The young woman who opened the door of apartment #4 was not Gianna Fornessi. She was blonde, with the kind of fresh-faced Nordic features you see on models for Norwegian ski wear. Tall and slender in a pair of green silk lounging pajamas; arms decorated with hammered gold bracelets, ears with dangly gold triangles. Judging from the expression in her pale eyes, there wasn't much going on behind them. But then, with her physical attributes, not many men would care if her entire brain had been surgically removed.
"Well," she said, "hello."
"Ashley Hansen?"
"That's me. Who're you?"
When I told her my name her smile brightened, as if I'd said something amusing or clever. Or maybe she just liked the sound of it.
"I knew right away you were Italian," she said. "Are you a friend of Jack's?"
"Jack?"
"Jack Bisconte." The smile dulled a little. "You are, aren't you?"
"No," I said, "I'm a friend of Pietro Lombardi."
"Who?"
"Your roommate's grandfather. I'd like to talk to Gianna, if she's home."
Ashley Hansen's smile was gone now; her whole demeanor had changed, become less self-assured. She nibbled at a corner of her lower lip, ran a hand through her hair, fiddled with one of her bracelets. Finally she said, "Gianna isn't here."
"When will she be back?"
"She didn't say."
"You know where I can find her?"
"No. What do you want to talk to her about?"
"The complaint George Ferry filed against her."
"Oh, that," she said. "That's all been taken care of."
"I know. I just talked to Ferry."
"He's a creepy little prick, isn't he?"
"That's one way of putting it."
"Gianna didn't take his money. He was just trying to hassle her, that's all."
"Why would he do that?"
"Well, why do you think?"
I shrugged. "Suppose you tell me."
"He wanted her to do things."
"You mean go to bed with him?"
"Things," she said. "Kinky crap, real kinky."
"And she wouldn't have anything to do with him."
"No way, Jose. What a creep."
"So he made up the story about the stolen money to get back at her, is that it?"
"That's it."
"What made him change his mind, drop the charges?"
"He didn't tell you?"
"No."
"Who knows?" She laughed. "Maybe he got religion."
"Or a couple of smacks in the face."
"Huh?"
"Somebody worked him over yesterday," I said. "Bruised his cheek and cut his mouth. You have any idea who?"
"Not me, mister. How come you're so interested, anyway?"
"I told you, I'm a friend of Gianna's grandfather."
"Yeah, well."
"Gianna have a boyfriend, does she?"
"… Why do you want to know that?"
"Jack Bisconte, maybe? Or is he yours?"
"He's just somebody I know." She nibbled at her lip again, did some more fiddling with her bracelets. "Look, I've got to go. You want me to tell Gianna you were here?"
"Yes." I handed her one of my business cards. "Give her this and ask her to call me."
She looked at the card; blinked at it and then blinked at me.
"You… you're a detective?"
"That's right."
"My God," she said, and backed off, and shut the door in my face.
I stood there for a few seconds, remembering her eyes-the sudden fear in her eyes when she'd realized she had been talking to a detective.
What the hell?