DONALD WESTLAKE WAS chalk to David Lodge’s cheese. No danger of him bursting into tears. A debonair man of the world; at least that was how he presented himself. Certainly, he seemed not at all fazed to find himself in the role of murder suspect, even if, at this stage, it was another room-sized elephant that warranted nary a mention.
He was tall and lean, and unlike Lodge, he sat back in his chair, lightly grasped his ankle across his other leg, and appeared the very epitome of openness and desire to help. But Rafferty assumed Westlake was well aware of body language and knew how to exploit it to his advantage.
Rafferty gave him the same reassurances he’d given David Lodge. But it was bland bullshit believed by neither of them. Because this was merely the softening-up exercise, before t
