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investigator. You called my office, we spoke earlier.’
    ‘I didn’t do it! I didn’t kill him, and Mr Feinstein won’t believe it.’
    Lorraine sat down and took out a notebook. ‘Do you want me to investigate the circumstances of your husband’s death, Mrs Nathan?’
    ‘I guess so. I mean, can they keep me here? I’ve told them everything I know. Is this for me?’ She prodded at the froth on the milk-shake with her index finger, then licked it.
    ‘I don’t know what has been agreed, Mrs Nathan. Just tell me about what happened. Did you make a statement?’
    ‘I can’t remember. I called the police and I called Mr Feinstein and told him I found Harry in the pool. I was sleeping and . . . then I heard the gunshot. I guess that was what I heard. It wasn’t all that loud, though, just a sort of dull bang.’
    Lorraine was making notes but keeping half an eye on the open door. ‘Then what did you do?’
    ‘I got up and went onto the patio. I could see the pool, I saw Harry and I called out to him. He looked like he was swimming, floating but . . . well, he didn’t answer, so then I went back into the house, and through the sun room, and . . .’ She chewed her lip. ‘When I got closer, I could see the blood, an’ he wasn’t swimming at all, and he had no trunks on, face down.’
    ‘Did you touch him – I mean, go into the pool?’
    ‘Oh, no. I ran back into the house, I was hysterical, an’ then I called the cops.’
    ‘Then you called my office?’
    ‘What?’
    ‘After the police you called my office.’
    ‘No, no, I never called you. I thought maybe someone had called you for me, understand? I mean, why would I call you?’
    It was odd, Lorraine thought. Cindy Nathan was behaving very strangely for someone whose husband had just been murdered, especially when she was a prime suspect and about to be charged. She seemed more distracted than upset, twice unfastening her hair and retwisting it round the wooden spike, asking why there wasn’t a straw for the shake.
    ‘So you did not ask me to meet with you?’
    ‘No, I just said so. What’s going on?’
    Lorraine tapped her notebook. ‘Well, I don’t know either, but if you want me to look into your case, if you feel you need me—’
    ‘Do you think I should have someone? I mean, are you a lawyer?’
    ‘No, Mrs Nathan, I’m a private investigator, as I said.’ Lorraine handed the girl her card, but she hardly looked at it.
    ‘I don’t know what I should do – maybe wait for Mr Feinstein. He’ll tell me what I should do. Right now I’m all confused.’
    ‘It must be terrible for you,’ Lorraine said quietly.
    Cindy lifted her delicate shoulders. ‘Mr Feinstein’ll sort it out, I guess.’
    ‘I hope so, and please feel free to call me if you do want me to investigate the death of your husband.’
    Joan returned, crooked her finger at Lorraine then jerked her thumb, indicating for her to leave, sharpish.
    Cindy didn’t even look at Joan. ‘Right now I’m more worried about what’s going to happen to me, because I didn’t do it. I never shot Harry, but a lot of his friends won’t believe it.’
    ‘Why?’
    Cindy Nathan gave that little shrug of her shoulders again. “Cos I was always threatening him. I never got around to doing anything, though.’
    ‘Well, somebody did. You’re sure it was your husband in the swimming pool?’
    Joan became slightly aggressive. ‘Come on, don’t get me in trouble. Out now.’
    Cindy Nathan’s wide, cornflower-blue eyes stared at the wall. ‘Yes, yes, it was him, face down. It was Harry, all right.’ And two big tears rolled down her cheeks.
    Lorraine went out of the building, down the curving walkway that looked more like the approach to a smart office complex than a police department. As she bleeped open the Cherokee with her alarm key, she saw Cindy Nathan’s lawyer standing by a black Rolls-Royce, parked on Rexford, arguing with two uniformed police officers. So heated was their