Free Dangerous Games by Michael Prescott Page A

don’t know what you’re talking about.”
    “I’m sure you do .”
    “I called you because I’m trying to assist your investigation. I don’t expect to be insulted and mistrusted for my efforts.”
    “Why did you call me at all? Or the tip line? No matter how you feel about the LAPD, the logical thing would have been to call the police detective who arrested Kolb.”
    “I did call—” She stopped.
    “You called the detective?”
    Reluctantly she nodded. “He was less than receptive to my suggestion.”
    “He didn’t believe you?”
    “The police never believe anyone. They’d rather give out traffic tickets than solve a serious crime. Do you know I have a neighbor whose home was burglarized while she was in Barbados—ten thousand dollars in losses—and the police wouldn’t even dust for fingerprints? No time for that, they say. They’re understaffed and underbudgeted, they say.”
    “So you’re saying the detective ignored your tip?”
    “He was quite rude about it.”
    “Why would he behave that way?”
    “You’d have to ask him.”
    “Maybe I will.”
    “Even if you do, he’ll only invent some face-saving excuse. It’s what they do.”
    “And your staff? Where are they?”
    “I told you, they have the night off. I didn’t know the FBI was hiring people with attention deficit disorder. Or is it short-term memory loss?”
    “They didn’t have the night off. They made you dinner and were clearing the table a short time ago. When I told you that I was coming over, you hustled them out of the house. Why?”
    “I made my own dinner and cleared my own table.”
    “So if I were to come back tomorrow and interview your servants, that’s what they’d say?”
    “That’s what they’d say.”
    Tess rose from her chair. “I’m sorry, Ms. Grant. To be honest, I don’t think I can help you.”
    Madeleine stood also, her face draining of color and expression. “What do you mean?”
    “I don’t feel you’ve been completely straightforward with me. And unless you’re going to tell me the truth, I don’t see how I can be of assistance.” She handed back the manila envelope.
    “You’re returning this?” Madeleine said in astonishment.
    “I won’t need it.”
    “This is outrageous. You won’t do anything?”
    “I’m afraid I can’t.”
    “It was a mistake to call you. You’re as incompetent as the police—and as rude.”
    “I’m sorry you feel that way.”
    “This man could be coming after me. After me .”
    “If he is, you’ll need to be more cooperative in order to enlist my assistance. I can’t work in the dark.”
    “I’ll speak to your superiors. I’ll speak to whoever runs your office here in Los Angeles.”
    “That should be a pleasant chat.” Tess smiled. “You and he may see eye to eye on a lot of things.”
    “What’s that supposed to mean?”
    “Good night, Ms. Grant.”
    “This is outrageous,” Madeleine Grant said again as Tess headed for the foyer.
    It was a calculated risk, walking away. Tess knew she could probably work through the LAPD if she had to, though it might be hard to get the e-mail messages from them without tipping off Michaelson. And, of course, there was the risk that Madeleine would follow through on her threat to report her to the Bureau. All in all, she would find it safer, easier, to work with Madeleine—but only if the woman stopped playing games.
    Just past the threshold, Tess paused and dug a business card out of her coat. She handed it over. “If you decide to tell me everything, not just the sanitized version, let me know.”
    “Sanitized version? You’re a disgrace to your profession.”
    “So they keep telling me.”
    Tess walked down the front steps, aware again of being stared at. But this time she had no doubt as to the source of the gaze.
     

 
    6
     
     
    Kolb cruised Hollywood Boulevard, surveying the crowds of moviegoers and club crawlers. The phone conversation had unsettled him. When he was restless, he often