O’Brien lifted his shoulders.
“I guess you have other things to think about. I specialize in keeping out of trouble.” He reached for a cigar, tossed one into Howard’s lap and lit one for himself. “Now tell me about this girl. Who killed her?”
“We don’t know. The killer left no clues, but she must have known him. She was stabbed from in front with an ice-pick, and no one heard her cry out.”
“Last night, you say? There was a hell of a thunderstorm raging wasn’t there? Would they have heard her if she had cried out?”
Howard had forgotten the storm and bit his lip angrily.
“That’s right. They might not have heard her.”
“Who’s handling the investigation?”
“Donovan, but I’ve told Adams to work on the side. Donovan has a description of a guy who could have done it.”
O’Brien got up and moved over to the liquor cabinet. Howard wasn’t sure, but he had a vague idea that O’Brien had become suddenly tense.
“What’s the description?”