"Okay," he said, "next time I'm using my own judgment.
If Clive Devon starts picking up mysterious people and I think they oughtta be followed then I'll follow em."
"I assumed you'd use your own judgment. You've been a cop long enough. By the way, how long have you been on the job?"
"Thirteen years in this town. Six years before that with San Diego P. D. I came to the desert when I hurt my knee and started getting problems from the dampness down there. Now both my knees're so wrecked I could live in Greenland, it wouldn't make no difference."
"When's your pension coming through?"
"Hopefully this month," he said. "That's why I don't want anybody at the department or anywhere else to know I'm running around the desert in places a bighorn wouldn't go. The great giver-of-pensions might have second thoughts about my disability."
"Going to get a P. I. license after the pension's in the bag?"
"Why not?" he said. "Anybody can from what I see."
"How sensitive you are."
"I wasn't referring to you."
"Of course you weren't."
"I don't insult people when they're buying the drinks. Not on purpose."
"I've gotta make a call," she said, getting up, and he watched her walk toward the restroom, admiring those cyclist's calves. He loved babes who wore tailored jackets and skirts, with buffed-up calves!
After rooting inside her purse, she found her phone file jammed under her holstered two-inch revolver. Everyone said that after she'd been retired a few months she'd stop carrying a gun. Most P. I.'s wouldn't carry one even if, like Breda, they were retired from police work on a service pension and could do so anywhere in the state. P. I.'s who weren't retired from police work seldom even bothered to try for a gun permit. But Breda was used to having a gun handy, and hadn't broken the habit as yet.
Rhonda Devon had assured her that her private line was safe and that Clive Devon seldom answered it. If he did he wouldn't think anything of a woman asking for his wife. It was Rhonda Devon who picked it up on the second ring.
"Mrs. Devon?"
"Yes."
"It's Breda Burrows."
"Yes."
"Can you talk?"
"Not really. We're having early dinner."
"I want you to ask your husband where he went today. Don't press him, but try to get a few details about how his day went and if he was alone."
"Why?"
"He went on a picnic with a young woman, a woman with long black hair, maybe Mexican. She has a big brown dog and drives a rusty old Plymouth. Do you know anyone fitting that description?"
"No."
"Does it surprise you?"
"Very much."
"Can you talk to him and phone me?"
"We can get together."
"Soon?"
"Yes."
When Breda told Rhonda Devon where she was, her client said, "I can be over in fifteen minutes, Margie. But don't show me too many vacation pictures, okay?"
By the time Breda had returned to the bar, Lynn Cutter was leaning on the baby grand, talking to an attractive female piano player who had just come to work and was warming up with a Cole Porter medley.
The piano player was blond like Rhonda Devon, but not a real blonde. She wore slinky black, and the way she smiled at Lynn made Breda take a closer look at him. He really wasn't a bad-looking guy if only he could get that smart-mouthing under control, and damn it, he did have nice buns. Suddenly Breda realized that she hadn't been to bed with a man since she'd left L. A.!
Lynn returned to the bar after Breda sat down. He held his empty glass in his hand with a wistful look.
"One more," Breda said. "We're meeting Rhonda Devon."
"Yeah? Where?"
"Here."
"All right! That glimpse through the oleander was interesting."
"Try to maintain," Breda said. "We don't fraternize with clients."
As the bartender set the Chivas in front of Lynn, Breda decided she ought to deduct his drinks from any fee she owed him. Then he'd owe her money before the week was out.
Rhonda Devon was thirty minutes and two drinks late, as far as Lynn was concerned. The reason was understandable. She looked like Rodeo Drive, before going shopping at Chanel Boutique, or after lunch at The Bistro Garden. Breda recognized the Liz Claiborne persimmon leather handbag, the cheapest item on her person. Breda could only wonder where she'd bought the persimmon and black velvet jacket with all those pleats. And her black suede pumps probably cost more than Breda's entire outfit.
And yet, the soft dim bar light had an effect not intended. Rhonda Devon looked sleeker but older than she had when Breda Burrows had seen her in her living room in the late afternoon twilight. Breda was certain that Rhonda Devon was several years older than she'd admitted.