I arrived in the vestibule as Dean pressed Whitacre’s bell-button.
“Hello,” I said. “You in on this?”
“Uh-huh. What d’you know?”
“Nothing. I just got it.”
The front door clicked open, and we went together up to the Whitacre’s apartment on the third floor. A plump, blond woman in a light blue house-dress opened the apartment door. She was rather pretty in a thick-featured, stolid way.
“ Mrs. Whitacre?” Dean inquired.
“Yes.”
“Is Mr. Whitacre in?”
“No. He went to Los Angeles this morning,” she said, and her face was truthful.
“Know where we can get in touch with him there?”
“Perhaps at the Ambassador, but I think he’ll be back by tomorrow or the next day.”
Dean showed her his badge.
“We want to ask you a few questions,” he told her, and with no appearance of astonishment she opened the door wide for us to enter. She led us into a blue and cream living-room, where we found a chair apiece. She sat facing us on a big blue settle.
“Where was your husband last night?” Dean asked.
“Home. Why?” Her round blue eyes were faintly curious.