Scam

It’s us against them, pick a side. I’m the bad guy, didn’t go along.”
    “When did all this happen?”
    “Long time ago. Before I ever met you. But an officer never forgets. Cops and elephants. Long-term memory’s just fine.”
    “I think the bit about elephants is a myth.”
    “The point is, I can’t think of an officer I’d like less in charge of this investigation.”
    “I see what you mean.”
    “Do you? I was kidding before about being your alibi witness. Then I see who’s in charge, and suddenly it’s no joke.” MacAullif pointed. “This one’s right up your street. Your TV mentality. Good cops and bad cops. Belcher is what you would call a bad cop. A sadistic, rotten son of a bitch who harbors a grudge. How’s he been with you so far?”
    “Pretty above board.”
    “Not overtly hostile?”
    “Nothing I could point to, no.”
    “Well, it’s early on. The problem is, the guy would love nothing better than to get me. If he thinks you’re a friend of mine, he’ll be out to get you.”
    “I stand warned.”
    “Do you? Then let me give you a little advice. Your client’s dead.. You got no stake in this no more. There’s no need for you to be messin’ around with this.”
    “Yeah, well it’s a two-edged sword.”
    “What do you mean?”
    “If the guy’s out to get me, I gotta protect myself. And how can I do that if I don’t know the score?”
    MacAullif winced, put up his hands. “No, no, no. You got it all screwed around. You’re not involved in this. You did a job, it’s done. And you told the cops everything you know. End of story. You leave it alone, and they leave it alone.”
    I frowned. “Maybe. But you’re making a big assumption.”
    “What’s that?”
    “They leave it alone.”

27.
    I T WAS A TWO-STORY house in Scarsdale on a pleasant, tree-lined lot. I pulled into the driveway, went up to the front door, and rang the bell.
    And got no answer. Which was strange. It was nine o’clock in the morning, the garage door was closed, and I would have expected a young woman of independent means to be at home.
    Of course, she might well be asleep. I rang the doorbell again.
    A red sports car pulled into the driveway, parked behind mine. A knockout of a young blonde got out. She was dressed in a white tennis outfit and had obviously just come from the court. She confirmed this by retrieving a racket and a can of balls from the back seat. She had a slim athletic figure and a light graceful step, and as she came up the path it occurred to me she was one of those young women who was able to appear hot and sweaty and at the same time fresh and clean.
    I gave her my best smile, said, “Amy Greenberg?”
    She stopped about ten feet from me, held the tennis racket in front of her, not like a weapon, but definitely at the ready.
    “Who are you?”
    “I’m Stanley Hastings. I’m a private detective. I was hired by Cranston Pritchert.”
    “Oh,” she said. “Then you’re the one.”
    “Who found him? Yes, that’s right.”
    “What do you want with me?”
    “I have a few questions to ask you, if you wouldn’t mind.”
    “I don’t mind, but, like, I don’t know anything.”
    “Perhaps you’d be willing to listen to what I have to say.”
    “I already spoke to the police.”
    “I’m sure you did.”
    “They were all like, How well did you know what’s-his-name? And I was all like, Who the hell is that?”
    “Uh-huh. If you could give me a few minutes of your time.”
    She frowned. Thought a moment. “Okay. Come on in.”
    Amy Greenberg’s living room gave off the same signals as the sports car—it boasted a bar and a projection TV.
    “Sit down,” she said. She gestured to the bar. “Can I get you anything?”
    “Not this early.”
    She smiled. “Hey, I didn’t mean, like, you’re a detective, you must drink first thing in the morning. I just played two sets of tennis, I’m all, Give me a Gatorade. You want a soft drink or something?”
    “No, I’m fine.”
    Amy bent over and opened the mini refrigerator, which gave me a good idea of just how well she fit into her shorts. She took out a quart of Gatorade, poured some into a glass, and chugged it down. “Now,” she said. “What’s this all about?”
    I took a breath. “I’m wondering how much you know.”
    She shrugged. “I know what happened. One of the vice-presidents is dead.”
    “Cranston Pritchert.”
    “Yeah. And he hired you and you found the body.” She shivered. “That must