Scam

here? Bus? Taxi? Helicopter?”
    “I drove.”
    “You came in your car?”
    “That’s right.”
    “How did you find the place?”
    “I had the address.”
    Belcher glowered at me. “I know that. I gave the girl the address to give you. How did you locate the address?”
    “I have a Hagstrom map.”
    “Oh?”
    “I use it in my work. I’m always getting beeped, sent to addresses like this. I look them up on the map.”
    “You’re telling me you looked this address up on your map?”
    “Yes, I did.”
    “This address did not ring a bell?”
    “Not offhand.”
    “You’re saying you’ve never been here before?”
    “Not this exact address. I’ve been in the neighborhood.”
    “Why is that?”
    “For my job. This is Forest Hills. I know I’ve done cases in Forest Hills.”
    “Then why didn’t the address ring a bell?”
    “’Cause Mary didn’t say Forest Hills.”
    “Mary?”
    “Switchboard girl at Rosenberg and Stone. The one who beeped me and sent me here. She didn’t say Forest Hills, just gave me a street address in Queens. I didn’t know it was Forest Hills until I looked it up on the map.”
    “That’s your story?”
    I blinked. “Story? “What story? I’m telling you exactly what happened.”
    “So you say. You drove here in your car?”
    “Yes, I did.”
    “What kind of car you drive?”
    “Toyota Corolla.”
    “What year?”
    “ ‘84.”
    “Color?”
    “Tan.”
    “What’s the license number?”
    “Why?”
    “You wanna give me the license number?”
    I gave it to him. He wrote it in his notebook, glared at me, stalked out of the room and down the stairs.
    Leaving me alone with three cops and a medical examiner, none of whom had been told what to do with me. Which was kind of bizarre. After a moment, they ignored me and went about their business, while I just stood and watched.
    Shelly Daniels had apparently been shot. She was lying on her back, and bleeding from a chest wound in the approximate vicinity of her heart. Her head was lolled back and to the side. Her mouth was open but her eyes were closed. Her glasses had slid up on her forehead. In an incredibly grotesque touch, the medical examiner had hiked up her skirt, and appeared to be sexually molesting her. I realized he must be taking the body temperature. I wondered what it was. If it was at all significant. I figured probably not. Most likely the woman had been dead for days, and the body had completely cooled.
    That started another train of thought. Had she been killed the same night as Cranston Pritchert? Who had been killed first? And had they been shot with the same gun? There was no weapon on the scene that I could see. If there had been, it would have answered the first question—the killer had shot Pritchert, then shot Daniels and dropped the gun. Unless the crime-scene unit had already bagged the weapon, nothing that convenient had happened.
    I wondered what had.
    I heard a clomping on the stairs, and Sergeant Belcher came back into the room. He ignored me, spoke to the medical examiner. “You finished up here?”
    “More or less.”
    “Can we move her out?”
    “Sure thing. Just need the stretcher.”
    “They’re down there waiting for your say-so.” He took a step to the door. “All right. Let’s pack her up.”
    Two medics appeared with the stretcher, slipped Shelly Daniels into a body bag, and strapped her down. They were very efficient. Within minutes she was gone.
    And Belcher’s attention turned to me. “All right,” he said. “We have a situation here and I think you know what it is.”
    “Yeah,” I said. “I would classify it as a homicide myself.”
    Belcher scowled. “Don’t be cute. You’ve been through this before, so you know the drill. The name of the game is find the topless dancer.” He jerked his thumb at the crime-scene cops. “As soon as these boys here are through, you’re on.” He turned to one of the cops, who was dusting the desk for fingerprints. “How much longer?”
    The guy shrugged. “Ten, fifteen minutes.”
    Belcher turned back to me. “Okay. Downstairs.”
    He led me downstairs, parked me in the living room. It was a modestly furnished affair, with a couch and coffee table that were either antiques or just old—my grasp on the distinction is vague. I sat on the couch and pondered my fate.
    When who should walk in but Darren “Sandy” Carter.
    So. Belcher wasn’t kidding. We were going through the whole routine again.
    The bartender did