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kept going.
    On the south side of the house it was the same thing. No footprints beneath the windows. No jimmy marks. No sign of forced entry. That meant a key or a lock pick. Maybe Mort had hired somebody to go in there and given them his key. But if so, what could he have wanted? Stock certificates? Negotiable bonds? Nudie shots he was scared Ellen would show their friends?
    I went back out to the front just as a black and white pulled up. They pegged me with their spotlight and told me not to move.
    â€œShould I grab sky?” I said.
    The same voice came back, “Just stand there, shithead.” Service with a smile.
    One of the cops came forward with his hand on his gun. The other stayed behind the light. You can never see what they’re doing behind those lights, which is why they stay there. The cop who came out was about my height but thicker in the butt and legs. It didn’t detract from his presence. His name tag read SIMMS.
    I spread my arms, careful not to point the five-cell in their direction. “White pants and jacket. The latest in cat burglar apparel.”
    Simms said, “Little man, I’ve cuffed’m that went out in red tights. Let’s see some ID.”
    â€œI’m Cole. I work for the owner. Private investigator. There’s a Dan Wesson .38 under my left arm.”
    He said okay, told me he was going to reach under and take the gun, then did it. “Now the paper,” he said.
    I produced the PI license and the license to carry, and watched him read them. “Elvis. This some kind of bullshit or what?”
    â€œAfter my mother.”
    He looked at me the way cops look at you when they’re thinking about trying you out, then gave me the benefit of the doubt. “Guess you take some riding about that.”
    â€œMy brother Edna had it worse.”
    He thought about it again, figured I wasn’t worth the paperwork and handed back the gun. “Okay. We got a B&E call.” The other cop came around and joined us but left the spotlight on. I clicked off the five-cell.
    â€œThey’re inside,” I said. “The client’s name is Ellen Lang. She owns the place. She came home and found it busted up. Another woman is with her. I checked the windows and the doors but it looks okay.”
    The new cop said, “You don’t mind if we see for ourselves, do you?”
    I said, “This guy is good, Simms. He’s a comer.”
    Simms put his hand on my arm and pointed me toward the house. “Come on, let’s you and me go see the ladies. Eddie, take a walk around.”
    When we got into the living room I said, “Look what the cat dragged in.” Ellen Lang said, “Oh, Lord,” and sat down as the two girls walked in. The oldest was fourteen, the youngest maybe eleven. The older one was tall and gawky and had acouple of major league pimples forming up on her forehead. The younger one was slender and dark and looked a little bit like Ellen. They were carrying pink-and-white overnighters. The oldest had a pissed-off look on her face. “We’re packed,” she said. She ignored me and the cop.
    â€œOh, honey, that’s not warm enough. Get a sweater.”
    The younger one stared at Simms, then at me. “Is he the detective?”
    â€œWanna see my sap?” I said.
    Ellen Lang took off her glasses, rubbed at her eyes, put her glasses back on, and said, “Please, Mr. Cole.”
    The younger one said, “What’s a sap?”
    Simms ignored all that. “This place looks like hell.”
    The older one said, “It’s not the arctic, Mother. We’re only going to Janet’s.” Her face reeked of disapproval. Teenage girls reek of disapproval better than anyone I know.
    â€œOh, honey, please,” Ellen Lang said. It wasn’t nice to hear. It’s never nice to hear an adult whine to a child. The older one closed her eyes, sighed dramatically, and said, “Come