CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
She stood between us, hands in her tan overcoat and long hair pulled back into a single long ponytail. On the shoulders of her coat was a light sprinkling of snow. Underneath her coat was a pair of dark slacks, a heavy blouse. On her feet was a pair of sturdy but comfortable looking shoes. She didn’t look bad after being rudely aroused by an incessant telephone ringing in her ear at two in the morning. When we picked her up, she was waiting in the lobby of the hotel and ready to go. Even eager.
We stood in the middle of the spotlessly clean cement floor of Abraham Polanski’s garage surrounded by classic steel. The garage floor was filled with menacing shadows and darkness. Only one tiny lightbulb vainly tried to illuminate the garage floor. But it couldn’t. There were
