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Molly he could fully appreciate the difference. Hooking him was going to be even easier than she had anticipated. What she hadn’t counted on was this nearly uncontrollable urge she had to kick him.
    “Veronica Weston, this is Michael O’Hara,” Molly said.
    At the mention of Michael’s name, Veronica shot a disbelieving look at Molly. It was the same reaction most people had when trying to reconcile his dark-eyed, distinctly Hispanic appearance and faint accent with his Irish name.
    As Molly understood it, the contradiction had to do with a vanished American father who left Cuba before discovering that his lover was pregnant. Michael’s sentimental mother had given her son an Irish name in the man’s honor. No one seemed quite sure if the father’s name had actually been O’Hara, and no one, least of all Molly, knew with any certainty the impact this casual naming had had on shaping Michael’s personality. Lord knew, he had the capacity for typically Latin machismo. The Irish influence was less easy to detect.
    Right now, however, he was displaying a gentlemanly courtliness toward Veronica, who was suddenly radiating charm in sufficient kilowatts to light downtown Miami. The pair of them made Molly sick. Had everyone but her suddenly forgotten about the murder?
    “Don’t you think we should be concentrating on Greg?” she blurted finally, interrupting the flow of compliments Michael was directing toward the actress. Apparently he’d seen plenty of old movies, even if he was sorely behind the times on current filmmakers.
    Both of them turned to look at Molly. Michael appeared slightly startled by her presence. Veronica looked irritated.
    “Why on earth would I wish to discuss that imbecile?” she said, indicating a certain lack of respect for the dead or complete ignorance regarding his recent fate. Molly was so certain of the latter that she turned a look of triumph in Michael’s direction. He was too much a cop not to take the hint.
    “When did you leave the location?” he asked, slipping automatically into the interrogator’s role he’d sworn not to take in this case.
    Veronica answered without the slightest hint that she thought there was anything odd about the question or Michael’s interest in the answer. “It must have been shortly after ten o’clock, wouldn’t you say, Molly?”
    “Later. It was nearly ten-thirty when you sent me to look for Greg.”
    Veronica nodded, sending her shoulder-length sweep of chestnut hair into sensuous motion. “Of course. I waited for some time and when neither you nor Greg came for me, I decided to call it a night.”
    “Was that before or after the police arrived?” Michael wanted to know.
    “Police?”
    Veronica managed a totally blank expression. It convinced Molly, but then she had to concede that they were dealing with a superb actress.
    “You didn’t hear the sirens?” Molly said.
    “Who pays attention?” she said with an indifferent lift of one shoulder. “I spent months in New York, when I was doing that dreadful play on Broadway. Sirens blared all night long. I learned then totune them out. What’s this all about? Did something happen after I left?”
    “Gregory Kinsey is dead,” Molly said.
    Veronica’s eyes widened, and she took a long, slow drink of vodka, finishing off the last of it. She set the leaded crystal glass very carefully on the coffee table. Finally she swallowed hard, then looked directly into Molly’s eyes.
    “I don’t believe it,” she said convincingly. “How did it happen? I wasn’t crazy about the man, but dead? He was so young.” Without the glass to steady her hands, they fluttered nervously before she finally clasped them in her lap.
    “Someone shot him,” Michael said, his gaze pinned on her, obviously watching for signs of guilt.
    “In your trailer,” Molly added, so the actress would know exactly what she was up against.
    Astonishment filled Veronica’s eyes. “You don’t think … Surely, you