Widow’s Walk

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“I think she’s probably guilty,” Rita Fiore said to me.

We were in her office, high up, with a view of the harbor.

“And you’re her lawyer,” I said.

“Tells you about her case,” Rita said. She sat on the edge of her desk in front of me, her thick red hair gleaming. She had on a black suit with a very short skirt. Rita knew her legs were good.

“But you’ll represent her anyway.”

“Like everyone else,” Rita said, “she’s entitled to the best defense she can get.”

“Or afford,” I said.

Rita smiled. “Or afford.”

“She got money?”

“Oodles,” Rita said.

“Last time I worked for you,” I said, “I almost got killed.”

“I know,” Rita said. “We could give you hazardous-duty pay.”

“It’s all hazardous duty,” I said. “Tell me about your client.”

“Mary Smith.”

“Mary Smith?”

“Honest to God,” Rita said. “It’s her real name. She was married to the victim, Nathan Smith. Her maiden name was Toricelli.”

“She have oodles of money before she married him?” I said.

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