ather was smooth under his fingertips, but his patience was wearing thin. In

W16 engine died instantly, leaving only

ng to me, Dewitt

. He was staring thr

ncoln was parked crookedly. It was taking up two spa

r was

cks squeaked. A dull thudding sound echoed

private garage. It was supp

open by several inches. A hand shot out. It was pale

rilliant, unmistakable pink glin

e that before, ostentatious and desperate, usually on the finge

short, humo

hanging up,

ything a

o be taken out. Two animals a

Then it convulsed. It went limp, draping o

ion. It didn't look like passi

w. It wasn't a moan. It was a sob. A high, bro

er seat. He unbuckled his seatbelt. He hated this. He hat

. The hand slipped f

ed his hand

. It bounced off the lo

stopped movi

garette case. He lit a cigarette, the flame of the lighter illuminating the sharp ang

wai

. The rear door of

is shirt into his trousers. His face

Barnett Orr. The producer. A man

ti. When he saw the license plate, the color drai

fixed on the open door of the Lincoln. The

witt said to

holding his hands up in a placating gesture.

or the gold digger to emerge. He wanted to see the woman who