“SO?” IN THE BEDROOM darkness, Paula’s voice was soft and low. On Bernhardt’s bare chest, her fingers traced a slow, sinuous design, lazily erotic.
“Okay. Jeez.” It was Bernhardt’s burlesque of a grifter’s heartfelt protest upon being conned at his own game. “We’ll see how it goes. But I’m going to talk to her first. Fledgling private investigators don’t start off doing interrogations. They start at the bottom. Which means surveillance. Which means long, cold hours parked in some car. Long, cold, miserable hours. So buy yourself a good thermos bottle. You’ll want a transistor radio, too, with spare batteries. And an empty coffee can.”
“An empty coffee can?”
“Think about it.”