As she rides by

right side of face and neck, where bullet entered (see Ballistics). Zap! Watches, rings, wallet, etc., gun, & gloves into purse. Scratch self-inflicted with suitable scratcher. Window opened. Mary staggers out, falls/collapses by large drain near corner (evidence—me). Then, as above, into drain goes purse, including original list of twenty-seven, and, likely, the ladylike gloves worn to foil the cops if in the unlikely event they run a paraffin test on her pinkies to see if she’s fired a gun recently. Then she sits there moaning until help arrives.

    THEIRS
    Did either of them legally own a registered gun? If they did, they sure wouldn’t use it on Flint . If they didn’t, where did they get one? Easy to say, you can pick one up anywhere these days, but precisely where? And what about the possibility of a comeback from the guy you got it from when he sees your mug in the paper a few days later?
    Easier to make one, if you know how, maybe in the storeroom even, you’ve got almost two full days, remember, and .22 ammo you can get anywhere. Also, zips are quieter, much. Easy to say, what about a silencer, but where do you get one of them and a suitable firearm in two days?
    She didn’t report any credit cards stolen. No one carries cash around to pay for things like theater tickets, which she had to pay for at the box office (evidence—me); if she did pay in cash to avoid the hassle of reporting stolen cards and replacing them, would that not be a mite suspicious? None of Mr. Flint’s cards used after the NIQ. If they were legitimately, so to speak, stolen, wouldn’t the thief have used them or sold them to someone who did? (Evidence Debby.)
    The handy little bar around the corner: Apparently held in reserve by Mary (my surmise) if she was ever asked what she was doing on that lonely corner instead of being on the direct and well-lit route back to the studio? Had she ever in fact been in the joint? Flint had two drinks; she had one. Where? It’s all a bit of a blind alley, anyway, this line.

    When he was done, Sergeant Brav leaned back in his chair, smoothed his mustache again, and said, “Know what?”
    “What?”
    “You should be the cop.”
    “Why, sarge,” I said. “That’s the sweetest thing anyone’s said to me all day.”
    “Know what else?”
    “What?”
    “If they clam up, I don’t figure we could ever pin it on either one of them, or both; what’s it been, over six months now?”
    “Don’t look too good,” I said.
    “Him or her,” he said. “Which one do you think?”
    “I think her,” I said. “Why did Tex hire me in the first place? He could have proven to the boys he was on the up-and-up easily without bringing me into it, but according to Rick, he jumped at the chance. Strange as it might seem for someone in the music business, one can only suppose that not only did he have a conscience, but it was starting to hurt. But enough to risk him getting sent up for life on a Murder One? More likely not. He did give me a couple of hints about her, too, now that I think about it; first thing I ever heard him say was his little woman was the brains in the family, then he let spill she was an actuary a few minutes later. I’m sure he would have let slip inadvertently on purpose a few other hints if required. I think he’s scared, sarge, and getting scareder; how would you like to go home to a murderer each night after work?”
    “No thanks,” the sarge said. “It’s bad enough as it is.” I grinned at him. He got to his feet and stretched.
    “Ahh. That’s better. Goddamned back.”
    “You too, eh?”
    “Comes from sitting in that goddamn car all day,” he said. “Ah well, what can you do. About this stuff,” he said, waving his paperwork at me, “I’ll show it to the lieutenant, but like I said, don’t hold your breath. But who knows, we might get lucky, it has happened.” King got up too, and also stretched, then went over to have a sniff at the sarge’s trouser legs.
    “Nice pooch,” the sarge said, bending over to give his ears a rub. “Terrific,” I said. “Smart, too. I’m thinking of sending him to police dog training school. ‘Course, he could only work plainclothes.”
    The sarge gave me a look, then a wave, then let himself out. I dug out Tom ‘n’ Jerry’s phone number at their residential hotel up on Fountain, and tried them. It was Tom who picked up the receiver at their end.
    “Famous singing duo,” he said. “The short one