Last night Mike had taken her to an Italian restaurant near the Flamingo, and when they got back to his apartment, he had tried to kiss her. She had fended him off, but with a wistful smile, saying that it was too soon after Hans's death; Mike had taken that pretty well, and had let her sleep on his water bed alone, while he took the couch—albeit with a just-for-this-first-night manner.
At the first light of dawn, listening carefully to Mike's snores from the living room, she had got up and searched his bedroom, and in the closet she had found a briefcase. She had memorized its position, how it leaned against a pair of ski boots, and had then taken it out and opened it. The white powder in a well-filled Ziploc bag had had the numbing taste of cocaine, and the bundles of twenty-dollar bills added up to more than twenty thousand dollars. She had put it all back the way it had been and got back into bed. Later, while making coffee, she had managed to slide a stout steak knife into her purse, though it was no part of her plan to have to use it.
So far so good.
And at the funeral a few hours later she had said a thankful prayer to her mother, for one of the mourners was Alfred Funo himself.
She had hoped he would show up there. It was the only way she could think of for him to find her, and it would fit in with his weirdly sociable approach to assassination.
And there he had been, standing behind Hans's parents under the canvas pavilion on the grass, smiling sadly at her across the shiny fiberglass casket. She had smiled back at him and nodded and winked, helpless to imagine how he could suppose she wanted to see him, but understanding from his answering wink that he did suppose it.
The car he had got into afterward was a far cry from the Porsche he had been driving when she'd seen him Monday night—the Porsche from which he had shot Scat—but he was at least managing to stay behind Mike's Nissan.
When Mike pulled in to the curb in front of his apartment building, the white Dodge parked a hundred feet behind them.
Diana got out of the truck and waited for Mike by the front bumper.
"Don't turn around," she said quietly, "but a friend of Hans's followed us back from the funeral. I think he wants to talk to me."
Mike frowned worriedly but didn't look around. "Followed us here? I don't like that—"
"I don't either. He's a dealer himself, and Hans never trusted him. Listen, let me have the keys, and I'll follow him when he leaves."
"Follow him? Why? I've got to get to work—"
"I just want to make sure he leaves the area. I'll be back in ten minutes at the most."
"Well, okay." Mike began sliding a key off his ring. "For you, Doreen," he added with a smile.
She pocketed the key and blew him a kiss and then started walking back toward the white Dodge.
Walk upstairs, Mike, she thought as the soles of her shoes knocked slowly along the sunny sidewalk and her purse swung at her side. Don't spook this guy by hanging around and watching.
She didn't look back, but apparently Mike had not done anything to alarm Funo. When she walked up to his car, he reached across and unlocked the passenger-side door.
She opened it and sat down on the seat, leaving the door open.
Funo was smiling at her, but he looked pale and exhausted. His white shirt and tan slacks looked new, though, and his laced-up white Reeboks shone, she thought, like the bellies of albino lobsters.
"My mystery man," Diana said.
"Hey, Diana," he said earnestly, "I'm sorry we got off on the wrong foot the other night. I didn't realize you were worried about your children."
She forced her shy smile to stay in place—but how could this man say that to her? After shooting one of her children?
"The doctors say the boy is going to be fine," she said, wondering if Funo might have called the hospital and found out that that was not true. She thought it probably wouldn't matter; she sensed that this was some kind of tea party charade, in which statements were only expected to be pleasant.
"Hey, that's great," he said. He snapped his fingers. "I've got something for you."
She tensed, ready to snatch the steak knife out of her purse, but what he pulled out from under the seat was a long black jewelry box.
When she opened it and saw the gold chain on the red velvet inside, she knew enough to show only pleasure, not astonishment.
"It's beautiful," she said, making her voice soft and breathy. "You shouldn't have—my God, I don't even know your name."
"Al Funo. I've got a present for Scott, too. Will you tell him?"
I'll tell him when I meet him in hell one day, she thought. "Of course. I know he'll want to thank you."
"I already gave him a gold Dunhill lighter," Funo said.
She nodded, yearning for the normal daytime street outside the car windows and wondering how long she could continue to do this fantasy dialogue correctly. "I'm sure he's grateful to have such a generous friend," she ventured.
"Oh," said Funo off-handedly, "I do what I can. My Porsche's in the shop; this is a loaner."
"Ah." She nodded. "Can we take you out to dinner some time?"
"That'd be fun," he said seriously.
"Do you—is there a number we can reach you at?"
He grinned and winked at her. "I'll find you."
The audience seemed to be over. "Okay," she said cautiously, shifting her weight onto her right foot, which was on the curb. "We'll wait to hear from you."
He started the car. "Rightie-o."
She ducked out of the car and stood up on the curb. He reached across and pulled the door shut, and then he was driving away.
Diana made herself walk slowly back toward the Nissan truck until the Dodge turned right at the corner; then she ran to it.
Traffic was light on Bonanza Road this morning, and she had to keep the truck well behind the Dodge in order to let other cars get between them; twice she feared she had lost him, but then well ahead of her she saw the Dodge turn right into a Marie Callender's parking lot. She drove on past, then looped back, taking her time, and drove into the lot herself.
The Dodge was parked, empty, in front of a windowless section of the restaurant.
Perfect.
She paused only long enough to memorize the license number, and then drove out of the lot again and sped back toward Mike's apartment.
Mike was pacing in the kitchen when she opened the apartment door. "Well," he said impatiently, "where did he go?"
"I don't know, he drove away down Bonanza. Listen, I got his license number, 'cause when I talked to him, he asked if you were Hans's friend Mike, and he knows you're a dealer. I guess Hans must have told him."
"Hans told him that? Hans is lucky he's dead." Diana thought Mike looked both angry and ready to cry. "I don't need this kind of bullshit!"
Diana crossed to where he stood and patted his spray-stiffened blond hair. "He doesn't know your last name," she told him, "and he doesn't know which apartment is yours."
"Still, I should tell my—the guy I—oh, hell, he'd make me move out of here."
"You've got to be getting to work." She smiled at him. "Tonight I'll see if I can't … distract you from your worries."
Mike brightened at that. "You're on," he said. "Gimme my key."
She handed it over, and after he had left and she heard his truck start up and drive away, she went to the telephone and called for a cab.