He shook his head and frowned. “LaRue, you’ve gotten things confused. A lot of things confused.” He stood, put his hands in his pocket, the second time today I’d had a man signal me in exactly the same way that the interview was over. “Do you think Trina Lutz knew to put what was poinson to me in my coffee? I don’t think she could have crashed the wedding party and done that if she were dead, now could she? And my real estate files are confidential. Not your business. Now, why don’t you go experiment with hair dyes or . . . new styles and let the police do their work?”

I stood and followed him to the doorway. “Why is there nothing in the files about Preston?” I said. My hands shook. He shrugged. “Why can’t you tell me if or even why she was here the day she died? I mean, if you told her she was losing her job or something, wouldn’t the cops want to know?”

He stopped at the entranceway to the door exactly the way Preston had. He said, “LaRue, Trina killed herself. That’s what the cops have discovered. If they want to know something else, they can come ask me. I need for you to go. I have a call coming in.”

“But what about that property your company ECOL is buying? What is ECOL exactly, anyway? And . . .”
He held out his hand and said, “See you later, LaRue.”

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