Scam

paid through the agent, they did not have an address or phone number on her, or even a name other than Marla Melons.
    Of course, she had not been to work since the murder. If she had the cops would have found her. The fact they hadn’t was unsettling at best.
    That left me with my other lead. She had taken a taxi to Third Avenue and 85th Street. Presumably she was going home. And she hadn’t given the taxi driver her exact address, probably a standard precaution after an unfortunate experience. Anyway, that’s how I saw it. She was going home, and she told the driver 85th and Third.
    I had a further clue. She’d stopped on the northeast corner of Third Avenue and 85th. The way that figured, her apartment was either right there on Third Avenue, or—and this seemed more likely—was on the north side of 85th Street between Second and Third Avenue, and closer to Third. Why? Because 85th Street is one-way going west. So she couldn’t have had the cab turn onto 85th even if she’d wanted to. So, if she lived closer to Second, she’d have had the cab go around the block—up Third Avenue to 86th, across and down Second to 85th.
    Anyway, from where she had the cab stop, I had to figure her apartment was on the north side of 85th, not too far from Third. So there I was, ringing bells.
    Which, actually, didn’t take that long.
    At the fourth building from the corner, the super said, “Sure, I know her. What’s this all about?”
    “She may be a witness in a case,” I said. I’d already shown him my ID.
    The super, middle-aged, balding, and fat, was affable on the one hand, and not about to piss off his favorite big-titted tenant on the other. “So you say,” he said. “You can ring her bell, and if she wants to talk to you, fine. And if she don’t, you don’t. Is that okay with you?”
    “Fine,” I said.
    There was a row of buttons inside the front door. I’d already pressed the one marked Super. Now I pressed the one marked 3B.
    There was no answer.
    “I guess she’s not at home,” the super said.
    “Uh-huh. You seen her lately?”
    He frowned. “Now that you mention it, can’t say as I have.”
    “Uh-huh,” I said. “You got a key?”
    He did, but it was no go. There was nothing I could say that was going to make him open that door.
    I went to a pay phone, called MacAullif.
    Who wasn’t glad to hear from me. “Are you nuts?” he said. “You’re bringin’ this to me?”
    “I gotta get in there.”
    “Sure you do. But with me? If it’s pay dirt, we’re both up shit creek. So far I got no connection to the case except I show up at the first murder scene. All that establishes is the fact I know you—which is enough to fry your ass—but it don’t really involve me. But we go bustin’ in there, find the girl, there’ll be hell to pay. Suddenly it’s a fuckin’ conspiracy thing, and I’m lucky if I’m not co-defendant.”
    “MacAullif—”
    “If you think a little, you’ll know you don’t want me bustin’ down any doors.”
    “So I should call Belcher?”
    “Not unless you got a death wish. Try nine one one. It’s impersonal, plus you don’t gotta look it up.”
    I did, but it wasn’t that easy. The cops weren’t about to break down the door on my say-so. Not that they’d have to break it down, with the super having a key, but all the same. No one was going in without an explanation.
    I tried, believe me I tried, to tap dance around the situation, but the long and the short of it was, ten minutes after I started talking there came a squeal of brakes and Sergeant Belcher pulled up in front. He hadn’t had the same problem as the young lady’s taxi—he’d come up Third Avenue and turned onto 85th despite the fact it was one-way.
    Belcher was out of the car before it even stopped moving, strode across the pavement to where the cops and the super and I waited on the front steps.
    “All right, asshole,” he said. “This had better be good.”
    It was.
    In a manner of speaking.
    It was her.
    And she was dead.

39.
    T HE CRIME-SCENE UNIT GOT there fast. It was almost as if Belcher’d had ’em on standby the whole time. They came roaring up in their police cars, parked insolently in the middle of the street, and went in. The medical examiner, more discreet, left his car near a handy fireplug.
    The police cars drew a crowd. Of course, with the cops all inside there was nothing to see. The people milled around on the sidewalk, talking to themselves, looking at the