Fine—if she didn’t want to talk about it, she didn’t have to. I showered and dressed, then crossed the hall to Lisa’s bedroom, where I could hear her still showering. The room was furnished upscale Caribbean, with lots of honey-colored rattan. It looked like a Tommy Bahama ad. Lisa had made the bed, and the clothes she’d be wearing were set out on the bedspread. Seeing her white slacks and ruffled floral blouse, I felt decidedly underdressed. But I’d probably want a little designer armor, too, if I were about to face my insurance agent.
Exhaustion and food coma had dulled my focus. I wasn’t in Lisa’s bedroom to judge her fashion sense. She’d probably kept the gun she’d pulled last night in the top drawer of her nightstand, so I started by nosing in there. If she had, the gun had shared sp
