the commotion when the body was discovered. So it got laid down last night."
"Now wait just a minute," Eric Derrick said.
"That couldn't be my bottle," his client said in a choked-up voice.
"Great," Vince said. "Then you won't mind us taking your fingerprints just so my superiors don't yell at me. Mike outside has the kit."
"I don't think that would be appropriate at this time," the lawyer drawled.
"Oh, yeah? I'll decide that," Vince said and gave him the patented Toscana glare. "You know, if we get involved in a lot of formalities, legalisms, that sort of thing, Mr. Fondulac could be here for a long, long time."
Fondulac and Derrick hastily convened on the far side of the office. Whispers flew. Vince looked out the window again. Strong sun now, not a soul out there enjoying the path by the lake. Eventually, the lawyer allowed as how Mr. Fondulac would give fingerprints, seeing as how he wanted to cooperate and get home.
And they all knew he didn't have a choice. Vince put on a cheerful look and said, "That's great. So let's get back to the location of that bottle."
"I certainly didn't leave it there. But if my fingerprints are on it, maybe someone took it out of my trash."
"Ah." They figured his prints would be on it and so the next line of obstruction had come up. They were making progress. "So you put it in the trash?"
"Yes."
"And where is the trash located?"
"In my room, of course. The plastic can in the bathroom, actually. It had a swinging lid."
"You specifically remember putting it in the can?"
"Yes."
Vince showed his teeth. "Then we're all set. All we have to do is confirm that. Dust the lid for prints."
"Maybe it didn't get into the trash can. I might have left it on the floor. I was drunk!"
"So you're saying somebody came in your door late at night while you were crashed and took your empty bottle and left it on the path by the bathhouse?"
"My God," old Howard said in a surprised voice, turning to his lawyer. "Someone's trying to frame me! That's just what must have happened!"
"Now who would do a thing like that?" Vince went on, not missing a beat.