The doorman raised his brows and drew them together disapprovingly when Shayne approached, his eyes sliding from the redhead’s tousled hair to the soiled canvas sandals, but he hastily opened the door and Shayne strode through without a glance at the immaculate uniform.

He slowed when he saw Rourke and Miss Lally in the cocktail lounge just off the sumptuous lobby. They sat in the center of a horseshoe booth with leather-cushioned seats. Rourke’s sharp and emaciated profile was toward Shayne as he bent close to the girl with feverish intensity.

Shayne paused a moment to study Miss Lally while the patrons observed him with expressions befitting their various stages of inebriety.

His general impression of her was one of roundness, and of white skin rarely seen in Miami. She was chubby rather than fat, and her face missed being round by a chin that was firm and slightly pointed. Her eyes were round and sooty with dark lashes and brows contrasting severely with her short blond hair worn plain on top and curling at the ends. She wore a silvery gray skirt and a short-sleeved Eton jacket, and the round blue collar of her blouse hugged her white neck girlishly. She was nibbling on an arm of her tortoise-shell glasses frame dangling in her hand as she gazed wide-eyed at Rourke, looking more like a rapt, chubby child than the secretary of crime-reporter Sara Morton.

Shayne moved on and was standing at their table before they saw him.

“Mike-sit down,” said Rourke. “We’re worried about Miss Morton, Bea and I.” His tone was amorous on the last three words, but he made the introductions with precise and semi-intoxicated formality.

Shayne shook his head at a hovering waiter and sat down. “Have you found out where Sara Morton is?” he asked, glancing from one to the other when they straightened around facing the table.