"Los Angeles, California. City of Angels."
"Not so fast, Sherlock; I'm no angel." She pauses, the cigarette poised an inch from her lips. A stray beam of sunlight leaks from a broken slat in the venetian blinds, spotlighting her hair. Blonde. Platinum, not gold. Abruptly, she reaches across your desk to push a stack of green at you, past the halfway point. Her eyes watch yours as she fans the money out on the desktop. "I never mix business with pleasure. Do you?"
Not often. Not lately. "Not me," you assure her. "Wouldn't dream of it."
She leans back in the chair, studies the smoke curling from the cigarette between her fingers. "I--we don't visit L.A. much anymore. My husband, he hates it; won't go near the place. Calls it the City of Angles. Says everybody's got one, you know? An angle, I mean."
"Your husband sounds like a man with his head screwed on tight."
She laughs, a short, bitter sound with no amusement behind it. "That night, I did go to L.A. Without Walter. When I got home, late, the cops were waiting for me." She kills the cigarette with a quick stab at the ashtray. "If Walter dies, I'll inherit millions. My alibi--well, let's just say it doesn't help. Get the picture?"
Her old man was right, everybody's got an angle, even dames with more curves than a mountain road. A guy could hurt himself on all that geometry.
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