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knows their bodies intimately. Their minds are a mystery to him that they chose not to reveal, as if he is a child who must be protected.
    Claire continues, “Rachel’s father left most of the money to her because she was the smart, successful one, and not to Richard. Her father knew she would invest the money and make it grow, because it was in her genes, and not Richard’s for some strange quirk of fate. Richard was the wastrel. The never-do-well younger child of the family. Richard could never keep a job, and so it was up to Rachel to look after him.”
    Devon takes all this in.
    He says, “Does Rachel have a life insurance policy?”
    “I think so.”
    “Who is the beneficiary, do you know?”
    “I don’t know. We are not that close as to go into life insurance beneficiaries.”
    Point taken.
    “Who else?” Devon says.
    “She had a boyfriend for a while. Someone who was extremely obsessed with her. She is a beautiful woman after all, and he wanted to marry her, but she refused.”
    “Why?”
    “All she told me was that he wasn’t right for her. His obsession was a red flag that all wasn’t right in his mind.”
    “How deep did this obsession go?”
    “Deep enough for her to move away from Pittsburg, where she hails, to make a career and life in New York.”
    “Did he follow her?”
    “Not that I know of, but like I said, she doesn’t tell me everything. Rachel is an extremely closeted woman. She isn’t much into trifling chit-chat, as she calls it.”
    Devon can attest to that.
    “Do you remember her friend, the gentleman we had the four-way with?” he says.
    Claire raises her forehead. “What about him?”
    “Do you know his name?”
    She wrinkles her nose. “Come to think of it, he only went by an alias. It is by no means his real name.”
    “What was his alias?”
    “Mandingo, I think.”
    How strange it is to be having this conversation, he thinks. We both had sex with the man, and we don’t know his real name.
    “Do you think he could be a possible suspect?” Devon says.
    “Everyone is a possible suspect, Devon. You, me, the milkman, everyone.”
    “Even the doorman,” he says wryly.
    “Yes, even Horsch.” She waves her hand dismissively. “Still, I’m sure the police are looking into it . . . fingerprints and stuff.”
    “You mean on the vase?”
    “And everywhere else. You don’t have to worry your pretty head about it, Devon.”
    This stung him.
    “Excuse me if I do, because it’s my life at stake. Not yours.” His voice has a slight acidic edge. But he is tired of everyone treating him like a pretty sex doll, as if his opinions and intellect do not matter.
    That’s what you get when you are a rent boy, darling .
    Claire is taken aback. And he supposes it’s his fault. He has been pliant and agreeable, just like a sex doll, to his clients all this while. Now they are catching him on a particularly grumpy phase, and they are seeing his claws for the first time. Yay for them and him.
    “Devon?” She puts her hand on his, which is resting on the table beside his three-quarter full cappuccino cup. “I know you are testy because of the situation. But you have to relax. There is nothing you can do. It’s a matter for the police. If you haven’t done anything wrong, they will find that out soon enough.”
    He doesn’t reply, but he knows there is something he can do to help his case.
    He can damned well find the killer himself.
    She pauses expectantly. Her hand is still on his. She casually strokes his knuckles.
    “Are you free now?” she says in a low seductive voice.
    He knows what is coming.
    “What do you have in mind?” he says.
    “Want to earn some money? We can go back to my place.”
    “Your best friend . . . oh, I’m sorry, your casual gym buddy is dead, and you want to fuck?”
    “Isn’t that the best remedy? Isn’t that the best way to celebrate being alive?”
    He sits back, but doesn’t withdraw his hand. She does have a point. There is nothing