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the balcony, I could see a group of uniformed cops and attendants gathered around a prone figure near the foot of the metal-and-concrete bottom steps.
    â€œWhat is it?” Margie said behind me.
    I turned and looked at her. She was breathing hard, as if she’d been running. I noticed that she was still fully dressed.
    â€œWhere were you?” I asked.
    â€œI was, uh, just taking a walk.”
    â€œUh-huh.”
    â€œI was talking to a friend, all right?” she said, “on the other side of the motel.”
    Down below, one of the medical personnel covered the body with a sheet, and then walked away from the corpse. The police formed a perimeter around the scene, pushing all the spectators back. I didn’t have my watch on, but I think it was around one in the morning.
    Margie unlocked the door on her room, and vanished inside. She was back again five minutes later.
    â€œKimmy at the desk says it’s Brody Dameen!” she said.
    â€œI thought it was Karen at the desk,” I said.
    â€œNo, that was last night. Kimmy has the night shift on Saturday.”
    Kimmy, Karen, Denise—it was all the same to me. I mentioned something about the graveyard shift turning into a real horror story, and she just looked at me crooked, like I’d crawled out from under a rock somewhere. Women! They had no sense of humor at all.
    â€œI wonder if he fell—or was pushed,” I said.
    â€œYou always think the worst of people.”
    â€œStill….”
    Then I saw Lieutenant Pfisch emerge from a newly-arrived black sedan, and I knew we were in for a long night. After watching him for a few minutes, I returned to my room, and crawled back into bed.
    * * * * * * *
    I was up early the next morning, waking with the sun. After a quick shower, I dressed and went outside again. Dameen’s body was finally gone—I could see the markings where it had fallen. There were a couple of investigators closely examining the first-floor balcony and the stairwell leading up to it. I was so intent on the man and woman conducting the search that I didn’t hear the Lieutenant coming up behind me.
    â€œGood morning,” he said. “Couldn’t sleep, eh?”
    I straightened up abruptly. “Not after last night,” I said.
    â€œWhere were you when Brody fell?”
    â€œAsleep in my bed.”
    â€œAnyone who can corroborate that?” the cop asked.
    â€œThe bedbugs? Look, Pfisch, I usually sleep alone. I laid down sometime after eleven—didn’t catch the clock, sorry—and the next I knew was when you folks showed up.”
    â€œWhat about your girlfriend?”
    â€œYou mean Margie? She’s not my girlfriend. She’s a business partner and friend, but that’s all.” I was getting a bit irritated at all the questions.
    â€œOh, because she’s gay?” he said. When he saw the look on my face, he added: “Yeah, I know. In fact, I think it’s pretty common knowledge around here. Where was she?”
    â€œI have no idea. You’d have to ask her that.”
    â€œWell, I did,” Pfisch said, “and she was pretty vague in her response. What did you see?”
    â€œShe was out there with me watching the scene early this morning. I don’t know where she was before or after that.”
    â€œWhat do you know about Gully Foyle, Dameen’s significant other?” he asked.
    I was about to say something, and then realized that I didn’t really know much at all. She’d shown up with Brody just for this con, and had been introduced to me as his “friend,” but she’d said nothing at all about her background. I told Pfisch that, and he just grunted.
    â€œDidn’t say much to me either,” he finally said, “but we’re looking into her past.”
    â€œYou think…?”
    â€œI don’t think anything,” he said. “We’re just doing what we always do: question