“Me?”
“You and Denton — and Henri Desmond.”
“I don’t like any of this, Shayne. If you’re trying to pull one—”
“The girl’s murderer,” Shayne interrupted him impatiently, “is the only one who needs to worry about meeting me in Quinlan’s office. One-thirty is the deadline. And you’d better have Denton primed to change his story on the confession.” He walked out.
Chapter sixteen
Lucile Hamilton smiled when she opened the door of her apartment to admit Shayne and saw the large paper sack in his hand. Her brown eyes danced merrily and she said, “I bet I can guess.”
Shayne cocked his head and listened to a sizzling sound from the kitchenette. He sniffed the odor of broiling beef and felt an odd gnawing in his stomach. He said, “Two minds with a single thought. God, I’m hungry! There’s steak and canned French fries and stuff for a salad in there.” He handed the sack to her.
Lucile had changed from her housecoat to a dark-red frock with a brilliant pin on the shoulder and a flattering neckline. An apron covered the dress from a point slightly below the neck to the hem of her skirt. She took the sack and said, “I could only afford hamburgers, but I’ve got yams baking and a salad already fixed. Of course, if you’d rather have steak—”
“Food that’s ready to eat is what I crave right now. We’ll save that for another time.” He shucked off his coat and tossed it on a chair.
“You mean — we’ll have another meal together, Mike?” she asked, her eyes sparkling and her cheeks very red from the heat of the tiny kitchenette.