Scam

walked around it, surveyed the top. A telephone, an appointment book, a memo pad.
    And a letter addressed to Cranston Pritchert.
    Yes, this was his office.
    So, where the hell was he?
    Well, more than likely, out to dinner.
    And, cynical son of a bitch that I am, it occurred to me he was probably out to dinner with Lucy Blaine, Marla Melons, or whatever the hell her name was, and the two of them were laughing their ass off over this scam they pulled on the poor dipshit PI.
    It also occurred to me, I hadn’t had dinner at all.
    Suffice it to say, I was not a happy camper.
    So, what did I do now? Go home, or wait for my client to come back?
    Well, after my talk with MacAullif, I was too pissed to go home. It wasn’t just that the guy had lied to me. Hell, I wanted to get paid.
    While I waited, I checked out the other offices.
    The one at the end of the hall was twice the size of Cranston Pritchert’s, and boasted a portable bar. Obviously the office of the late Philip Greenberg. I wondered if Cranston would get it, if he succeeded in being elected chairman of the board.
    Across the hall was an office identical to Pritchert’s. The letters on that desk were addressed to a Mr. Kevin Dunbar.
    I tried to stem the growing sense of pride over the ease with which my efficient detective work was identifying the occupants of the offices.
    Next to Dunbar’s was an office dominated by file cabinets, calculators, and ledger books. I didn’t want to get cocky, but I had a feeling it might belong to the accountant.
    The office next to it was identical to Kevin Dunbar and Cranston Pritchert’s.
    With one small exception.
    The body of Cranston Pritchert lay stretched out on the floor.

21.
    T HE COP DIDN’T KNOW ME from Adam. Which was a bit of a surprise. I’ve been involved in enough homicide investigations by now that I’ve got to know a few cops. But he wasn’t one of them.
    His name was Belcher. Sergeant Timothy Belcher. One might imagine a kid by the name of Belcher would take a lot of ribbing and become tough as nails. It would certainly have accounted for the expression on the guy’s face.
    Sergeant Belcher was medium height, medium build, but looked solid as a rock. The image started with his jaw, which appeared permanently set. I swear it didn’t move when he talked.
    The eyes didn’t either. They bored right through you. And the single expression on the deadpan face, or so it seemed to me, was, You lying sack of shit, I don’t believe a single word you say.
    “All right,” Belcher said. “Let’s go over it again.”
    I had already told him everything. Belcher had advised me that I had the right to remain silent, but had managed to convey the impression that if I chose to exercise that right, I would be the unhappiest private detective that ever lived.
    He needn’t have bothered. With my client dead, I had no one left to protect. Except me. And I didn’t happen to be guilty, so I had nothing to worry about. I mean, that’s the way the system works, isn’t it?
    At any rate, I had already talked, and Belcher had liked it so much he wanted to hear it again. In fact, he must have really liked it, because this time he had a stenographer brought in to take it down so he could go over it to his heart’s content.
    “Okay,” I said. “I came up here tonight to look for my client.”
    “The client is Cranston Pritchert?”
    “That’s right.”
    “The dead man?”
    “Yes. The dead man.”
    “You’ve seen the dead man and you identify him as Cranston Pritchert, your client, the man who employed you?”
    “That’s right.”
    “When did he employ you, and when did the two of you first meet?”
    “He came to my office Monday morning.”
    “This past Monday morning?”
    “That’s right.”
    “At what time?”
    “Around nine o’clock.”
    “And what happened then?”
    I went through it all again. The whole shmear. Just as I told it to MacAullif, and just as I’d already told it to him. Everything I’d done up to and including finding the body and calling the cops.
    “So,” Belcher said, when I was done. “This extortion letter you refer to—the one you say your client rigged himself—do you still have that?”
    “Actually, no, I don’t.”
    “And why is that?”
    “After he admitted making it, it wasn’t important anymore.”
    “So, what did you do with it?”
    “I think I left it on his desk.”
    “You think?”
    “Like I say, it wasn’t important. I brought it to his office,