Scam

not look happy. Of course, you couldn’t expect him to, but even so. He saw me, said, “What’s going on?
    “You mean they didn’t tell you?”
    He shook his head. “Not a thing.”
    “It’s the talent agent’s house. She’s dead. They just took the body away.”
    “Hey, motor mouth!” Belcher snapped from the doorway. He stepped in, insinuated himself between us, glared at me. “I kind of wanted to be the one to tell him that, if you know what I mean.” He turned to Sandy. “Now look here, you. You ever see this agent before?”
    “I told you, no.”
    “People tell me lots of things, and some I believe. That don’t mean I won’t ask ’em again. You say you’ve never seen the agent before. Well, if you’ve never seen her, you don’t know what she looks like, so how would you know?”
    Sandy frowned. “What?”
    “Too tough a concept for you? If you don’t know who the woman is, don’t know what she looks like, it is possible you’ve seen her and did not know it was her. Can you follow that all right?”
    “I see what you’re saying, yeah.”
    “Good. Now, as your buddy here points out, the woman’s on her way to the morgue. Which means you’ll have to go there to take a look. But first we have other business to attend to.”
    “What’s that?”
    “There’s an office upstairs. Full of resume photos.”
    “You gotta be kidding.”
    “I assure you I’m not. You and your buddy gonna play find the bimbo. Just as soon as the crime-scene boys are done.” He jerked his thumb. “In fact, here they come now.”
    The crime-scene unit came lugging their cameras and equipment down the stairs and out the front door.
    “All done?” Belcher called to them.
    “It’s all yours.”
    “Okay, guys,” Belcher said. “You’re on.”
    I don’t know how long we were up there, but it seemed like forever. I sat at the desk and Sandy sat in a chair. Bagging the desk was a coup—I could have the pictures in front of me, turn ’em one at a time. Sandy had to balance his on his lap.
    The pictures were pretty much the same as they had been in her Manhattan office. With one exception. One file cabinet was filled with explicit, X-rated shots. Some were just women posing holding their vaginas and ass cheeks open. Others were couples engaging in every conceivable sexual act.
    None of the explicit pictures featured our topless dancer, Marla Melons, and from my conversation with her it seemed unlikely any of them would. Still, Sandy and I were in complete agreement that in the interests of justice we should take no chances and examine them anyway.
    It was nearly two hours later when Sergeant Belcher came stomping in.
    “Any luck?”
    We shook our heads.
    “You keep at it,” Belcher said, pointing at Sandy. He turned to me. “You come with me.”
    He led me into the other bedroom.
    And closed the door.
    Uh-oh.
    I’d been waiting for it to happen. Up till now, Sergeant Belcher had been perfectly civil. Gruff and brusk, sure. But not unnaturally so. Nothing to indicate he had a personal grudge. Then, suddenly for the first time I’m face to face with him all alone. No need for any pretense now. So what was the deal? Was the guy going to beat me up?
    He wasn’t.
    When he turned to me, Belcher’s manner was still formal and official. And I noticed he was holding a paper in his hand.
    “Stanley Hastings,” he said. “I have here a search warrant duly obtained on this day, empowering me to search both your person and your car. Do you intend to comply with this warrant?”
    My mouth fell open. “What?”
    “Don’t you understand the concept?” Belcher said. “You were the last person to see the Daniels woman alive. You are to all intents and purposes a suspect. Therefore to be searched. I have the warrant here. You can examine it if you like. May I have the keys to your car?”
    “You got a search warrant?”
    “Are you having trouble with the English language?” Belcher unfolded the paper, thrust it out at me.
    It was just exactly what he said it was. A judge Sidney Moncrieff, based on allegation and belief, had empowered Sergeant Timothy Belcher to search my person and my car.
    Belcher extended his hand. “May I have your car keys, please?”
    “I don’t believe this.”
    “Believe it or not, do you intend to comply?”
    It occurred to me, Belcher was hoping I wouldn’t. He was looking for anything to get me on. I dug my keys out of my pocket, passed them over.
    Belcher opened the