“I guess it’s the murder weapon,” he said, wishing he hadn’t spoken.
Adams raised his thin, white eyebrows.
“That’s smart of you. I was thinking it was something she took to bed with her to pare her nails. So you think it’s the murder weapon?” His eyes lit up. “What else could it be, you fool? Keep your goddamn mouth shut!”
He turned away and began to move about the room while Donovan watched him, his eyes dark with hate.
“What have you found out about her?” Adams snapped.
“She’s only been on the game for a year,” Donovan told him. “She used to dance at the Blue Rose. She had no record, and she didn’t work the streets.”
Adams turned.
“Come in and shut the door.”
Donovan did as he was told. He knew from past experience, and by Adams’ quiet stillness, that something unpleasant was coming, and inwardly he braced himself.
“The press haven’t got on to this yet, have they?” Adams asked mildly. He sat on the edge of the bed, moving Fay’s foot to give himself more room. The body so close to him might not have been there for all the feeling he showed.