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a doctor’s orders. Get your rest. You’re going to need it.” He moved toward the door, waving for Bannon to follow.
    As the door clicked closed, I settled into my chair, wondering what had happened. I took on a simple case, and now it appeared I was up that proverbial creek without a paddle. Another way to say I was hip-deep in shit creek.
    _____
    Detective Bannon’s words bounced around in my head. Ms. Bowman, the deceased’s name was Jacobs, and he was a bachelor. The following thought was thecops screwed up again. How could they be so stupid? But reality intruded, telling me they must have done their homework. Otherwise, they’d never have thrown Jacobs’ name at me. If it were simply a doubt, they’d have kept it to themselves. It was definitely a bad moment. I had to accept that I’d walked through a door, not knowing I was in a house of cards. And that selfsame house crashed into my head, leaving me with a minor concussion and wading in a pool of excrement.
    Time to think clearly. How had it happened? If someone set me up, and it appeared an expert had tweaked my actions, why? I wasn’t gullible. Okay, I didn’t want to believe I was gullible. I survived a stint as a cop, a marriage to Sonny-the-Bunny, a nasty divorce, and had rejected more guys in bars than many of my friends had ever met. Plus, damn it, I was a good investigator. I’d been in the business for years, solved many cases, and never failed a client. I could spot a phony two blocks away. Ms. Garcia was not a phony.
    I stood and headed for the kitchen, my coffee cup empty. I needed more caffeine. My thinking was not as clear as I wanted it to be. I hoped it was from lack of sleep in the hospital, not the blow I absorbed.
    After filling the cup, adding a packet of the pink stuff, and taking a sip, I leaned against the counter. Time to get back to figuring out what happened.
    Phony. The word jumped back into my head, shoving aside the satisfaction from the coffee. A moment of discomfort followed, but I pushed it aside—no other choice. Ms. Garcia was a pro who ’d put me in her purse and given me a good shaking. I should have been glad she wasn’t selling Louis Vuitton shoes or my credit card would really be in trouble. Or, since I didn’t wear Louis Vuitton’s so-expensive articles, a more accurate parallel might be I should be glad I hadn’t met her to play strip poker. Hopefully, I’d have quit before my bra and panties came off. The image of standing naked in front of another woman in a Chinese restaurant left me discombobulated. How could I have been so stupid?
    I shoved the image away and considered what to do. Bannon had also said, “Maybe you need an attorney.” Mulling that one over didn’t take long at all. He was right. I should call my lawyer. Attorneys may be the pond scum of society, but when needed, there is no substitute. And besides, I had the best.
    I dialed the office and asked Donna to let me speak with Mr. Bergstrom. Donna was his private secretary, the pit bull at his door. From nine to six, she ran his life like his wife would never dare. Part of her technique was to keep things on a formal basis. Note, I didn’t ask to speak to Sly, I asked for Mr. Bergstrom. It would have been a major faux pas to use his first name, especially his nickname. She’d have given me a frozen shoulder that would have iced the line as she told me he was unavailable for the next three weeks—or longer.
    I had learned early to follow Donna’s rules, as Sly allowed her to enforce them. When she said it was time to meet with a client, he met. When she said it was time to go to court, he went. When she said, “Beth is on the line, and you need to talk to her,” he picked up.
    I said in a rush of words, “I need legal advice. Can you work me in today?”
    “Good morning, Beth. I’m fine, thank you. So nice of you to ask. How are you?”
    I took a deep breath, knowing Sly was jerking my leg to slow me down. “Sorry. I’m doing okay,