Acts of Malice by Perri O'Shaughnessy

boots?’’
    ‘‘I—I don’t think so.’’
    ‘‘They will soon. They’ll be trying to match up marks on the skin.’’
    ‘‘Clauson did think he saw something he calls ‘faint patterning’ on the skin, but only from looking at the photos long after the body was cremated. You think there could be a pattern even through cloth?’’
    ‘‘Oh, yeah. Might be able to compare the boot bottoms and marks on the cloth itself. Do they have his ski bibs?’’
    ‘‘I guess so, because the bibs were checked. Not a mark in that area, or on the parka. But . . . the cotton pullover underneath apparently had some kind of minor damage. I don’t have access to it. The report has this speculation in it that somebody pulled down the bibs and unzipped the parka before— My client hasn’t been arrested yet.’’
    ‘‘Intriguing. So where are they? The boots?’’
    ‘‘Well, I’m not sure. There’s no mention in the autopsy report.’’
    ‘‘Where’s your brain, girl? Good thing you have me. If they’re still lying around in his closet, you could ship them to me. I’ll give them up when they’re demanded, of course, but meantime I could have a look.’’
    ‘‘Good thought.’’
    ‘‘Use gloves. Put ’em in a clean bag.’’
    ‘‘I’ll try to get them. And I’ll send you Clauson’s report.’’
    ‘‘Fax it to this number.’’ It was a San Francisco number. Ginger’s office was in Sacramento.
    ‘‘Where are you, Ginger?’’
    ‘‘Downtown in the Federal Building, waiting to testify and dressed like a dork to impress the jury. Have you got the photos of the body?’’
    ‘‘No, and I won’t get anything else until after my client gets arrested. Which may happen soon.’’
    ‘‘Bummer.’’ Ginger mentioned her current hourly rate, which had increased, and Nina hung up.
    ‘‘Sandy? I need a really good private investigator.’’
    ‘‘You drove him away, remember?’’
    ‘‘There are others besides Paul.’’
    ‘‘No. There aren’t.’’
    Nina didn’t want to talk about Paul Van Wagoner. Exasperated, she said, ‘‘Why are you so mad at me? What did I do, except innocently drive into the parking lot of the building where I work?’’
    And see you with your guard down, she thought to herself, not expecting an answer. ‘‘Could you call around for me? I need to see somebody who’s good at locating people right away.’’
    ‘‘If you’re gonna make me.’’
    ‘‘And fax this to Ginger. Here’s the number. Then see if you can get Jim Strong at Paradise. I need to talk to him right away.’’
    ‘‘If I can get a word in, there’s a Philip Strong on hold.’’
    ‘‘Who?’’
    ‘‘Our client’s daddy.’’
    ‘‘Oh!’’ She picked up the other line.
    ‘‘Miss Reilly? My name is Philip Strong. I’m Jim’s father.’’ He had a youthful-sounding voice for a man who must be in his fifties. Nina imagined an older Jim; tall, attractive, wearing a brand-name parka, holding the phone to his ear in the big lodge while he kept an eye on the skiers climbing onto the quad lift outside.
    ‘‘I understand Jim came in to see you. I’d like to talk to you.’’
    ‘‘I appreciate your concern. Unfortunately, I can’t really talk about the case with anybody except Jim.’’
    ‘‘Yes, yes. But
I
can talk to
you,
can’t I? I have something to tell you. It’s important.’’
    ‘‘Certainly. Would you like to come to my office?’’
    ‘‘Actually, I was hoping I could invite you to have lunch with me at Paradise tomorrow. I promise I won’t ask you questions.’’
    ‘‘Does Jim know you’re calling, Mr. Strong?’’
    A pause. ‘‘No, and I’d prefer he didn’t,’’ Strong said. ‘‘He might not want me getting involved at this juncture. Even so, I feel I have to.’’
    Nina thought about that. If it would help Jim, she should go. ‘‘All right,’’ she said. ‘‘About one o’clock?’’
    ‘‘Come to my office in the