Free The Bad Kitty Lounge by Michael Wiley Page B

bottom and breast on top. I’d seen her once before, as the passenger riding in the silver Mercedes that almost ran me down after Greg Samuelson burned Eric Stone’s car. She’d changed her clothes but she still looked like a fancy fishing lure.
    I held my hand to shake hers and smiled. “I’m Joe Kozmarski.”
    She smiled back with bleached teeth. “Pleased to meet you, Joe.”
    â€œAnd you are—?”
    â€œCassie,” she said. “Cassie Stone.”
    â€œThis is a family business,” I observed.
    â€œFamily is everything,” she said. She didn’t sound happy about it. She turned and walked away.
    I called after her, “You ever go fishing?”
    She stopped without turning to look at me. “No, Joe, I’ve never gone fishing.”
    â€œYou should try it. You look like you would be good.”
    â€œGive me a call,” she said. “I’ll try anything once.” She disappeared down the hall.
    Eric Stone’s office was next to the conference room. It had a large glass-topped desk and, on the walls, framed paintings of buildings that LCR had constructed—a mix of office and residential skyscrapers, all high-end.
    He stood when I came in, and we shook hands, friendly, and sat down together. He wore a tailored charcoal gray suit and a tie. His bald head showed the healthy pink skin of a man who spent time exercising outdoors.
    â€œMr. Kozmarski,” he said, “you saw me yesterday at an embarrassing moment. I’d just left Amy’s house, and I was watching my car burn.” He gave me a wink that could sell real estate at a thousand dollars a square foot. “But you know all that.”
    I agreed that I did.
    â€œI apologize for my brusqueness. I don’t usually behave that way.”
    â€œYou behaved understandably, considering everything.”
    â€œAnd you provoked me,” he said. “What happened later—to the nun at the church—was terrible. And I have a hard time believing Greg would do it. I’ve known him and, of course, Amy for over two years. He’s a gentle man”—he gave an ironic smile—“if you keep him away from gasoline and matches.”
    I showed him my palms. “The police are convinced he did it.”
    â€œI can’t believe that’s true,” he said.
    â€œDid
you
do it?”
    The ironic smile. “If I understand the sequence of events,I was sitting at my desk when Sister Terrano died and Greg shot himself. My brother and his daughter picked me up at Amy’s condo and we came straight here.”
    â€œI’m sure that others saw you here and can verify your story.”
    â€œI’ve given all of that information to the police.” He leaned back in his chair. “If they want to talk with me, my lawyer and I are available.”
    I nodded. “Did you know Judy Terrano?”
    â€œI did, but not well. Three months ago, before Amy and I started seeing each other, Greg introduced us. I don’t necessarily agree with her principles, but she seemed like a good woman. And tough, very tough.”
    I nodded some more. I would describe her as tough, too, though I didn’t know how good she was. “So why did you call me?” I asked. “What do you want?”
    His smile dropped and he leaned forward. “Do you know of a man named William DuBuclet?” He probably saw my surprise. He said, “Last summer, I had dinner with Greg and Amy. This was right before Amy and I got together. Something was bothering Greg that night, and it came out that DuBuclet had visited Judy Terrano’s office in the afternoon and threatened her. When Greg intervened, DuBuclet threatened him, too—‘him and his family’ was what Greg said. Apparently DuBuclet and the nun knew each other from way back—they met in the sixties on the South Side—but Greg took the threat seriously. He was scared that