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psychology.”
    “Uh-huh,” MacAullif said. “You were saying you solved the crime, but the most important thing is to get Belcher?”
    “Right, and I think I know how to do it.”
    “Oh?”
    “My wife has a friend whose husband works for Channel 2. He’s an on-camera reporter, does AAA interviews.”
    “AAA?”
    “Ask any asshole. That’s how they pad the news reports. You got a two-minute time slot for a one-minute story, how do you fill the other minute? Turn on the camera, point the microphone, and ask any asshole in the street what he thinks of the story. That’s why local news is so bad. It’s all padded with AAA interviews.”
    “That’s really interesting,” MacAullif said. “How does this help us?”
    “He’ll help us nail Belcher. Whenever we’re set, whatever we need. I think the guy’s getting a kick out of it.”
    MacAullif exhaled loudly. Grimaced. “Now I am going to urge you to the point. This is coming out worse than I thought. You say you solved the crime?”
    “Yes, I did, and, believe it or not, you helped.”
    “I’m glad to hear it.”
    “But the real key was Mary/Maggie Mason.”
    “Who?”
    “Richard Rosenberg’s switchboard girl.”
    “You’ll pardon me if that doesn’t help.”
    “You know Richard Rosenberg’s regular switchboard girls are Wendy and Janet and I can’t tell ’em apart?”
    I was not restoring MacAullif’s faith in my sanity. “I’ve seen ’em,” he said. “They don’t look anything alike.”
    “No, no. It’s their voices I can’t tell apart. Never mind that. The point is, they’re on vacation and he replaced them with this other girl Mary Mason.”
    “So?”
    “She changed her name to Maggie. And that’s what put me on the right track.”
    “The right track?”
    “Yeah. Actually, you had me on it already. With what you said yesterday about the keys.”
    “What about ’em?”
    “What you said about it must be the keys to his home because why would anyone want the keys to his office when everybody had ’em.”
    “That was important?”
    “Right. It was dead wrong, but it was an important idea to state. The other thing you gave me was my chief suspect. Marty Rothstein. That got me thinking. Well, actually it was my wife Alice got me thinking. But, anyway, wherever the credit is due, the point is, if Marty Rothstein did the crime, then Marty Rothstein had the gun. So what did he do with it, after the three people were dead?”
    “Is there a point to this?”
    “There sure is. The point is, who died last? We know who died first. Cranston Pritchert. But the real question is, who died last? A bit hard to determine from the medical evidence, as we discussed, but logically it’s the girl. Last to die, I mean. At least the way we doped it out. Killer kills Pritchert. Killer says, Oops, gotta get rid of the people can connect me to this crime. Killer goes does ’em in. Logically, the killer doesn’t know where the girl is any more than I did. So the killer finds the girl through the talent agent. Which makes the talent agent die second.”
    “So what?”
    “The girl was killed with the same gun. Big stumbling block. If the gun was used to kill the girl, how does it wind up in my car?”
    MacAullif frowned. “What do you mean?”
    “It’s like you said yesterday. Just because the bartender changed his story once, he doesn’t have to be telling the truth now. And Alice says what if he planted the gun? So, I’m thinking about that. And it occurs to me—when I’m out at the talent agent’s house—when the gun winds up in my car—when I get framed with the gun—well, what happens just before that? Sandy the bartender arrives to look at the resume photos. I’m there at the talent agent’s house, suddenly he walks in the front door, looking for the cops. And all the time my car is parked out front.”
    I frowned, hit my forehead. “Then it occurs to me, how would he know it’s my car? And, lo and behold, I have the answer. The day before. At the talent agent’s office in the city. When we went through resume photos there. When we were done, I go out, get in my car, and drive off. Sandy’s right there, sees me go. So he’d know it was my car.”
    MacAullif was staring at me, openmouthed. “Are you telling me the bartender killed these people?”
    I waved it away. “No, no, no. That’s all bullshit. The bartender had nothing to do with it,”
    “Then what the hell are you talking about?”
    I raised one finger,