She was the confidante of Shirley Feebling and had the misfortune of finding that poor woman's corpse. I was sure Pinky had been interrogated by the Fort Lauderdale police, but sometimes a material witness doesn't tell the cops everything he or she knows, not in an effort to impede the investigation but because of a personal motive. Or the witness doesn't fully comprehend what observations and/ or knowledge are germane. In any event, I reckoned it might help my own inquiry if I met Ms. Schatz and heard her story personally.

She was not listed in the Fort Lauderdale or Pompano Beach telephone directories. She and Shirl had been coworkers so I called the topless car wash. The man who answered had a growly voice, and I guessed him to be Jake, the woolly mammoth.

"Yeah?" he said.

"Could I speak to Pinky Schatz, please."

"She don't work here no more."

"Do you have her present home address?" I asked. "This is the McNally Insurance Company. We have a check for her in payment for damages her car suffered in a recent collision, but our letter was returned to us marked 'Not at this address.' I imagine she's moved and neglected to inform us."

"I don't know where she's living," he said. "Try the Leopard Club on Federal. She's dancing there."

He hung up before I could thank him.

I had heard of the Leopard Club. It was said to be an upscale and pricey nude dancing establishment where the performers mingled freely with the patrons, most of whom were suits carrying calfskin attache cases. I had never been tempted to visit since the idea of sipping an overpriced aperitif while a naked young woman gyrated on my table seemed to me a betrayal of Western Civilization.

However, I resolutely conquered my squeamishness and set out to find Pinky Schatz. But first I drove the Miata to my garage in West Palm Beach where I left it for a tune-up, eschewing new tires until my checking account was off life-support and breathing normally. I was given a loaner, a black three-year-old Buick LeSabre. It was rather sedate for my taste but certainly less noticeable and less likely to be remembered than my jazzy little chariot.

Two hours later I entered the Leopard Club, after passing a tenner to the muscular sentry at the door. A score of men, mostly middle-aged and solemn of mien, sat at small tables and watched nude dancers on a brightly lighted stage oscillating more or less in rhythm to music from overhead loudspeakers.

There were a half-dozen dancers, each au naturel except for a single garter about one thigh. Tucked into the elastic strip were folded bills: ones, fives, tens, a few twenties: tips from appreciative customers. When the music ended, the dancers left the stage and came down to cajole patrons into paying an added fee for a solo dance atop their table. Meanwhile the music started again, and a new set of dancers pranced onto the stage and began to demonstrate their flexibility.

I had been approached by a surly waitress, fully clothed, who took my order for a bottle of Heineken. She brought it almost immediately along with a tab for ten dollars I was apparently expected to pay instanter. But before I did, I asked if Pinky Schatz was present.

"Yeah," the waitress said, "the fatso redhead on the stage. You want I should send her over when the set ends?"

"Please," I said, paid for the beer, gave her a five-dollar tip, and glanced sorrowfully at my rapidly shrinking wallet.

The music paused briefly, the dancers left the stage, a new squad took over. The "fatso redhead" came sashaying toward my table. She had the loveliest silicone I've ever seen.

"Hi, honey," she said, beaming. "You asked for me?"

"If you're Pinky Schatz."

She nodded. "That's right, and I bet you want a table dance. It's my specialty."

"No, no," I said hastily. "Just a little conversation."

"Oh-ho," she said. "Well, that's okay, too. You can tell me how your wife doesn't understand you. Can I have a drink?"

"Of course. Whatever you want."

"Hey, Mabel," she called to the waitress. "My usual." Then she leaned to me. "They'll charge you for booze," she whispered, "but it's just iced tea."

I liked her. She was a large, vital woman with a ready smile and a hearty laugh. Marvelous skin tone. Also, she had a tattoo of an American flag on her left bicep, and that reminded me of you know who.

Her drink was served and we lifted our glasses to each other.

"You're a tall one," she said. "I like that. How come you asked for me?"

"You were a close friend of Shirley Feebling, weren't you?"

Her face hardened and she started to rise. I put out a hand to stop her.

"Please don't leave," I begged. "I'm not a cop, and this is very important to me."

She sat down slowly. It was odd conversing at a minuscule table with a rosy, naked woman, but I swear to you I wasn't distracted. Charmed, as a matter of fact, but not unduly aroused.

"Who are you?" she demanded.

I had devised a scam on the drive down from Palm Beach. It was a cruel deception but I could think of no alternative.

"My name is Chauncey Smythe-Hersforth," I said. "Did Shirl ever mention me?"

Her big eyes grew even bigger. "Oh gawd," she said. "You're the guy who wanted to marry her."

I nodded.

Her hand fell softly on my arm. "I'm sorry, Chauncey," she said. "Really sorry."

"Thank you," I said. "Listen, I need your help. The police seem to be getting nowhere on this, and I want the guy who did it found and sent to the chair. You can understand that, can't you?"

"Sure," she said. "Me, too. Shirl was my best friend, and a sweeter girl never lived."

"Did she ever say anything about someone following her or annoying her or making threatening phone calls? Anything like that?"

"I told the cops. She said that for the last few days-this was before she was killed-she kept seeing this Cadillac. It was around all the time while she was at work and at home and when she went shopping."

"A Cadillac? Did she describe the model and color?"

"Not the model. She said it was a funny color, like bronzy."

"Did she get a look at the driver?"

"Not a good clear look. She said he had a hatchet face. She said she thought she had seen him before in the pizza joint near the car wash."

"Pinky, have you any idea who she was talking about? Did you ever meet a hatchet-faced man who drives a car like that?"

She looked at me steadily, her stare unwavering, unblinking. It shocked me because when people are about to lie, they put on a look like that. It is not true that liars are shifty-eyed, blink frequently, or turn their gaze away. Experienced liars hope to prove their honesty by a steady, wide-eyed look expressing complete probity.

"Why, no," Pinky Schatz said. "I never met a man like that. I have no idea who he could be. That's what I told the cops."

I thanked her, slipped her fifty dollars, and left the Leopard Club. I was depressed. Not so much by the sadness of that joint-lonely, longing men and bored, contemptuous women-but by what I considered the blatant falsehoods of Pinky Schatz. It wasn't difficult to imagine the motive for her lies. It was fear.

It was latish when I arrived back in Palm Beach and it seemed silly to return to my office and stare at the walls. So I went for a swim, removed the ocean's residue with a hot shower and loofah glove, and dressed for what I devoutly hoped would be an uneventful evening.

And it was until about nine-thirty. I had gone up to my lair after dinner and was recording in my journal the mise-en-scene at the Leopard Club when my phone did what phones are supposed to do. I wasn't sure I wanted to pick it up, fearing it might be Connie calling to tell me what a frabjous evening she was having with Wes Trumbaugh.

But I answered. It wasn't Connie. It was Theodosia Johnson.