She took a seat but wouldn’t take any whiskey. I poured her measure in my glass and held it no more loosely than she held the pistol.
“Explain this to me, Kurt.”
Her free fingers brushed past her chest and pulled a folded photo from inside the dress.
The creases were stiffer than a priest’s promise – she clearly hadn’t looked at it much. The photo was from far, I had to squint to make out the detail. Photo was of me, all right, passing a picture to another guy: hitman by the name of Al Cold. A picture of Luce.