McGuire’s munchkin opened the door, breaking the uncomfortable silence. “Miss Carelli’s here,” she bubbled.

She was eclipsed by a striking young woman. Tall and slender, her long hair was as black as her eyes, which took us in with a quick, opaque stare. The eyes were her startling feature; they were wide set on high Indian cheekbones. I figured her for my age, twenty-nine, but she threw off a primal force.

The impact was softened a bit by her delayed smile; the flash of white teeth gave her an amused adventurous look. “Gentlemen,” she nodded. The word was faintly sardonic. I watched her as the gentlemen said their hellos. It struck me that she thought that she was slumming.

Feiner whisked out a chair with the expertise of a butler. She sat, long legs flashing as they crossed under her simple white dress. The dress set off a dark tan which had been acquired with some trouble. The little vanity was curious; it made her seem less remote. I filed the thought away and sat back.

“I appreciate your time, Mr. McGuire.” Her voice was low and carefully modulated. The effect was almost consciously well bred.

McGuire was unusually formal. “Of course. The Lasko case is a complicated matter.”

She nodded. “Chairman Woods has asked me to monitor the case. I’d like someone here to keep me up to date.” The language and tone mixed command with request. But the eyes didn’t miss anything. I revised my opinion. She wasn’t slumming; she was an anthropologist.

McGuire’s interest in the girl was strictly derivative; he spoke through her as if she were a microphone wired to the Chairman’s ear. “We’ll be happy to do that. I’ve assigned Chris here”-his thumb jabbed at me-“to keep your office informed.”