quiet.
Freedmont’s shoulders slumped. “Yeah, sure. Don’t see how I can help, though. Man, I don’t know why that woman hurt Leslie.”
Inside, we took seats on a creaky, blue leather couch. Freedmont sunk into a matching armchair, set his cereal bowl on a side table. He looked at my partner.
“Got a cigarette?”
Slick Danny pulled out his pack and monogrammed lighter and slid a cigarette in Freedmont’s direction. Took one for himself, too.
“Don’t smoke?” Freedmont lit up, turning his attention to me. “Thought all PIs smoked.”
“He doesn’t drink neither. Gives us all a bad name,” Slick Danny said.
“Smoking’s bad for you,” I said.
Freedmont laughed, but it didn’t sound happy. “Lots of things are bad for you.” He took a long draw from his cigarette. “Gave cancer sticks up years ago. Things change.” He exhaled a cloud of smoke in my direction. “What is it you want to know?”
“Did Ms. Galt know the Montebellas?” Slick Danny drew his attention back.
“As I told the police, not to my knowledge. She’d never mentioned either of them.” Freedmont looked down at his shoes.
“No ideas why someone would kill her?”
He shrugged. “Don’t know.” He stubbed out the cigarette in his cereal.
“You were gonna get married?” Slick Danny leaned forward, making eye contact with Freedmont and letting his mouth droop. What he calls his compassionate face. Makes him look like a basset hound, but it usually works, and it did this time, too.
“Next year. We’d been together four years. It was time, you know? She didn’t want to live together until we got hitched. I respected that. If I’d only been there that night…”
Slick Danny questioned the fiancé for a while longer. Twelve minutes and thirty-five seconds to be exact. As we stood to leave, I elbowed Slick Danny. He rolled his eyes.
“Mr. Freedmont, was Ms. Galt a Hoyas fan?”
Freedmont’s eyes narrowed and he paused before answering. “No, why?”
“Just wondered, what with her living in Georgetown and all.” He rocked back on his heels. “Was she much of an athlete?”
“Athlete?”
“Yessir, an athlete. We noticed one of the photographs on her shelf showed her at the finish line of a race. Thought maybe—”
“Oh, that. No, it was a walk for the Leukemia Society. We’re both leukemia survivors. Were, I mean.” He looked down at his hands.
Slick Danny offered him another cigarette.
Freedmont pocketed it. “Hers was already in remission when we met, but at the time mine looked bad. Been cancer-free for three years now. Reason I don’t normally smoke.” He shrugged. “She went through it all with me. Don’t think I would have lived if she hadn’t been there.” Clearing his throat, Freedmont led us to the door.
* * * *
Friday, 9:00 A.M.
Back at work, I pulled the Montebella file. I dug out Sandra’s datebook and scanned the entries.
Slick Danny looked up from a Sudoku he’d been working for a while. “Michael, what are you doin’ now? We have that new case to work on.” He grimaced.
“Yeah, I know.” Another infidelity investigation. We get a lot of ’em.
I flipped more pages.
“You do anything on it yet?”
“Huh? Oh yeah.” I reached into the bottom drawer of my desk, pulled out a thick folder. “I’ve done the background check. I’m still looking at Hillard’s phone and credit card statements. Got some billable calls to a financial consulting firm. They’re not in the phonebook, though.”
Slick Danny grabbed the folder off my desk, thumbed through the file. “Man, Michael, you got this much info on the guy already?”
I looked up from Sandra’s datebook. “Not that hard between the Internet and cross-referencing some databases—”
“No need to tell me the details. You just keep doin’ what you do best.” He slipped the Hillard folder into his desk drawer.
I went back to the datebook.
“So, why’d you have me ask Freedmont if his fiancée was athletic?” Slick Danny leaned back in his chair.
“Fishing for facts.” It didn’t take me long to find several entries marked “E. Peterson—LS.” I dialed the Leukemia Society. Hung up. “Uh, Slick Danny, will you call the Leukemia Society for me, ask for an E. Peterson?”
“What for?” He held up his hand. “I know, I know, fishin’ for facts. Can’t you call?”
I felt my tic start, but picked up the phone anyway. I could do this.
“Wait. I’ll do it. You’ll just make a mess of it.”
While he dialed, I pulled a chair to his desk and looked over the Sudoku.
“Sorry to bother you, ma’am,” he said to a receptionist, his accent growing several shades thicker. “I’m looking for a person named Peterson. A friend passed along the number, but I done lost it. First name begins with an “E.” Can you help me? Mhmm. So it’s Ms. Peterson?” He scribbled some notes on a pad of paper. “Well, I surely do thank you, ma’am. You’ve made my day a whole lot brighter.”
He hung up the phone and passed Ms. Peterson’s number to me.
“Piece of cake.” He snapped his fingers.
“Yeah.” I handed him the finished puzzle.
“Hey, how’d you…”
I smiled. “Want to make one more call for me?”
* * * *
Monday, 10:29 A.M.
Slick Danny had set up an appointment for me with Ms. Peterson. She turned out to be the Leukemia Society’s assistant volunteer coordinator. We recognized each other instantly. She stood between me and the door, her tiny office suddenly feeling unbearably cramped.
“Well, well,” she said, “looky here. If it isn’t the Digital Delights guy,” her voice even huskier than I remembered. “Thought your name sounded familiar.”
She closed the office door with a click.
“Just so you don’t duck out again,” she said.
I flushed, the heat burning like fire and making my cheek jump.
“I-I
