"But not Hedda herself?" I asked.

"The tabloids are hounding her every day, but she's still free as a bird."

"Can we find out more about the case?" I asked. "Which one?"

"What do you mean, which one?" I said. "Vreen's death, of course."

"You forget, baby, Vreen wasn't my case. The reason I took you to the Porterhouse in the first place was because I was tailing Nathan Burwell at the time. That's why I'd witnessed Vreen's stabbing-it was in my memories. I've told you before: I'm a ghost, not a magician. I can't take you anywhere I didn't go in life."

"Yes, Jack. I understand." I sat up straighter as it all came back to me. "Burwell was your cheating-husband case. But wasn't that case a little dicey, trying to get evidence on someone as powerful as the city's district attorney?"

Jack checked his rear-view mirror, gave a little smirk. "Why do you think I'm wearing a new suit?"

"Oh, I get it. Burwell's wife is paying you enough to make it worth your while?"

"Bingo, doll, only I ran into a little roadblock."

"What do you mean?" I worriedly glanced around. "You wrecked the Packard?"

Jack sighed. "I was talkin' figuratively, baby. Try to keep up. See, I was tailing Burwell and his chippy for a few weeks before Vreen got the big knife in the back. I'd been taking notes on the DA's trysts, getting photos of the two together when I could- on the street, in a diner, in front of the Hotel Chester. Then all of a sudden…" Jack snapped his fingers.

"What?"

"Over. Burwell's back to his old routine. No more cheating. No more visits with the chippy. After about a week, I figure that's okay. Maybe the stabbing spooked the hubby, and he thought it best to end the affair. So I still think everything's jake because I know where the girl's staying. I go to her hotel-but she's not there."

"She checked out?"

"Gone. Lammed it on May sixth, the morning after Vreen's murder. The clerk at the Chester gives me a name and address, but they don't exist. So now I'm holding the bag."

"Why?"

"Because I need that girl…" Jack checked his rear-view again. "I need her in the flesh."

"Why? You've got evidence, haven't you?"

"My notes can be disputed. Even photos can be explained away. But the actual girl can be subpoenaed to testify under oath. Burwell's wife needs that assurance before she tries to put the screws to her husband. Without the chippy's real name and address, I can't even verify that she was underage, which would have been the lynchpin to getting Burwell to settle out of court."

"You have any leads on her?"

"Two-maybe."

"What are they?"

"First one's you, baby."

"Me?!"

"Yeah. When you first saw that girl in the restaurant, you said she looked familiar."

"I did…but Idon't remember where I've seen her before. I'm sorry, Jack."

"Well, keep working on it, because I can use all the help I can get right now."

"What's your second lead?"

"A 1941 gull gray Lincoln Continental Cabriolet with spode green wheels." "Excuse me?"

"That's the only lead I've got on the DA's chippy. The bellboy at the Chester remembered taking her suitcase out to that make and model car. I remembered a car like that outside the hotel when Burwell went upstairs to…" Jack paused abruptly and cleared his throat. "When he went upstairs with the girl."

"I understand."

"I know you do. Anyway, I got its plate number in my notes so I had a friend at my old precinct run the license. Got an address in Queens along with a name-Lester Sanford."

Jack was driving as he talked, moving us north along the East River. The sun had completely set by now, and night was creeping across the sky. As stars appeared in the darkening purple, Jack turned abruptly and zigzagged through an area of warehouses and garages. Finally, we ended up on a large, brightly lit avenue, where every few blocks rough-looking men spilled out of dive bars. There were dock workers, stone cutters, sailors, and factory men-some of them were falling-down drunk, others were shouting or starting brawls.

Jack was right, I realized: This wasn't a safe neighborhood for a dame to hoof it. I was about to mention this when I noticed him checking the rearview again.

"You're looking in that mirror an awful lot," I noted.

"That's because a third lead just showed up."

"What do you mean?"

"We're being tailed-"

I began to spin in my seat.

"Don't look!" Jack warned. "Keep your eyes ahead. I've been onto this car since we left the tunnel."

We turned down Thirty-fifth Avenue, where a box truck partially blocked the road. Jack slowed to a crawl so we could inch by without stripping the car's paint. As we did, I watched men in overalls unloading what looked like fake palm trees and carrying them into a huge building. I would have guessed the place was a factory, but its exterior was too clean, and there were very large windows on the upper floors. "What is this building?"

"Astoria Studios," Jack said. "Paramount Pictures runs it now… used to be Famous Players Lasky Corporation. They shot silent films there once, then started shooting talkies… Marx Brothers comedies, The Emperor Jones. That's also where Gotham Features rents its sound stages when they aren't shooting on the street."

"Is that where we're going?"

"No, but Lester Sanford's address is only a few blocks away."

By the time we reached our destination, night had fully descended. Jack's tall figure cast a long shadow as we exited the Packard and walked between streetlights.

The area was obviously mixed zoning. One- and two-story brick row houses sat next to warehouses and garages. As we walked, I got the feeling someone was following us. I was itching to turn around and look, but Jack quietly warned me not to swivel my head.

"Just keep walking, baby. Don't worry. I've got my rod on me."

"What, are you kidding? Guns are what I'm worried about."

"I can shoot straight."

"Yeah, but what about the other guy?"

"Do me a favor, don't crack wise. Just keep moving those pretty lace panties of yours."

I gritted my teeth but didn't argue, kept my focus on the task at hand. The address itself wasn't an apartment building or home. It was a very large building that looked like a factory warehouse. A parking lot sat beside it, and Jack immediately spied the gull gray Continental Cabriolet. There were actually two that looked exactly alike, right down to the green wheels. They were parked together. He checked the plates of each one, and pointed.

"This is the one-the car I spotted idling that night outside the Hotel Chester. It's the same description the bellboy gave me of the car that picked up the DA's girl when she checked out."

"Why are there two cars here that look exactly alike? Don't you find that strange?"

"Maybe not, baby. Let's have a little talk with the folks inside."

Jack didn't bother knocking, just reached for the door handle.

"Do you know anything about this place?" I asked.

"It's a storage facility for Gotham Features."

The door opened and we walked right in. Despite the hour, the place was lit up and buzzing with activity. Men in overalls were milling around, talking. I could hear hammering and sawing going on somewhere in the back. Boxes were stacked sky-high. Shelves were filled with odd items-lamps, books, kitchen appliances. Pieces of furniture for every room in a typical home were jammed into corners with fake plants and giant rocks.

Jack didn't seem phased by the chaos. He scanned the area and the men working and walked right up to a short, stocky guy wearing glasses, pinstriped pants, and suspenders. The stocky man was holding a clipboard, shooting orders to a younger, fitter man in overalls.

"We'll need those chairs painted over by morning. And scare me up a Victrola, will ya? We have one in the back, next to the fake radios."