"What is the chance that there was?"

Chief Harper smiled. "Well, there's three police cars here. You do the math."

Rick Reed lowered the microphone impatiently. "I can't use a remark like that on the air."

"I thought you were live."

"We're live on tape."

"What the hell does that mean?"

"I was live when I said it."

Harper smiled. "Were you really?"

The soundman was waving frantically for Rick's attention. "We are live," he hissed.

"What?"

"We're live!"

"That's right," Rick Reed said, picking up the cue. "We are coming to you, live, from the scene of a tragedy. The discovery of a dead body in Unit 12 of the Four Seasons Motel. Wait! I think I see the medical examiner now."

Barney Nathan came out of Unit 12, as usual in his trademark red bow tie.

Rick Reed stepped forward eagerly. "This is Rick Reed, Channel 8 News, bringing you a live, exclusive interview with Dr. Barney Nathan."

Chief Harper grabbed the doctor by the shoulders and marched him aside.

"Just as soon as he's talked to the chief of police," Rick finished lamely. He brightened immediately as the Emergency Medical Team bumped a gurney out of the motel room door. "Hang on! They're bringing out the body now!"

While the news crew shot the departure of the corpse, Chief Harper conferred with the doctor.

"Okay, Barney, what have you got?"

"He was killed sometime yesterday."

"Killed?"

"Murder or suicide. But it's a violent death."

"Are you sure?"

"Absolutely. Bullet wound in the head just above the hairline. Whether it's self-inflicted is your call."

"Could it have been?"

"It could have."

"Do you think it was?"

Barney tugged at his bow tie. "I couldn't give you a medical opinion on that."

"How about a nonmedical opinion?"

"A guy fully dressed climbs into a bathtub and shoots himself? What's the point?"

"You could say that about any suicide."

"I mean climbing into the bathtub. A man about to shoot himself isn't concerned with getting blood on the carpet."

"Did he?"

"Get blood on the carpet?" Barney shook his head. "Not at all. Not a lot of blood in the bathtub, either."

"What do you make of that?"

"Guy didn't bleed much." At Harper's look, the doctor shrugged. "It happens."

"Could he have been shot through a pillow or a towel that soaked up the blood?"

"Not in this case. You got powder burns around the wound. Of course, if you didn't, it couldn't be suicide, it would have to be murder."

"Anything else? That would indicate it wasn't suicide?"

"Wound's in the back of the head, not the temple. You could do it, but it would be awkward. And the gun would wind up in the bathtub, not on the floor."

The ambulance doors slammed.

Barney Nathan glanced in that direction, said, "Well, gotta go do my autopsy. I suppose you want the bullet."

"Try not to scratch it any more than you have to."

"You mean I shouldn't dig it out with a butter knife? Thanks for the tip."

"And avoid Rick Reed if you can."

"My pleasure."

When the news crew descended on the doctor, he smiled and kept going. Undaunted, Rick Reed pounced on the chief. "I'm here with Chief Dale Harper, who just finished with the medical examiner. Anything to report, Chief?"

"The doctor is accompanying the body to the morgue to perform an autopsy."

"Autopsy? Then it was a murder?"

"That's what the autopsy will determine."

"Well, what did the doctor say?"

A blast from the ambulance siren drowned out any possible answer.

Chief Harper looked, said, "Oh, hell, I'm blocking the ambulance," and went to move his car. He took advantage of the camera crew filming the departure of the corpse to sneak back to the crime scene.

Dan Finley popped out of the motel room door. "The place is lousy with prints."

Chief Harper groaned. "You auditioning for a cop show, Dan? Don't tell me about it, just dust 'em and lift 'em."

"There's an awful lot of 'em."

"So I gather. Just get on with it."

"There's prints on the gun."

Harper's eyes widened. "You lifted prints from the gun?"

"Three beauties. We'll be able to get a match."

Harper pulled Dan aside and lowered his voice. "You label the prints from the gun?"

"Of course."

"Well, double-check 'em. Some smart defense attorney's gonna claim they jumped around."

Dan smiled. "Who's doing the tough-guy lingo now, Chief?"

"Take the gun and the prints and run them down to the lab. I want a ballistics report, and I mean now."

"I gotta get the bullet from the doc."

"Pick it up on your way."

"What about the crime scene?"

"Sam can finish up. You get on down to the lab."

"Right." Dan Finley gathered up the evidence, hopped in his police car, and took off.

Watching Dan go, Chief Harper felt a tremendous rush of adrenaline. He had to compose himself, put on his best poker face before walking past the TV crews. It wasn't easy.

Finding prints on the murder weapon was an incredible break.

Now if he could just match 'em up.

Chapter 37.

MR. WILBUR PARKED out on the road, strode through the parking lot, and glared at the crime-scene ribbon across the door to Unit 12 as if it were an inconvenience placed there primarily to tick him off.

"What the hell's going on here?" he demanded of no one in particular.

Chief Harper tore himself away from the unrewarding task of interrogating the other motel guests to intercept him. Otherwise the cranky antiques dealer might have ducked under the ribbon and gone in.

"What do you want, Wilbur?"

"I want to see Benny Southstreet. What's the matter? He under arrest?"

"He's dead."

Wilbur considered. "In that case, I don't want to see him."

"What's your business with Benny Southstreet?"

"That's between me and him."

"Not anymore."

"Good point. Okay, I was hoping he could get my chairs back, seeing as how you weren't doing squat."

"What made you think he could do that?"

"He said so."

"When?"

"Yesterday."

"You saw him yesterday?"

"No, on the phone."

"What did he say?"

"He said he had some chairs I might be interested in."

"Were you?"

"If they were my chairs? What do you think?"

"Were they?"

"How the hell should I know? I figured I'd check it out."

"Did you?"