O breezes past him into the apartment.
Talking the whole way.
“Paul Patterson,” she says. “Newport Beach. Stockbroker. Appropriate age. More money than God. Exactly the kind of man Paqu would fix her bull’s-eye on.”
She lies down on the sofa like she’s in some old-fashioned shrink’s office. Ben, recognizing his role, sits down in a chair and asks, “Are you going to contact him?”
“I dunno,” she moans. “Should I?”
The doorbell rings again.
“Hold that thought,” Ben says.
He gets up and opens the door.