“You’re pretty thorough, aren’t you? I thought this was an open and shut case.”
Conrad grinned disarmingly.
“We want to keep it shut. We never know what kind of questions a coroner will ask, and we have to be prepared. Is there anyone within reach who would know what Jordan did in his spare time?”
Fedor scratched his aggressive chin.
There’s Campbell, his dresser. He might know. You’ll find him downstairs, clearing up Jordan’s dressing-room. Anyone will tell you where to find him.”
“Okay. I’ll have a word with him. Would you tell Miss Powell I’m on my way?”
“Sure.” Fedor reached for the telephone. He called a number. After a moment’s delay, he said, “Mauvis? This is Fedor. I have Paul Conrad here. He’s from the D.A.’s office. He wants to talk to you about June. Tell him all he wants to know, will you?” He listened, then said, “Good girl. He’ll be right along.” To Conrad, he said, “Okay, brother. Help yourself. Last office along the corridor.”
Mauvis Powell was a tall, dark woman in her late thirties; neatly dressed in a black tailored costume with a white silk shirt and severe collar. She looked up as Conrad came in and gave him a cool, distant smile.
“Come in,” she said, and waved him to an armchair. “What can I do for you?”
Her desk was a litter of unopened letters and glossy photographs of June Arnot.