Singer 02 - Long Time No See by Susan Isaacs

nice cuts way down on motives:
    Q: What did Courtney Logan ever do to you?
    A: Nothing. She was incredibly nice.
    But a cold woman, a ruthless woman, a poison gas woman might give me something to work with.
    I drove the car into the garage, got out, and opened the rear gate of the Jeep thinking, Hmm, Boston lettuce with sliced mushrooms and how could I get leads to the investment bankers who’d worked with Courtney, and oh, to her close friends, too, and—
    “You Judith?” a rough voice demanded. And, from a cobwebbed and shadowed corner in the back of my garage, out stepped Fancy Phil Lowenstein.

Chapter Four
    I N A VOICE that had the delicacy of sulfuric acid, Fancy Phil Lowenstein demanded, “You Judith Singer?” Simultaneously, he put an arm around my shoulders that weighed enough to compress the disks between each vertebra. I thought of all those movies in which the heroine plunges her hand into her pocketbook and retrieves one of those femme items, like a metal nail file, that can be instantly converted into a weapon. But the notion, Aha! I’ll poke my Jeep key into his eyeball to distract him, did not occur to me. My brain, fear-frozen into suspended animation, did not instruct my hand to unzip my shoulder bag, plunge in, and retrieve my house keys—with the nifty little panic button for the alarm system I kept on my key ring. In fact, all I could think to do was nod, like one of those dopey dolls whose heads bop up and down on a spring: That’s me, uh-huh, yes, right, I’m Judith Singer.
    Fancy Phil muttered: “I’m asking ...” His voice trailed off as his eyes peered upward, at the motor of the garage-door opener. Then they scanned the rear wall, at the rake, snow shovel, and mysterious-object-left-by-children-that-might-have-pumped-up-basketballs-or-served-as-hookah-or-bong-or-whatever-they-call-it that dangled from the Peg-Board. Apparently, he suspected my garage was bugged because he murmured: “...because of that research stuff you mentioned to ...” His eyebrows lifted in a gesture I suspected was Felonese for “my son.”
    With that, I found myself being transported toward the door that led from the garage into the house. I wasn’t being shoved or dragged so much as simply having my location altered by an elemental force. “You know who I am?” Fancy Phil inquired as his fingers grasped my upper arm. It was like being held by five bionic bratwursts, the smallest of which sported a ring with a diamond the size of one of Jupiter’s lesser moons.
    I stood before the entrance to the kitchen, my heart banging against my chest like some desperate creature pounding on a door, begging to be let out. In, actually, was the place I wanted to go. Nevertheless, I knew there was no real sanctuary: Garage, kitchen, this guy could kill me anywhere. I stood paralyzed, my face inches from the door, my handbag gripped under my free arm. My car keys were clenched so tight their metal teeth bit into the flesh of my palm. I didn’t realize I was hugging my grocery bag with such passion until I heard a dull bloop! of splitting plastic and immediately inhaled a whiff of vanilla yogurt. Finally some words emerged. “You’re Mr. Lowenstein,” I replied.
    “Yeah. Phil Lowenstein. And you know whose father I am.” I nodded. I’m pretty sure I didn’t actually turn to look at him, although I vaguely recall allowing my eyes to drift sideways. Fancy Phil’s head had been plopped midway between his shoulders without benefit of neck, so his second chin rested against the heavy gold neck chain exposed by the open collar of his shirt. He’d put on quite a few pounds since his last mug shot. “Call me Phil.” He released my arm and wiped his forehead. His skin, glazed with perspiration, was flushed an ominous red that, as I watched, was darkening to purple. “Hot in here,” he observed. A flash of gold caught my eye. A snake bracelet entwined around his meaty wrist, the mouth and tail separated by an inch of