Free Tengu by Graham Masterton

immediately, he knocked again. The old man waited
downstairs in the hallway. Detective Arthur said, “Beat
it.”
    There was a
sound of bolts being shot back. A thin face appeared at the door, with curly
blond hair and a slightly twisted nose. Two blue-gray eyes. A lean, brown twenty-five-year-old torso.
    Bright-green underpants.
    “What do you
want?”
    Skrolnik pushed
the door wide open and stepped into the room. It was dark, with all the drapes
drawn tight, and smelled of stale marijuana zndfri/o/es refritos. Mack Holt
said tensely, “What is this? What do you want?”
    Skrolnik
flipped open his wallet and showed his badge to Mack Holt without even looking
at him. His eyes flicked around the room, taking in the sagging basketwork
chairs, the stacks of paperback books and magazines, the cut-price Japanese
stereo, the posters for rock concerts and bullfights.
    “Is there anybody
else here?” asked Skrolnik, nodding toward the half-open bedroom door.
    “A friend.”
    “Go take a
look,” Skrolnik told Detective Arthur.
    Mack Holt said,
“Hey, now, hold on there. She’s not dressed yet.”
    “Keep your
hands over yours eyes,” Skrolnik instructed Detective Arthur. “And no peeking.”
    Mack asked,
“Listen–what is this? Do you have a warrant?”
    “A warrant for what?”
    “A search warrant. You can’t search this place without a
warrant.”
    “Who’s
searching?”
    Skrolnik
crossed the room. He touched the corner of the bandanna that had been hung
around the lampshade. He drew it toward him and sniffed it, then let it swing
back. “As a matter of scientific fact,” he said, “you’ll find that Aramis works
better than Carven when it comes to masking the smell of grass.
    Mack said,
“What are you, an aftershave salesman?”
    Detective
Arthur rapped at the bedroom door. A girl’s voice called out, “Mack?”
    “It’s the
heat,” Mack called back. Then he looked at Skrolnik’s stony expression and
added, almost inaudibly, “The police.”
    “You’ll have to
wait a moment,” said the girl. Skrolnik didn’t take his eyes off Mack.
Detective Arthur hesitated at the bedroom door.
    Mack said
quietly, “I suppose you’ve come about Sherry.”
    “That’s right,”
nodded Skrolnik. “You were a friend of hers, weren’t you?”
    “More than a friend. She lived here.”
    Skrolnik gave
the room an exaggerated reappraisal. “She sure took a step up when she moved
out.”
    “Maybe,” said
Mack defensively.
    Skrolnik walked
around the room. “When did she leave?”
    “Right after
they gave her that part in Our Family Jones. What was that? Eighteen months
ago.
    Eighteen, nineteen months.”
    “You’ve seen
her since?”
    “Once or twice.”
    Skrolnik
searched systematically through the pockets of his doubleknit coat until he
found a stick of gum. He peeled off the wrapper, folded the stick into his
mouth, and then said offhandedly,
    “ they tell me you were jealous of her.’’
    “Jealous?
What’s that supposed to mean?”
    “You were two
out-of-work actors. She got a plum part and you didn’t. Don’t tell me that
didn’t make you jealous.”
    “I was pleased
for her.”
    “So pleased that she packed her bags and cut out?”
    Mack ran his
fingers through his tangled blond curls. “All right,” he admitted, “I was
jealous.
    What does that
prove?”
    “You tell me.”
    Mack folded his
arms across his bare chest. Then he raised a finger and said incredulously,
    “You’re not
trying to say that / killed her?”
    Skrolnik stared
at him with contempt. “Whoever killed Sherry Cantor was pretty well superhuman.
I don’t think you’re quite in his league. Let’s say it’s the difference between
Arnold Schwarzenegger and Woody Alien.”
    Mack lowered
his head. “Yes,” he said. “I heard about it on the news.”
    “Can you tell
me where you were yesterday morning, around eight o’clock?”
    The bedroom door
opened wider, and Detective Arthur said, “Come on, miss. You don’t