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his way to a big date.”
    “A score?”
    “I don’t think so. He didn’t say for sure, but he mentioned something about it being a guy he’d been after for years.”
    “Anything else? A name, maybe?”
    “Nope.” He looked around for an ashtray, and I indicated one on top of the filing cabinet. He got up and walked over to it like some sleek jungle cat. Picking it up, he returned to the sofa and sat beside me.
    “Did he mention where he was going to meet the guy?”
    Phil pursed his lips and wrinkled his brow, obviously searching his memory. Suddenly, the lips unpursed, the wrinkles smoothed, and a light practically went on in his eyes.
    “Yeah. Yeah. Said the dude had rented a hotel room someplace up the street. The El Cordoba, I think.”
    “Why the hotel room?” I asked. “Was the guy from out of town?”
    He shrugged.
    “Or married,” he said. “Or a closet case. Or any one of a dozen reasons. You know the hotels in that area—they aren’t exactly the kind that draws the business convention crowd. Most of ’em will rent by the hour.”
    I understood.
    “Any of that help you?” he asked after a couple minutes of silence in which he smoked his cigarette and I sifted through the few facts I had about Bobby McDermott, trying to find some direction they might lead me next.
    “Yeah,” I said, reaching out and putting one hand on his bare, hard-muscled leg. “Thanks, Phil.”
    He stubbed his cigarette out in the ashtray and set it on the floor. He covered my hand with his and gave me another dazzling grin.
    “Care for a rematch?” he asked.
    I cared.

Chapter 3
    The phone rang just as Phil was lighting another cigarette. I managed to gather enough strength to lift the receiver off the hook.
    “Hardesty,” I said, in a voice that belonged to someone else.
    “Yeah, that’s who I called.” Tim’s voice sounded a little tired, but cheerful. “How goes the battle?”
    I wondered how he knew.
    “Everything’s fine,” I said.
    “You sure you’re okay?” Tim asked, with a note of real concern that made me feel just a little guilty. “You sound funny.”
    “It’s nothing,” I said. “I just had something in my throat.”
    “Anyone I know?”
    “Thank you and goodnight, Henny Youngman,” I said, glancing at Phil, who gave me a knowing grin. “So, what did you find out?”
    “Now, look,” Tim said in a conspiratorial tone, “I’m at a public phone—it’s my coffee break, so I’ll have to talk fast. The…you got a pencil?”
    I moved around to the back of my desk and dug through the top drawer for a pencil and notepad.
    “Yeah,” I said, hooking the phone between my right ear and shoulder.
    “Okay. Here goes. Victims, in order of discovery: Rogers—Alan Rogers, age thirty-three, twenty-seven Partridge Place, Apartment D as in dog. Identified by who I’ll bet was his lover, Gary Miller, who I’d love to spend a quiet night or two consoling. Rogers had two arrests, both for drunk driving. Family disown, apparently.
    “Harriman, Gene, age twenty-nine,. seventy-nine-eighty-six Bellwether—that’s a residential area, so I assume it’s a house. Identified by his roommate Mike Sibalitch. One arrest, apparently an entrapment—the usual ‘lewd and lascivious conduct’ shit—two years ago. Two brothers, one living in Miami, the other in the navy overseas.
    “Granger, Arthur, age forty, ten-four-thirty-eight Mercer Drive. Lived alone. The body was identified by a Martin Bell—the one I told you got hysterical and said too much. Bell lives in the Comstock Apartments; I don’t have the address. No police record on Granger. Family lives in Ohio.
    “Barker, Cletus, went by the name of Clete. Age thirty-three, forty-four-twenty-seven West Avondale, apartment five-J. Identified by his roommate Bill Elers—the one I told you I’ve seen in the bars. No police record, no known family.
    “Klein, Arnold, thirty-six. His dad’s the one who went into the ‘I have no son’ routine, even