Elizabeth introduced them.

“Abigail Larson, Beth Jackson, Regina Hartley, Nancy Sinclair.”

They each had a small notepad in front of them. And a ballpoint pen. Doubtless provided by the firm. They all smiled at me. All of the smiles displayed white, even teeth. They were all extremely well dressed. They all had very good haircuts. They all looked in shape. None looked older than thirty-five. It is easier to be good-looking when you’re thirty-five, and even easier if you’re rich. Though Elizabeth Shaw, who was probably neither, was holding her own. I smiled back at all of them.

No one said anything. They all looked at Elizabeth. “Perhaps you could tell us a little about yourself,” Elizabeth said to me.

“I used to be a cop, now I’m a private detective,” I said.

“Do you have a gun?” Regina said.

“I do.”

“Have you ever shot anyone?” she said.

“I have.”

“Could you tell us about that?” she said.

“No.”

“Well, for heaven’s sake,” Regina said.

She had very black hair, which she wore in bangs over her forehead. Her eyes were large and made to seem larger by her eye makeup. She had on a simple print dress that had probably cost more than Liechtenstein, and her skin was evenly tanned, which in October, in Boston, meant she had either traveled to warmer climes or used an excellent bronzer.

“If we’re going to hire you, I think we should be able to ask you questions,” Abigail said.

I think she was trying to sound stern, but her voice was too small for stern.

“You can ask anything you want,” I said. “Doesn’t mean I have to answer.”

“Well, how are we supposed to decide,” she said.

“Me telling you about shooting somebody won’t help.” Abigail was blonde, with a short haircut that had probably cost as much as Regina ’s little dress. Her eyes were blue. She looked tan.