“A mixture of medication and alcohol.”

“Was it . . . ,” she struggles for the words, a few tears slip out, “accidental? I mean, could she have made a mistake?”

“The police have ruled it a suicide.”

She nods to herself. “Thank you for telling me. I’ve known Celine for a few years now and considered her a friend. I met her through a mutual acquaintance several years ago, way back when I was still in law school.”

“I’m sure you’ve come a long way since being a student.” My eyes scan the condo again. It’s nice, modern, clean. Doug said this unit sold for 1.3 million last June. “And so quickly.”

As if pulling on a mask of composure, she sits taller. “I suppose I chose the right profession.”

I’m guessing her second career isn’t one she broadcasts widely. It probably wouldn’t be great for her professional reputation at Delong and Quaid. I’m having a hard time biting back the cynicism, leveling my gaze at her harshly. “Yes, I’m sure you’re very good at what you do.”

Her eyes narrow for just a flash, so quick that I almost think I imagined it. “I’m surprised you thought to track me down.”

I can tell she’s mentally playing out a conversation, trying to figure out exactly what I know and how I know it. I save her the trouble. “I know that you were the one setting Celine up with ‘companions.’ ” I air quote that word.

She clears her throat. “She told you?” I hear her add in a low mumble, “I didn’t think she would.”

“She wrote about it all in her diaries.”

Larissa’s color returns, her cheeks flushing suddenly. “She was a friend who needed to make money to pay for school. I simply introduced her to a few older gentlemen who I know like to take pretty, young women to social events. That’s all I did and there’s nothing illegal about that. Unless of course she didn’t claim the income for tax purposes. I warned her to.”

I highly doubt most of these girls working under Larissa file taxes for sex work. It’s free cash on the side. Scanning Celine’s tax files, it appeared that she started out honest, including a secondary income amount in her yearly income when she was serving strictly as a companion. But, based on my quick scan of last year’s filing, she wasn’t claiming everything that was in her notebook. “I’m still sorting through that. What I do know is that some of these men paid for an awful lot more than a social event.”

She shrugs, seemingly more relaxed. “I specifically told her that getting paid for sexual favors is illegal. Anything in those diaries that indicates I said otherwise won’t stand in court.”

“Right. If she decided to make a little extra money, that was on her. Not you. Because you were very careful about what was ever recorded. So tell me . . . do you claim that ‘twenty percent referral rate’ that you make your girls pay you?”

Larissa’s initial shock over Celine’s death has quickly given way to a cold exterior, rank with self-preservation. She presses her lips shut tightly. When she speaks again, it’s with a smile. “You’re obviously mistaken about that. I realize that you’re looking for people to blame for what Celine chose to do with her life. But might I remind you that making accusations without solid proof will only harm you and Celine’s memory. Any pot you’d like to stir will end with her mother finding out what she was doing. Do you really want that? I think the poor woman has been through enough, don’t you? From what Celine told me of her, that kind of news would kill her.”

Well played, Larissa. I grit my teeth against the urge to scream at her. Scream and reach out to wrap my fingers around her spindly neck and shake her until her head topples off. She’s right. It would kill Rosa to know. And the truth is, I don’t have any solid evidence. A diary with a person by the name of “L” gives me nothing.

I won’t get anywhere with this woman by threatening her. “Did she ever mention that one of her ‘clients’ ”—I roll my eyes—“was a man who worked in her building?”

“No, I don’t recall anything about that,” Larissa answers quickly, dismissively, checking her fingernails. She’s lying. I know she is. She’s protecting herself. But I’ve got no way of proving it.

I exhale heavily, preparing to use the power that I try so hard never to wield. “I have a private detective on retainer and an inexhaustible amount of money to spend digging up every last piece of information I want, if I so choose. So please . . . don’t piss me off. I need to know about the client who worked in her office building. He would have gone by Jay, or Jace.” Would he have used his real name at some point with Larissa? How thorough was she, really, when she set Celine up on “dates”? Real escort agencies would have background checks and a paper trail, however well concealed. I’m getting the impression that this operation of Larissa’s was extremely “off the books.”

We simply sit and stare at each other, each weighing the threat that the other may pose. I hold my back rigid, my legs crossed, my face coolly collected, just as I imagine the most astute femme fatale might in an interrogation.

Finally, Larissa relents. “A guy called. He told me that one of my regulars had referred him and he asked for a young, pretty Hispanic companion. Obviously, I thought of Celine. I arranged for a meeting between the two of them.”

“Where?”

“A hotel. I can’t recall which one. But it was for drinks,” she quickly adds. “I never met him, I don’t know what he looked like. He introduced himself to me as ‘Jay.’ ”

“And this regular of yours—”

“Is too valuable for me to lose, as are all of my regulars, so go and waste your money trying to find the name if you want, because I won’t give it to you willingly,” she snaps, the stubborn set of her jaw telling me that she’s not bluffing.

“Did Celine ever see this ‘Jay’ again?”

She folds her arms over her chest, and I read that as a sign that the information vault is officially closed. “You tell me. She’s the one who wrote about her exploits in her diary, right?”

If Larissa doesn’t know, then it’s either because Celine only saw Jace that one time, or because Celine decided to pocket Larissa’s cut and not tell her.