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inches separate his two index fingers. “When he gets back from his vacation and his taxidermist, the boss is in shock to discover the city is still where he’d left it, with people walking around in it. In spite of his condition he goes towork. Upon reading the papers concerning the preceding events, and after auditioning theories, the boss fires everybody and orders a routine analysis of the cause of death.” Bdeniowitz read the palm of one hand with the forefinger of the other, squinting as if farsighted. “Hmm. Multiple contusions and abrasions about the head and shoulders of the deceased, many of them thought to have been caused by a blunt instrument. The wood splinters embedded in the deceased turn out to be spruce and mahogany. Well, well!” Bdeniowitz shot Gleason a look of contempt. His voice transuded sarcasm. “Further investigation, conducted both in our modern forensic laboratories and at the scene of the crime by our highly trained and skilled personnel, revealed some interesting
facts
. No investigation is complete without a couple of
facts
.” He enumerated his fingers. “The smashed remains of a stringed instrument, possibly a guitar, strewn on the rocks below the house, and its neck—with the strings still on it, not far away, trapped in the junipers about halfway down the cliff. There’s blood on both. Analysis revealed the blood was of exactly the same type as the victim’s. Well, well, whaddya know. Now it’s a homicide, with dope, sex, and music thrown in.”
    Windrow started to speak. Bdeniowitz held up a hand and shook his head.
    â€œThen what do we find? Various drink glasses around the house, each containing residues of various expensive boozes. All of the beautifully defined fingerprints on these glasses can be accounted for by comparing them with those of the residents or servants pertaining to the premises. All, that is, except for one lovely thumbprint, which, lo and behold, turns out to belong to an ex-cop, one Martin Windrow, last seen, more dead than alive, on page twenty-one,next to the Macy’s ad, left hand gossip column, ‘breaking and entering’.” Bdeniowitz paused.
    â€œBut not as dead as the deceased,” he added quietly.
    Another silence.
    â€œYou had scotch, Marty,” Gleason said.

Chapter Eight
    W INDROW LOOKED AT THE SUNLIGHT STREAMING through the hospital window and wished he were part of it. If so, he would swim upstream a few miles. High above the city he could bounce a sunbeam off a cup of coffee into a sad man’s face, sure, and he could follow black limousines through the streets, watch a body plunge down a cliff, follow an elusive singer to her telephone, spot the red roll of quarters through that tiny window in that huge array of windows, there, the two cops badgering the sick man in his bed, and warm their backs for them, make them less assiduous. Of course, light changes everything; light is information. And information is light; but whereas the sun provides warmth, the fact of the death of Pamela Neil chilled decidedly the atmosphere in the room.
    The siren got real loud as it approached the base of the hospital building, and stopped.
    Bdeniowitz was oddly patient. Windrow looked at him. “Did you check her for residual cocaine?”
    Bdeniowitz made a wagging motion with the fingers of his upturned palm. “The story the story,” he said. “Let’s have it.”
    â€œI was there. I was just leaving her house when this Cadillac limousine…”
    â€œWait a minute, wait a minute. What were you doing at this dame’s house? Delivering laundry?”
    â€œI was looking for her step-daughter.”
    Bdeniowitz looked at Gleason and whistled. “Her stepdaughter. this Neil was maybe thirty. She…”
    â€œTwenty-nine,” Windrow said.
    Bdeniowitz looked back at him. “Gleason,” he said. Petrel Gleason thumbed through a pocket-sized spiral