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jammed my hands in my pockets before I lost my resolve and punched him in the nose. “You know damn well that I’m not a senator. Just drop it and explain what you said about a body in the alley.”
    â€œIt’s not a pretty sight,” he said, shaking his head. “Come to think of it,
Washington Weekly
will be on before too long. Tonight’s topic is the impact of the trade agreements with Japan on the American auto industry, which happens to be of particular interest to me. Helluva show, doncha think, Senator?”
    â€œArnie,” I said with all the venom I could muster, “let’s get this straight once and—”
    â€œSmile!” He whipped a camera from behind his back. The flash exploded in my eyes, and for a brief moment all I could see were ragged red and purple circles. They’d not yet faded completely as he scuttled past me, climbed into his truck, and drove away, his taillights blinking farewell long before I could concoct a response.
    Arnie’s repeated avowals of my political position arose from an incident in the past, when he’d been assigned to drive a state senator and a local beauty queen in the Thurberfest parade. He’d shown up drunk and obligated me, the very unwilling assistant pageant director, to play chauffeur (while dodging bullets). In his alcoholic haze, he’d decided I was the senator rather than the beauty queen—a politically correct yet mildly insulting assumption. When Caron had lured me into investigating a pet-theft ring, Arnie’d nearly managedto have me arrested for harboring a fugitive, and shortly thereafter he’d come close to watching me chewed to bits by a trio of enraged pit bulls. All in all, he was not a dear friend. Given the chance, I would have driven a stake through his heart. Cheerfully.
    In the alley, the blue lights continued to rotate and the radios to crackle. More car doors slammed, and the beam of a flashlight bobbled on the foliage. There was likely to be an iota of truth in Arnie’s statement, I thought as I hesitated on the sidewalk and tried to discern what was happening. The alley ran behind several Greek communes, of both the imposing and the marginally renovated varieties, and it was a handy shortcut from the bastions of academia to the bars of Thurber Street. Although I had to drive a short distance on it to park in the basement garage of my duplex, I rarely promenaded down it, being as averse to miasmatic garbage dumpsters as I was to sweat—and to Arnie.
    I finally went past my house, turned at the corner, and turned again at the north end of the alley. There were three police cars parked behind the Kappa house, their lights flashing mutely, and spotlights had been placed to illuminate what I assumed was the cause of the official presence.
    An engraved invitation was not likely, nor would I be welcomed into the group and offered details. I knew from experience that officers at the scene of the crime could be blustery and indignant over the presence of a civic-minded citizen who was eager to share her in-sights into the heinous deed. Peter Rosen, for example, could be quite adamant about what he considered meddlesome intrusions.
    There was more going on than a case of a cat flattened by a garbage truck, however, and I was determined to find out what it was. I approached tentatively, pausing every step to scan the crowd for Peter or his minion, Jorgeson. I wasn’t at all sure if I’d have more success with them or without them, and I was decidedly ambivalent when I caught a glimpse of Peter’scurly black hair as he beckoned at an ambulance creeping toward the scene from the opposite direction.
    â€œOkay,” I heard him snap, “where’s the medical examiner? You called him—when? Ten minutes ago? Unlike this poor girl, we don’t have all night!”
    Jorgeson appeared, consulting his watch, and pulled Peter aside to converse. I was keeping an eye on