Beauty Queen

the building.
    He drove to the nearest pier, found a public telephone, and called the police.
    Mary Ellen and Danny listened to the dispatcher talking about an "unconscious person" found by a citizen in a warehouse on South Street, between Catherine and Peck. She decided she would respond to this one instead of letting her men do it. The reason was simple—it had been a pretty dull shift, and this would not be the first time the precinct had been troubled by goings-on at this warehouse.
    "Cruiser two-oh-four responding," she said into the radio. Danny turned on the flashing red light, and she headed the car down Pine Street toward South.
    Two minutes after the radio call, she was screeching to a halt in front of the warehouse. A man in gray slacks and a blue sweat-shirt was standing there beside a shiny gray Lancia which was probably his.
    As she and Danny got out of the car, the man stared at her, and at her sergeant stripes. She had seen that stare so many times that it didn't bother her any more. The stare told her that the man wondered if he had been transported into "Charlie's Angels." So she spoke to him in a crisp level voice that would not remind him at all of Farrah Fawcett-Majors.
    "I'm Sergeant Frampton," she said. "This is Officer Blackburn. Are you the citizen who called about a dead person?"
    "Yes," he said. "I'll show you where he is."
    "May I ask what you're doing on the premises?" she asked.
    The man hesitated for a moment, seeming a little nervous. Then he said, "My name is Bill Laird. I'm a real-estate man. I just bought this property yesterday, and I was making an inspection. He couldn't have been here long, because I was here with the previous owners just a couple of days ago."
    They were walking swiftly into the building.
    "Laird," she said. "Uh, aren't you William Laird, the developer?"
    "That's right," said the man.
    Her poker face relaxed into a soft smile. Danny grinned too, and asked, "You gonna do one of your magic numbers on this place?"
    "I hope so," he said, his face relaxing a little too.
    Now that Mary Ellen looked at him, she had the vague feeling that she had seen him somewhere before. Not in connection with police work, either. Maybe it was in the newspapers or a magazine. On the other hand, the man kept looking at her nervously as if maybe he had seen her somewhere before too.
    "I've bought the whole block," he said. "This building is going to be my own home, and the other buildings are going to be shops and condominiums. I also own the two little piers across the street."
    "Great idea," she said. "This building has been a problem. The fire, junkies, you name it. The more you do, the less we have to do."
    "I'm bringing in a watchman, today," he said, "so you shouldn't have much more trouble."
    They had reached the second floor. Mary Ellen and Danny walked briskly over to the body, and examined it in the glow of their flashlights without any squeamishness, without touching it. Her instincts told her that the nervousness of this stately businessman had nothing to do with the death of the old man lying here.
    "Looks like an apparent natural," she said. "But you never know."
    "Poor old guy," said Danny. "I've seen him around the area."
    She went back to her car, and William Laird trailed after her. She spoke into her radio.
    "Cruiser two-oh-four," she said.
    "Cruiser two-oh-four," squawked the dispatcher's voice out of the radio.
    "Send Homicide to two-thirty-five South Street," she said. "Apparent natural."
    When Homicide arrived, Laird had to tell them his story all over again, and give them a detailed statement. The two detectives scouted the area thoroughly, poked around in the debris, took notes. They remarked that it was odd the man had no small possessions with him, and no empty bottles of booze. But there were no signs of violence.
    "What happens to him now?" Laird asked her.
    "Well," she said, "if he can't be identified, he'll stay in the morgue for ten days, and then the city will take charge of his burial."
    "You don't need me any more, then?" Laird asked.
    "You might be called for further questioning," she said. "But I doubt it."
    Suddenly the words came out.
    "Mr. Laird, I have the feeling I've seen you somewhere before," she said. "Nothing to do with police work or anything," she added hastily, afraid of alarming him. "Just . . . well, you look very familiar to me."
    "Really?" said Laird, suddenly a little distant. "I can't think where. This is my first experience with