"You'll admire it from a jail cell in a minute."

"Gasp!"

Another death glare from Roland Dimonte before he turned back to Duane. "Do you know Valerie Simpson?"

"Personally?"

"Yes."

Duane shook his head. "No."

"But you've met?"

"No."

"You don't know her at all?"

"That's right."

"You've never had any contact with her?"

"Never."

Roland Dimonte crossed his legs, resting his boot on his knee. His fingers caressed – actually caressed -the white-and-purple snakeskin. Like it was a pet dog. "How about you, miss?"

Wanda seemed startled. "Pardon me?"

"Have you ever met Valerie Simpson?"

"No." Her voice was barely audible.

Dimonte turned back to Duane. "Had you ever heard of Valerie Simpson before today?"

Myron rolled his eyes. But for once he kept his mouth shut. He didn't want to push it too far. Dimonte was not as dumb as he appeared. No one was. He was trying to lull Duane before the big whammy. Myron's job was to disrupt his rhythm with a few choice interruptions. But not too many.

Myron Bolitar, darling of the tightrope.

Duane said with a shrug, "Yeah, I heard of her."

"In what capacity?"

"She used to be on the circuit Couple years back, I think."

"The tennis circuit?"

"No, the nightclub circuit," Myron interjected. "She used to open for Anthony Newley in Vegas."

So much for Mr. Restraint.

The glare was back. "Bolitar, you're really starting to piss me off."

"Are you going to get to the point already?"

"I take my time with interrogations. I don't like to rush."

"Should do the same," Myron said, "when purchasing footwear."

Dimonte's face reddened. Still glaring at Myron, he said, "Mr. Richwood, how long have you been on the circuit?"

"Six months."

"And in those six months you never saw Valerie Simpson?"

"That's right"