CHAPTER 5At seven in the morning I got up and made some coffee, which didn’t sit much better than the ice cream, though it did get me through a shower and shave. At eight o’clock I called Peter Rinaldi at the home of Mary Dane. Rinaldi answered the phone.
“About your message—” I said.
“Yes—I sent you a message—”
He sounded old and tired.
“I guess we had better talk things over,” I said.
“Yes, I suppose so.”
“Your place or mine?”
“Not here.”
“All right. My place, as soon as you can make it.”
I gave him the address before I remembered he already had it.
“Have you had breakfast?” I asked.
He laughed in a cackling way and hung up. I drank some more of the coffee, boiled a couple of eggs and got them down while checking out the L.A. Times. There was no such story as: “Michele Armande
