“Did Mr. Weems, before he left?”

“Not that I know of. Hey, maybe it was stolen.”

“It’s downstairs,” Raymond said. “You have the keys, don’t you?”

“Yeah, someplace.”

“Why don’t you check, just to make sure.”

Oh shit, Sandy thought, feeling exposed now in her shorts and T-shirt and barefeet, wanting to walk over to the desk and pick up the keys, but having no idea in the world what Clement did with them-trying to picture him coming in then. No, she had come in and he was sitting on the couch reading the paper-the paper still lying there pulled apart. She said, “Gee, I never know what I do with keys,” and got away from them, starting to move about the room.

Raymond said, “Maybe we can help you,” and began looking around.

“That’s okay,” Sandy said, “I think I know where they are. You all sit down and take it easy.” She made herself walk down the short hallway, dark with the doors closed, went into the master bedroom and shut the door behind her.

Clement was stretched out on the king-size bed. He put his hands behind his curly head as Sandy entered and wiggled his toes, showing her how cool he was.

“They gone?”

“No, they’re not gone. They want the keys.”

“What keys?”

“The fucking car keys, what do you think what keys?” Her whisper came out hoarse, as though from a bigger, huskier woman.

“Shit,” Clement said. He thought a moment, watching her feel the top of the dresser. “They got a search warrant?” She didn’t answer him. “Hey, you don’t have to give ’em no keys.”

“You go out and tell ’em that,” Sandy said. She had the ring of keys in her hand now, moving toward the door.

“Well, it’s up to you,” Clement said. “You want to give ’em the keys, go ahead.”

Sandy stopped at the door. “What else’m I supposed to do?” Her whisper a hiss now.

“Give ’em the keys,” Clement said. “It don’t matter.”

“What if they find your prints in the car?”

“Ain’t no prints to find.” Clement’s arms were reddish-tan, his body pure white, his bluebirds and ribs resting against the green and gray swirls of Del Weems’ designer bedspread. Sandy started to open the door and he said, “Hon? I had sort of an accident parking the car when I come back.”

“I love the time you pick to tell me.” Sandy took time herself to raise her eyes to the ceiling, giving her words a dramatic effect. “What’d you hit?”

“You know those cement pillars?” Clement said. “I scraped one of ’em parking, took a little paint off the fender-if they was to ask you how it happened.” He paused, letting her stare at him. “Why don’t we keep it simple, say you did it. How’s that sound to you?”

Raymond Cruz looked at the desk, wanting to open the drawers. He looked at the metallic stick figures on the glass coffeetable. He looked at the newspaper lying open on the couch and then over to the dark hallway. What if he walked in there and started opening doors?…

Sandy Stanton. He could see the name in a typewritten report, a statement. He tried the name in his mind. Sandy Stanton. He tried it with Norb Bryl saying the name, Sandy Stanton, and then with Jerry Hunter’s voice, Sandy Stanton. The name, just the name, was registered in his mind from a time in the past. He walked to the window and looked out. Then turned again, abruptly, and was facing the room as Wendell came out through the dining-L from the kitchen, Wendell shaking his head.

Raymond motioned to the window. “You can see 1300 from here.”

“I noticed,” Wendell said. “You can see the window of the squad room.”

Past the Blue Cross building and beyond the dome of old St. Mary’s to the granite nine-story municipal building, police headquarters-1300 Beaubien-to a window on the fifth floor, above the police garage.

“You notice,” Raymond said, “that’s 1300 and this is 1300?”

“No shit,” Wendell said. “I notice something else, too, while I’m busy noticing. You got hold of something in your head you’re playing with.”

Raymond frowned at him, amazed. What was going on? Everybody, all of a sudden, reading him.

“You’re laying back, savoring it,” Wendell said. “You gonna share it with me or keep it a secret?”

Amazing. It was spooky. Raymond thought of the girl from the News and said, “You tell your wife what you do?”

Now Wendell was frowning. “What I do? You mean tell her everything? Do I look like I want to get shot with my own gun?”

“How do you know what I’m thinking?” Raymond said.

“I don’t. That’s why I’m asking.”

“But you said-like I was onto something.”

“Some kind of scheme,” Wendell said. “When you lay back and don’t move around you understand?- but look like you want to be doing something? It means you ready to spring. Am I right?”

“Sandy Stanton,” Raymond said.

“Cute little lady.”

“Where’ve you heard the name?”

“I don’t have the recall you do,” Wendell said, “but it’s familiar, like a movie star or a name you see in the paper.”

“Or in a case file.”

“Now we moving,” Wendell said.

“Albert RaCosta,” Raymond said.

Wendell nodded. “Keep going.”

“Louis Nix… Victor Reddick. And one more.”

“Yeah, the Wrecking Crew.” Wendell was still nodding. “I know the names but they were a little before my time.”

“Three years ago,” Raymond said. “I’d just come over to Seven.”

“Yeah, and I came like six months after you,” Wendell said. “I read the file, all the newspaper stuff, but I don’t recall any Sandy Stanton.”

Coming into the living room Sandy said, “What’re you doing, talking about me?” She held up the ring of keys. “I found ’em. But if you want to take the car-I don’t think I can let you. I mean you haven’t even told me why you want it.”

Raymond said, “You’re sure, Sandy, those’re the keys to the Buick?”

“Yeah.” She held them up again. “GM keys. He’s only got one car.”

“When’s the last time you drove it?”

“I told you-when I took him to the airport.”

“The car was in good shape?”

“Yeah, I guess so.”

“No dings in it or anything?”

“Oh,” Sandy said and made a face, an expression of pain. “Yeah, I guess I scraped the fender, you know, on the cement down where you park. Del’s gonna kill me.”

“Getting into a tight place, huh?”

“Yeah, I misjudged a little.”

“Which fender was it you scraped, Sandy?”

She held her hands up in front of her and looked at them, trying to remember if shitbird, lying on the bed in his bikinis, had told her. “It was… this one, the left one.” She looked from the white cop to the black cop and back to the white cop, wanting to say, Am I right?

“You’re sure?” Raymond asked her.

Shit, Sandy thought. “Well, I’m pretty sure. But I get mixed up with left and right.”

“You live here, Sandy?”

God, it was hard to keep up with him. “No, I’m just staying here while Del’s gone, like apartment-sitting.”

“Anybody staying with you?”

She hesitated-which she knew she shouldn’t do. “No, just me.”

“Is anybody else here right now?”

Christ. She hesitated again. “You mean besides us?”

“Uh-huh, besides us,” Raymond said.

“No, there isn’t anybody here.”

“I thought I heard you talking to somebody-you went out to the bedroom.”

Sandy said, “I don’t think you’re being fair at all. If you aren’t gonna tell me what you want, then I’m gonna ask you to please leave. Okay?”

“You were at the Hazel Park track last night?”

“I already told you I was.”

“You see, Sandy, a car that sounds like Mr. Weems’ Buick-maybe the same license number-was involved in an accident out there. About one o’clock.”

Sandy said, “You’re traffic cops? Jesus, I thought this was something more important than that.”

“Like what?” Raymond asked.

“I don’t know. I just thought… two of you come up here, it has to be, you know, something important.” Sandy began to feel herself relax. The white cop was saying, well, they have to check out the car first, see if it might be the one, before they get into anything else. Probably-Sandy was thinking at the same time-it was a car that looked like Del’s and had almost the same license numbers. That could be what happened, a coincidence, and shitbird in the bedroom had nothing to do with it. There were all kinds of black Buicks, it was a very popular color this year… she told the white cop that, too, and the white cop agreed, nodding, and then he was saying, “Oh, by the way…