18
Richie sat at a table at the St. Francis Hotel’s Clock Bar, watching the entrance. Finally, about fifteen minutes late, his ex-client, Steve Burlington, strolled in. Being kept waiting had put Richie, who was already not thrilled with the world, in a crummy mood.
“Why here?” Richie said as Burlington joined him. “I didn’t know you like fancy joints like this.”
“I like it when I don’t want to run into anyone I know.” Burlington’s tone was harsh. “Here, we can talk.”
A waiter came by and Burlington ordered a cosmopolitan. Richie already had a craft-brewed IPA in front of him.
“Okay,” Richie said, staring hard at Burlington. “Talk.”
Burlington grimaced. “I’m sure you know Audrey Poole has been murdered.”
“I know,” Richie said.
Burlington pushed back a little way from the table. “It
