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pumping.”
    Frank glanced at the flat manila envelope then back up at Tannenbaum. “What about pictures?” he asked. “In her apartment? People?”
    Tannenbaum shook his head. “There were a few hanging on the wall. One with Imalia Covallo. It was taken midtown somewhere. And there were a few of Karlsberg herself, mostly travel stuff.”
    â€œWith anybody?”
    â€œAlone. Probably got a local yokel to snap them for her.”
    â€œHow about phone numbers?”
    â€œShe had a few in a little book,” Tannenbaum said. “We called them all. Business associates of one kind or another. Your client was in it, and a few other people like her.”
    Frank looked at him questioningly. “What do you mean, people like her?”
    â€œPeople in the rag trade,” Tannenbaum explained. He looked at Frank evenly. “You know anything about the rag trade, Frank?”
    The tenements of Cabbage Town swam into his mind, that small dilapidated village of clapboard flats that had bordered his old neighborhood in Atlanta, a world of sweat and dust and cheap beer that had squatted in the dark shadows of the adjoining textile factories for over a hundred years. He had sometimes glanced toward it as he sped by, seen the half-naked children playing in the weedy fields, or the old people swaying idly in their rotting swings, but he had never turned down one of its narrow, broken streets or hesitated for even the briefest moment as his car continued on.
    â€œNot much,” he admitted.
    â€œWell, Hannah Karlsberg worked in it all her life,” Tannenbaum said. An edge of bitterness swept into his voice. “It’s a real intense business atmosphere, Frank,” he added coolly. “Very competitive. Cutthroat, you might say.”
    â€œWhere does that lead, Leo?”
    â€œWell, it adds an extra dimension,” Tannenbaum said. “We could look into the woman’s personal life, maybe come up with something kinky, somebody who gets rich on double indemnity, something like that.”
    â€œHave you found anything like that?”
    â€œNot yet, and we assume it’s a dead end. If there was something funny on that score, you can be sure the insurance people would have been nice enough to give a call and supply a neat little motive.” He smiled knowingly. “They’re very cooperative when it comes to things like that.”
    Frank nodded. “Anything else?”
    â€œThe professional angle,” Tannenbaum added. “A business beef of some kind, maybe a disgruntled employee. According to Covallo, Hannah had chewed out a few people in her day.”
    â€œDo you have anything really solid on that score?” Frank asked.
    Tannenbaum smiled. “Why are you asking, Frank?”
    Frank said nothing.
    â€œWe don’t have anything solid at all,” Tannenbaum told him. “We know she wasn’t robbed.” He shrugged. “If you want to know the truth, it looks like a lone psycho right now.” He nodded toward the report. “Read that, you’ll understand.” He finished the hot dog in one final bite, then washed it down with soda. “Got to get back to the cophouse,” he said as he stood up. He looked down at Frank and smiled. “You PIs live the life of Riley, if you ask me. No schedules, no snotty little superiors, practically no paper work.” He shook his head slowly. “The Life of Riley. I mean it.”
    â€œWhat about her apartment?” Frank said. “Can I get in there?”
    â€œWhy not?” Tannenbaum said. “We’ve been over it from top to bottom.” He shrugged casually. “It’s not a pretty sight,” he added, “but you’ve been there before, right?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œYou’ll need an escort,” Tannenbaum added. “Will I do?”
    Frank nodded. “When?”
    â€œI can fit it in this afternoon,” Tannenbaum told him.