She sat back. "I want to see a lawyer."
"Why waste the money? I can give you the same advice he'll give you and without a retainer fee: Don't talk. Don't say a word to the cops, no matter what they promise you. There, I just saved you a thousand bucks."
Amanda Kennedy began to pick at her face, then self- consciously stopped herself. "I don't want to go to jail for something I didn't do."
Carr looked nonchalant. "I just stopped by to ask you a few questions."
"And if I don't answer them I'm going to be prosecuted, isn't that right?"
Carr stared at her for a moment.
Amanda Kennedy picked at her face furiously. She folded and unfolded her arms. More picking. "I don't believe in talking about people," she said finally. "It's against my principles."
"Mine too," Carr said. He wondered if he was playing it too hard.
"What if I told you that Lee gave me the medallion? He's dead. What good is information about someone who's dead?"
Deliberately, he reached into his coat pocket and removed the photograph of the man and woman cavorting in Sheboygan's bedroom. He held it up to her. She stared at it without expression. "Who are these people?"
"Friends of Lee's."
"What are their names?"
"I'm not going to tell you."
Carr stood up. Casually, he removed his sport coat. He hung it on the back of the chair and sat down again.
"I have a brief relationship with a man who lives in one of the apartments I manage," she said. "He gives me a medallion as a gift for my birthday. The next thing I know he's dead and I'm in jail being treated like an animal. Is that fair?"
"What is the man's name?"
"You had them arrest me in order to force me to answer your questions," she said, her voice rising. "Some people would call that coercion. Coercion is against the law."
"If you're innocent, why not just answer my questions and stop changing the subject?"
"It's the principle of the thing. I have principles."
They stared at each other for a while.
"Would it violate your principles if I found the information written on a scrap of paper in that wastebasket?" He pointed to a metal trash receptacle next to the door.
She made a quizzical expression.
"The information would be anonymous. I just found it on a scrap of paper in a trashcan. That way no one is informing on anyone."
Face picking.
"What would you put in your report?"
"My report would reflect exactly that," Carr said, "that I found the information in a trash basket at the County jail."
"What's going to happen to me?"
"The detectives want you prosecuted," he said. "A valuable medallion was stolen in a burglary. It was around your neck. Under the law, you are a receiver of stolen property. I think they can make the case stick. You might end up doing a little time for it. Just a guess."
"And if I answer your questions?"
"Then the charges might be dismissed."
Nothing was said for a while. Carr pulled a ballpoint pen and a note pad out of his inside pocket. He passed them over to her, stood up, put on his coat and left the room. He walked briskly down a tiled corridor and entered an office. Higgins sat straddling a chair in front of a small television screen. On the screen, Amanda Kennedy picked at her face as she stared at the paper and pen.
"She's thinking about it," Higgins said. "If she'd been around a little more, she'd know that the D.A. would never file a receiving case on her. Hell, it's hard enough to get them to file a case when you catch a burglar red-handed inside someone's house."
Amanda Kennedy reached for the pen. She pulled her hand back, glanced at the trash basket.
"Come on, sweet meat," Higgins said. He slid his chair closer to the television.
Amanda Kennedy seemed to be sniffling. She wiped her eyes. "The waterworks," Higgins said. "This is a very good sign. A very good sign."
Amanda Kennedy pulled a handkerchief from the pocket of her prison smock. She blew her nose and put the handkerchief away. Having done this, she picked up the pen and wrote something on the piece of paper.
Higgins clapped. Carr took a deep breath. Amanda Kennedy stood up and went to the door. The lock snapped and the door slid open. She crumpled the paper into a ball and tossed it in the trashcan on her way out.
Carr and Higgins hurried back to the room. The trashcan was empty except for the note. He picked it up and unfolded it. The note read:
His nickname is Bones and he is a bartender. That's all I know. The redhead is Shirley. She's a cocktail waitress. I think they work in the same place.
"Gee thanks," Higgins said. "A nickname."
"I guess it's better than nothing," Carr replied.
FIVE
It was the middle of the day and the tall palms that lined Coventry Circle Avenue swayed gently west. The sky was uncommonly azure-the heraldic, smogless Southern California blue of tourist postcards and movie sets.
Emil Kreuzer steered his Mercedes-Benz sedan off Coventry Circle Avenue and into a semicircle driveway leading to a two-story home. The juniper bushes guarding the spotless driveway were shaped into perfect globes and the manicured expanse of lawn was money green. He parked the sedan in front of the house and climbed out. Having put on a suit coat, he straightened his necktie, then headed toward the mansion's main entrance. At the door, he used a door knocker that was a brass W.
A frail, middle-aged woman with slack jowls answered the door. Her hair was pulled back at the temples and she wore an abundance of rouge that seemed to match the color of her dress, and a string of pearls.
"Good morning, Mrs. Wallace," Kreuzer said using his German accent. He noticed brown age-spots on her forehead, even under the layer of makeup.
She motioned him in. "I'm glad you didn't come early. My husband just left to go on location. He'll be in Spain directing a Western. He wanted me to go, but I hate hotel rooms and not being able to say what I want in my own language."
Kreuzer stepped in and she closed the door. He followed her through a hallway decorated with impressionist art into the living room. Was the watercolor nearest the door a Degas?
"Arthur is so anti-everything," she said. "If I would have told him I had retained you for hypnotherapy he would have come unglued. My husband is from the old school I'm afraid. To him, hypnosis is equated with voodoo."
"This is understandable," Kreuzer said sympathetically.
The living room was a striking combination of pink satin, glass and oil paintings of flowers in vases. The floor was covered by an immaculate sea of white shag carpeting. Mrs. Wallace sat down on a sofa, while Kreuzer chose a chair. "I detect an accent," she said. "Is it German?"
Kreuzer nodded. "I received my doctorate at the University of Berlin." He recognized an oil painting on the wall behind her as a Gauguin.
"I've heard so much about you from my friends at the club. Both Ivy and Harriet told me they haven't had an urge for a cigarette since their first session with you. My doctor has been literally begging me to stop smoking." She picked up a gold cigarette case off the coffee table. It was thin and her initials were inlaid in rows of tiny diamonds. "This is a birthday present from my husband. It holds ten cigarettes and it has a time lock. It can be opened only every hour and a half. It was supposed to limit me to ten cigarettes a day, but I can't help cheating. I've tried millions of times to quit and nothing has worked." She folded her arms.
"At the end of our session you will feel pleasant, more relaxed than you have in a long, long time, and you will no longer have the desire to smoke cigarettes," Kreuzer said. His tone was authoritative.
"I have a couple of questions."
"Of course. Everyone has questions about hypnosis. It's only natural."