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“I like to be near the ground,” she said. “We all have our little oddities. Oh, hello, Robin. Thank you. It was a lousy start to a friendship, but dinner was great.”
    He tried to think of something to say, nodded, and left.
    Lucas walked into his apartment, dropping his parka on a chair. It was a long drive from Finch to Adelaide Street. And on one beer and a glass of wine he felt as if he’d been up all night boozing. Sleep, said his tired brain. He started for the loft that served as his bedroom, shedding clothes as he went; by the time he was up the short flight of stairs, he was down to his shorts. The ringing of the telephone came as a hideous jolt. “Shit,” he muttered, and picked up the receiver.
    â€œLucas. It’s Baldwin. Where in the hell have you been?”
    â€œStashing the witness in a motel and getting myself something to eat. Sir.” Odd that he had instinctively reversed the order. “What’s wrong?”
    â€œWrong?” he roared. “Marty Fielding’s on my back. Wants to know what’s being done, who killed his client, everything.” In the ensuing pause, Lucas could see him pacing fretfully back and forth. “Everyone else in the city wants to know, too. What did you get from the girl?”
    â€œNothing much,” said Lucas, yawning. “Calls herself a singer, but she’s probably a hooker with a pretty mean-tempered pimp. Lots of bruises. I think she was in the apartment when Neilson got killed—didn’t kill him but can identify the person who did. She’s scared.”
    â€œWhat makes you think she was there?”
    â€œI just don’t believe in this mysterious girl, Krystal, who lends her an apartment on fifteen minutes’ worth of friendship. And she was wearing the perfume the bed stank of, and her fingerprints were all over. It stands to reason. Neilson brought her in for the day—or whatever—and when he was killed, she was under the bed or behind the couch or something like that. And besides, she doesn’t have a coat. No one goes out without a coat on a day like this. I’ll bet there was a woman’s coat in the apartment. Was there? You got a list there of the stuff they found?”
    â€œWhat kind of coat?”
    â€œHow the hell should I know? Probably black and not very big.”
    â€œJust a minute.”
    Lucas sat down on the edge of the bed and stared at the wall. Come on, Baldy. Get a move on.
    â€œYeah. A black leather coat, size eight, woman’s, made by—”
    â€œShe was there. And so scared, she forgot her coat.”
    â€œIt was in the living room closet. She couldn’t have got the door open without moving the body. So, don’t lose track of her, eh? Where did you put her?”
    â€œThe Blue Star Motel. No one’s likely to find her there. Good night, Inspector. I’ve had it.” And he dropped down the phone and climbed under the bedclothes in the same motion, sinking almost instantly into oblivion.

Chapter 3
    Lucas walked into the noise and activity around his desk with his eyes clamped half-shut and his mouth dry and foul-tasting. He wasn’t sure how much sleep he had finally managed the night before, but it hadn’t been enough. Not nearly enough. He put down his coffee, carefully removed the lid, and with equal care set his almost-cold Danish beside it. So far this morning he had successfully avoided speech. Even the woman at the bakery where he picked up his breakfast had said, as she always did, “Black? And you want your Danish warmed up?” and he had nodded. Gratefully. And so, when Kelleher said, “Morning, Robert,” all he got in return was a croak.
    He took a mouthful of coffee. That was better. “Anything new?” he said in a voice passably like his own.
    â€œNot so’s you’d notice.”
    â€œNothing?” he asked incredulously. “What’s everyone been