"No."

"Why not?"

"He wasn't there. He said he'd be here at two o'clock. I called the number, he didn't answer. I drove by, knocked on the door. He wasn't there."

"Are you sure?"

"Sure I'm sure. I waited around, in case he was in the can, knocked loud. He wasn't there. You say he's dead?"

"Yes."

"So what about the chairs?"

"What chairs?"

"Have you heard a word I said? The guy had chairs. If he's dead it's a damn shame, but where are they?"

Harper frowned. "Wait a minute. You're saying Benny Southstreet had chairs in his motel room?"

"Or his car. Why am I telling you? Did you find his chairs or not?"

"Not in his motel room."

"How about his car?"

"Which one's his car?"

"You're asking me?" Wilbur shook his head. "Sheesh, you got any plans to solve this thing?"

The zapper on the keys found in Benny Southstreet's pocket flashed the lights and unlocked the doors of the Ford Taurus. The chairs weren't in it.

"There you are," Wilbur declared. "The killer took the chairs."

Rick Reed, close enough to overhear, chimed in, "Chairs? What chairs?"

"Oh, hell." Chief Harper dragged Wilbur away from the reporter. "If you want to spout a lotta nonsense, I suggest you don't do it in front of the TV camera. You don't know this guy ever had any chairs. You don't know chairs have anything to do with it. But we have a violent death, and if it turns out to be a murder, your interest in your damn chairs is going to make you a suspect in the eyes of the public."

"Oh, sure. Like people will really think I did it."

"Someone did. Why not you?" Harper said bluntly. "Now shut up about the chairs until we find out if they ever existed. Will you do that?"

"I don't see how I can refuse, considering how much progress you're making."

Chief Harper walked over to where the chambermaid was hanging out with the rest of the motel help. "Can I talk to you a minute?"

Marge seemed concerned. "I told you all I know."

Harper smiled. "Humor me."

He led her away from the others.

"What do you want now?" Marge asked.

"Tell me about the chairs."

Marge stopped, and her mouth fell open. "What about them?"

"You didn't mention the chairs. I was wondering why not."

"I don't understand. What's important about the chairs?"

"I don't know, but I mean to find out. What do you know about them?"

"Nothing. The guy had four chairs. I don't know why. I had to clean around them."

"Where are they now?"

"I have no idea."

"You knew they were gone?"

"Well, I didn't see them."

"You didn't think that was worth mentioning?"

"Are you kidding? The man is dead. Who cares about some stupid old chairs?"

"That remains to be seen. The point is, it's not up to you to evaluate the evidence and decide what is important enough to tell us. You think of anything, you let us know."

"Okay."

"Is anything else missing? Anything you noticed before that you don't see now?"

"No, that's it."

"The last time you saw the chairs was when you cleaned yesterday? You have no idea where they went? Or when?"

"No."

"You had no idea they were missing until you went in there just before you called the police?"

"No, I didn't. You mean he was killed for his chairs? But that's ridiculous."

"Why is it ridiculous?"

"It just is. I mean, I can imagine someone stealing the chairs. I can't imagine someone killing someone over them."

"And you have no idea who might have taken them?"

"I don't know how anyone could. The door was locked."

"I thought you said it was unlocked."

"I mean yesterday. When I made up the room. The door was locked when I left. No one could have gotten in there without a key. Unless Mr. Southstreet let them in."

"You're sure the door was locked when you left?"

"It's one of the rules. You clean the room, you leave it locked."

"Maybe you forgot?"

Marge shook her head. "I tried the knob. Like I always do."

Chief Harper's cell phone rang. He dismissed the chambermaid with a nod, yanked the phone out of his pocket, strolled away.

"Chief, it's Barney. Your boy came by, picked up the bullet."

"Fine."

"No, it's not fine. I have a job to do. I don't need some young whippersnapper hounding me to hurry."

"Dan's got a gun with fingerprints, Barney. He'd love to match it up."

"I'm sure you would too. But I have to follow procedure."

"I understand. Give him the bullet when you can."

"I gave him the bullet. He's long gone. I just don't like to be rushed."

"I'll let him know. How's the autopsy coming? You got anything for me yet?"

"I can give you an approximate time of death. Yesterday afternoon, between twelve and four."

"That ironclad?"

"Hell, no. But as a working hypothesis, I'd take it to the bank."

Chief Harper hung up the phone, to find a vaguely familiar young man bearing down on him. He was relatively young, probably on the good side of forty. He wore a black T-shirt and blue jeans.

"Chief Harper."

"Yes?"

"I'm Paul Fishman. I run the Photomat stand at the mall."

"Yes, of course," Chief Harper said. That explained his daughter Clara's sudden interest in photography.

"I saw it on the news. About the murder. Are you calling it that yet?"

"It's too soon to say."

Paul jerked his thumb. "It's not too soon for the TV guys. They said a murder at the Four Seasons Motel."

Harper's face darkened. "Did they really?"

"They may have said potential, or alleged, or whatever newsmen say when they're not allowed to tell you something obvious."

Harper nodded. "It's probably a murder, but don't quote me on it."

"Anyway, they showed a shot of the crime-scene ribbon, and it's Unit 12, isn't it?"

Harper's eyes narrowed. "Yeah. Why?"

Paul Fishman put up his hands. "Look, I don't know how these things work. Whether I need a lawyer, or what. Doctors have professional privilege, or client confidentiality, or something like that. I'm just a guy in the Photomat. But I don't want to violate anyone's right to privacy."

Chief Harper glanced around for the TV crew, saw that Rick Reed had moved in on the chambermaid. "I haven't got time for this. You want a lawyer, I'll get you a lawyer. But just between you and me, what the hell are you talking about?"

"I have some pictures that might have something to do with the crime."

"Photographs?"

"Yes."

"You mean a roll of film that you developed?"

"That's right."

"You don't want to violate anyone's privacy by turning them in to the police?"

"You see my problem?"

"I see your problem. And if I don't see your photographs, I'm running you in on obstruction of justice. You're not violating anyone's privacy here. I'm ordering you to turn the pictures over. If you'd rather hear it from a judge, you and your photos can wait in jail until I get a court order for you to turn 'em over." Harper looked him right in the eye. "The point is, you're not surrendering them voluntarily, you see what I mean?"

"Yes, I do."

"So let's have 'em."

Paul produced a packet of four-by-six prints. "They're just from a throwaway camera, but they're pretty clear. I do good work. Brightness, definition, color correction. Take a look."

Chief Harper pulled out the prints. The first was a shot of the motel sign.

"They're in reverse order," Paul volunteered. "That's the last shot on the roll."

The next-to-the-last shot was a close-up of the number 12 on the door. Then came shots of the chairs. Long shots. Close-ups. All four together. A single chair. Close-ups of the detail work. In the longer shots, the chairs were clearly in the motel unit.

Chief Harper's pulse quickened. Here it was, a good solid lead. He flipped to the next photo, and stopped dead.

It was a shot of Sherry Carter, young, lithe, and tanned, in a string bikini, a wide-eyed smile, and her hand up in an unmistakable don't-take-my-picture pose, as she lounged in a deck chair on the front lawn of her house. Sherry looked positively gorgeous, but the allure was lost on Chief Harper, so great was his surprise.