her legs. Water squeezed from the soaked fabric and puddled beneath the desk. "You're asking a lot of questions—no, you don't need to tell me: it's what you do."
I raised my eyebrows. "You got that right. So, you want to answer some of them?"
Lowering her eyes, she began her story.
"I hooked up with him a couple of months ago. He was kind of mysterious and that fascinated me. He only let me see him two nights a week and never at all around the full moon. I suppose I should have guessed his secret but . . . well, with some folk, just being around them makes you blind to the obvious, you know what I mean?"
"Yes, ma'am," I murmured, watching what was left of the rain trickling through her hair. "I know."
"He was big on casinos so we did the strip. He won a lot of dough; he was lucky that way."
"Not so lucky now," I said, eyeing the corpse. "So, why the blackmail, if he was on such a winning streak?"
"Because his luck ran out. He ran himself up a tab he couldn't pay off and got the heavies on his back—I'm talking about the real heavies now. He owes a lot of money to a lot of very ugly people. I mean owed, I guess."
"The Tartarus Club?" I hazarded. She nodded her head and shuddered. The movement did remarkable things to the curves beneath that damned sweater. "Are you telling me the Titans were after him?"
"Yes. Only I got to him first."
"So what did you have that he wanted?"
"Money, what else? I inherited a packet from my third husband."
"How did he die?"
"In tragic circumstances."
"I'll bet."
"Are you cross-examining me?"
"Is that an invitation?"
"Since when did you wait to be invited?"
"Stick to the story, ma'am."
By now her eyes were locked back on mine. That was just the way I liked them.
"I'm a rich widow these days," she went on, "and that's all you need to know. So, the wolfman got wind of my billions . . ."
"Pardon me—did you say millions?"
"No. Now where was I? Oh yes, he found out I was rich and decided I was the one to pay off his debts and buy his ticket out of hell. Only I'd already found out he was cheating on me, so it was no deal. That's when I got the first blackmail note."
"What did he have on you?"
She held my gaze and said quietly, "There were two photos taken that day."
I closed my eyes and all at once I was back in that apartment. Damn it all, I could even smell the gunsmoke and chicory.
"Why didn't you destroy all the evidence?" I said. "You were quick enough to shoot a hole in the photo I found."
I could sense this whole thing was getting out of hand, maybe even getting dangerous. The dame still had a gun in her hand, after all. I knew I had to keep her talking. Besides, I was curious: why had she kept the one piece of evidence that could have put her away for life? Why run the risk?
To my astonishment, a tear was spilling from between her perfect black lashes.
"Sentimental reasons," she said. "My first husband—the one they locked away, the one I framed, the one who spent every spare hour of the day beating the bright blue hell out of me . . . I . . ."
"You still love him," I said. "Sweet mother of mercy! Now I've heard it all."
I rocked back in the chair and reminded myself there are two things man was never meant to know: what happened before the big bang singularity and why dames do what they do.
"So," I said heavily, "your boyfriend, the werewolf, stole the photo and used it to blackmail you, to pay off his gambling debts."
Wide, tear-filled eyes trembled in her pale, cold face as she nodded, her bottom lip trembling.
"It's just a coincidence we were in your neighborhood when I finally got him cornered. And that's the honest truth," she said, her voice breaking.
Rising from my chair, I slammed both fists down on the desk and lunged towards her, my own lips pulled back from my teeth, and with the most ferocious growl I could muster I said, "Liar!"
Her tears stopped abruptly. I held my breath and waited for the gunshot. I wished I'd put my feet up on the desk—that would at least have given me a fighting chance. But no, I faced her down, knowing my only hope was