Diana wore an adorable dark brown A-line skirt and matching vest that looked great with her blunt-cut brown hair and tortoiseshell glasses. I was dying to ask where she got the outfit, but I didn’t want to get into any girlish exchanges lest she imagine I liked her. She held her left hand in an upright position, much as a dog owner would in signaling “Stay.” I checked her right hand to see if I’d get a doggie treat for my obedience. “I know you don’t want to talk to me, but hear me out. It’s important,” she said.

I didn’t trust myself to speak so I shut my mouth.

“This is Melissa Mendenhall. She read the article about Audrey and has information that casts her death in a whole new light.”

All I could think about was the spike mike sticking out of the exterior wall of my bungalow not twenty feet away. I knew it was geared to pick up conversations within the office walls, but at the mere mention of Audrey’s name, I could feel a damp spot form across my lower back. Len had warned me Audrey was off-limits unless I wanted my life shortened by some years. While I didn’t take the threat that seriously, I’d developed an appreciation for the man’s ability to inflict pain.

I said, “This isn’t any of my business. Marvin fired me.”

“I talked to him about that and he’s beginning to repent,” she said.

“I promise you’ll want to hear what she has to say.”

I gave this four seconds’ worth of consideration and then said, “Not here. If you want to have a conversation, let’s get off the street.”

She said, “Fine.”

There was no way the three of us could squeeze into the Corvette unless Melissa sat on my lap. My two-door coupe wasn’t much roomier, but at least I’d be in the driver’s seat in the literal sense of the word.

I unlocked the Mustang and we sorted ourselves out, me getting under the wheel and Diana hunched over, edging awkwardly around the passenger-side seat and into the rear, which was barely big enough for grocery bags. Melissa was a tiny slip of a thing, small dark eyes, wispy dark hair in what they used to call a pixie cut. Kids nowadays wouldn’t know the term, but the effect was the same, short and brushed forward around her face. She should have consulted Diana about her wardrobe. Even I would have done better than the oversize T-shirt and jeans that were inches too short.

I turned to the two of them. “So what’s up?”

“I’ll go first,” Diana said with a quick look at Melissa.

“Sure.”

“Melissa contacted me at the paper. She hadn’t heard about Audrey’s dive off the bridge until she read the article last Thursday. The minute she saw it she went to the police, because her boyfriend died exactly the same way two years ago. She thought they’d want to pursue the connection, so she gave them all the relevant information. She hasn’t heard from them since.”

I said, “That’s not unusual. An inquiry like that takes time.”

“The guy stonewalled her right there. She thought he’d follow up, but he won’t return her calls.”

“Who’d she talk to?”

“That’s just it. Sergeant Priddy . . .”

Melissa said, “The fuckhead. He was horrible. He treated me like shit.”

She looked too dainty and feminine to use such foul language. This, of course, elevated her in my opinion, and I hoped she was just warming up. People are all the time wanking on me about my potty mouth, so I like being able to point out someone worse.

“Tell her what you told me,” Diana said to her.

Our proximity discouraged conversation face-to-face. Melissa had delivered her remarks to my front windshield, and Diana was leaning forward avidly, with her head between us like a dog eager for a Sunday drive. This was the second time I’d referred to dogs and Diana in the same breath and I apologized silently to mutts everywhere.

“My boyfriend committed suicide two years ago, or so I thought. I was devastated. I had no idea anything was wrong, so I couldn’t come to grips with what he’d done. I knew Phillip had gambling debts, but he was basically an optimist and talked like he was getting his shit together. Next thing I knew, he jumped off the side of a parking garage . . .”

“Binion’s in Vegas. Sixth floor,” Diana said, always one for the telling detail.

Melissa went on. “What struck me about Diana’s article was the business about the woman’s high heels and handbag side by side on the front seat of her car and the absence of a note. Phillip’s wallet and his shoes were arranged just like that in his Porsche and he didn’t leave a note either.”