As I removed the photo from the cracked frame, the glass separated into two pieces. I tucked both in the trash can and tossed the frame in after them. I pulled out a new frame and peeled off the price tag, sliding the mat and the cardboard backing out of the frame. I tucked the photo between the backing and the mat, turning it over to make sure the image was straight. I eased the three layers-mat, photo, and backing-into the space between the glass and the series of staples that were sticking out of the frame. I turned it back again. It looked good.
I picked up the second photograph and went through the same process. The glass was only cracked across one corner, but the frame itself was unsalvageable. This photograph showed two young men and a young woman on a sailboat, everyone with beer cans, sunburns, and wind-tangled hair. Danielle had probably taken the picture herself. It must have been a good day with good friends at a time in her life when she was still in possession of her innocence. I've been on outings like it. You come home dog-tired and dirty, but you never forget.
In the third picture, Danielle was posed under a white trellised arch in the company of a young clean-cut guy. From the dress she was wearing, complete with an orchid on her wrist, I guessed this was taken at her high school prom. It was nice getting a glimpse of her private life, images of her as she'd been before. She had entered the life as surely as a novice entering a convent, with a gap just as wide between past and present.
The last picture had been rematted, a wide band of gray reducing the framed image to its two central figures: Danielle and Lorna dressed up and sitting in a booth. It looked like a commercial photograph, taken by a roving photographer who made a living snapping pictures on the spot. Hard to tell where this was taken, Los Angeles or Vegas, some glitzy nightclub, with dinner and dancing. In the background, I could see a portion of a bandstand and a potted plant. Champagne glasses on the table in front of them. The frame was cheap, but the wide gray matting was a nice choice for the subject matter, isolating the two of them.
Both women were looking elegant, seated at a found table in a black leather-padded booth. Lorna was so beautiful: dark-haired, hazel-eyed, with a perfect oval face. Her expression was grave, with just the smallest hint of a smile on her lips. She wore a black satin cocktail dress, with long sleeves and a square, low-cut neckline. The diamond hoop earrings sparkled at her ears. Danielle wore kelly green, a form-fitting sequined top, probably with a miniskirt, if I knew Danielle's taste. Her long dark hair had been smoothed into a French roll. I imagined Lorna getting her all dolled up tor a kind of high-class date: two call girls on the town. Along the back of the booth, I could see a man's hand and arm extending behind Lorna. I could feel my heart begin to thump.
I extracted the photograph from the frame and turned it over. With the matting removed, I could see all four people who'd been sitting at the table that night: Roger, Danielle, Lorna, and Stubby Stockton. Oh, man, this is it, I thought. This is it. Maybe not everything, but the heart of the riddle.
I carried the photo with me to the telephone and called Cheney's pager number, punching in my own telephone number and the # sign at the sound of the tone. I hung up. While I waited for him to return my call, I sat at my desk and sorted through my notes, pulling all the index cards on which Roger was mentioned. Most were from my initial interview, with additional notes from my conversation with Serena. I scanned the cards on the bulletin board, but there were no further references. I laid the cards out on my desk like a tarot reading. I found the notes I'd scribbled to myself after my meeting with him. Roger had told me Lorna called him Friday morning. I circled the day and added a question mark, affixing the card to the photograph with a paper clip.
The phone rang. "Kinsey Millhone," I said automatically.
"This is Cheney. What's up?"
"I'm not sure. Let me tell you what I came across, and you tell me." I told him briefly how I'd acquired the photographs, and then I detailed the one I was looking at. "I know you were kidding when you talked about Roger and Stubby, but they did know each other, and well enough to go whoring together somewhere out of town. I also went back through my notes and came across an interesting discrepancy. Roger told me Lorna called him Friday morning, but she couldn't possibly have done that. She was dead by then."
There was a brief silence. "I don't see where you're going with this."
"I have no idea. That's why I'm calling you," I said. "I mean, suppose Roger and Stubby were in business together. If Lorna told Roger about her relationship with Esselmann, they could have been using the information to pressure him. Esselmann balked…"