“Killed?”
“Yes.”
“Auto accident or what?”
“Or what,” he said, and then after a moment added, “Three shots with a thirty eight calibre revolver.”
I looked at him steadily. “Where was Robert?” I asked.
His eyes held mine. He didn’t answer the question. He said instead, “Where were you?”
“Working.”
“On what?”
“On my job.”
He pulled a cigar out of the pocket of his robe, bit off the end, lit it, and started smoking. “Getting anywhere?”