The Retro Look Read Online Free Page A

More evidence will come.”
    “Not unless you invent it. I guess I gave you too much credit.”
    “Maybe I gave you too much.”
    “I just told you who did it.”
    “You were right about one thing. Harold Sr. is in town. All the way from South Dakota. He used his debit card, and we know where he’s staying. Problem is, none of that is illegal.”
    “Ahah.”
    “What does that mean?”
    “It means you want my help. You could have just asked, without the drama.”
    “Forgive me if I don’t trust a hooker to be on our side.”
    “What do I need to do?”
    “Now we’re getting somewhere.”
    “But it’s going to cost you. Since you couldn’t be bothered to talk to me like a human being.”
    “You’re in no position to bargain.”
    “I’m already under arrest. Would I be in this job if I was afraid of jail?”
    “Okay, what?”
    “I want to watch you tear up that fingerprint card.”
    “I would do that anyway, if you’re in the clear.”
    “Forgive me if I don’t trust a cop to be on my side.”
    “Okay.”
    “What do I need to do?”
    “I want you to wear a wire and talk to him.”
    “Me? What do I know about interrogating anybody?”
    “We call it an interview.”
    “That’s my point. I have no experience at this.”
    Novotny grinned. “Do you know something about men?”
    “I guess.”
    “Trust me. That’s just as good.”
    * * *
    She itched.
    Diana couldn’t concentrate on what she had to do. Clients often requested sexy lingerie without knowing what discomfort they were inflicting on her, but this tape job was something new on the misery index. And the microphone between her breasts reminded her of something stuck in her throat.
    At least Novotny had let her change into the business casual slacks and blouse that Diana usually wore when she was working.
    The sign in front of the building read, “Regal.” It figured. Fleabag motels usually had pretentious names.
    Her pose felt reassuringly familiar. She had stood in front of hundreds of motel room doors with her fist raised to knock, but this time she had no idea what to expect or what she would say.
    She rapped on the cheap wood veneer. Thirty unbearable seconds later someone inside the room started fumbling with the chain and the deadbolt. Diana felt a jolt of adrenaline in her core. What would a man who could kill his own son look like?
    Ordinary. Harold Lax Sr. looked like an ordinary man in his mid-sixties. His son must have taken after his mother, because Diana saw no resemblance.
    “Hi. I’m Diana.”
    “I didn’t call for anyone.”
    He knew hookers. That figured, if he had come close enough kill one.
    “I know,” she said.
    He started to close the door.
    “I’m here about your son.”
    The door stopped closing, and they studied each other. He was starting to look less ordinary. Most men would have shown some sign of fear or panic.
    “Why don’t we talk inside?” she said.
    “Why should we?”
    He was as cool under pressure as she was, and that impressed her. She almost played the Roswitha Loschky card right then, but her instincts told her to save it.
    “I just talked to your son.”
    He glared at her. When she didn’t wilt, he stepped back and let her enter. More glaring followed, but she waited him out.
    “Okay, you talked to him. Why do I care?”
    “He told me a lot.”
    Another staring contest.
    “Such as?”
    “I know he wanted to be an artist.”
    That was a guess, but she was confident of her ground.
    “He had talent. But you bullied him out of it.”
    “If he thought that was bullying, he should have seen how life would treat an artist. Artists starve.”
    “You wanted him to follow in your footsteps. So what is it—insurance? Accounting?”
    It was insurance, but Diana didn’t plan to let him know that the cops had found out and fed her the information. She needed an edge.
    “He didn’t tell you?”
    “No, but I’m guessing it’s a business that would give him an opportunity to steal from