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for Pandorf Associates, that meant she was probably a graphic designer; or maybe she was some sort of C.I. executive. Once I did a story on advertising, and I knew all about C.I. It meant corporate identity. That was something a high-priced firm like Pandorf could create for your firm for several hundred thousand dollars. Or you could pick a designer out of the yellow pages and have a logo done for about $500. As far as I could see, C.I. and logos were about the same.
    Probably Miss Kincannon was whipping up a new corporate identity for Kogene now that the company had big plans. Probably Steve Koehler had recognized the importance of presenting an exciting new face to the public. The importance of that and a fat tax deduction.
    If I could find out from Miss Kincannon what sort of identity the corporation was getting, maybe that would help me figure out what the mystery product was. It could be important, especially if I ever had any money to invest.
    Anyway, maybe she knew where Lindsay Hearne was. Jack hadn’t asked her because she was out of town when he was in the asking business.
    Furthermore, I could use a corporate identity myself. It had never occurred to me before, but suddenly I myself recognized the importance.
    That made three reasons to call her. So I dug in my pockets for one of my last dimes. “Miss Kincannon? My name’s Paul Mcdonald and…”
    “Who?”
    “Paul Mcdonald. I’d like to talk to you about doing my corporate identity. Steve Koehler recommended you.”
    “Oh. But…”
    There was a long silence as she apparently reconsidered whatever it was she was about to say.
    I seized the advantage. “Would you like to have lunch? I mean, if you haven’t already.”
    “Uh, well… I was just going out. Are you in the neighborhood?”
    “I am, yes. I’ll be right there.” And I hung up before she had a chance to think about it.
    I wasn’t anywhere near the neighborhood. I wasn’t even on the right side of the bay. But my old Toyota was not only fast, but cunning. I figured I could be there in fifteen minutes if I didn’t have parking problems.
    Needless to say, Pandorf Associates had put quite a bit of thought into its own corporate identity. From what I knew about the firm I figured it thought it was young, chic, hot, expensive, dynamic, going places, on top of things, sophisticated, cosmopolitan, glamorous, and at the same time a bit unconventional, eccentric even, as befits the artistic temperament. No doubt that’s why it had its 44 executive offices aboard an old ferry. The whole damn office was moored on the Embarcadero.
    I made it in twenty minutes, but that wasn’t quick enough for Miss Kincannon. She was in the boat’s reception area, which was all cozy and gold and brown. There was even a wood stove in case you missed the point.
    Miss Kincannon was wearing her coat and gnawing on her fingernails. I could tell by the look on her face that they weren’t satisfying her and that she was only seconds away from starting in on the furniture. She had two very serious-looking lines on her forehead, right between the peepers. I knew these signs— the nail-gnawing, the unsatisfied look, the lines. These were the signs of a woman who would soon be biting your bicep if you didn’t get a sandwich inside her instantly.
    I panicked. Sinbad’s, which was where I’d planned to take her, would probably be crowded. I was trying so hard to think of another place that I forgot to introduce myself.
    “Mr. Mcdonald?”
    “Oh. Hi. Yes.”
    “I remember you. You were at Kogene this morning.”
    “I remember you, too. You didn’t look quite so hungry at the time.”
    “I am faint from hunger. Weak.” She had very little southern accent, but she used the sort of dramatic intonation I associate with Dixie belles. I hoped it only came out under stress.
    “We’ve got to do something about your blood-sugar level. Do you have to have food right away or will a drink do it?”
    “I’d love a