"I am sorry, Seńor Deputy," said the concierge as the other men entered around him. "These men I had to let up."

"What are you doing?" Serrador demanded of them. His voice was indignant, his eyes unforgiving. Suddenly, he heard the phone click off, followed by the dial tone. He froze with the buzzing phone pressed to his ear, realizing suddenly that something had gone terribly wrong.

"Deputy Delegado Isidro Serrador?" asked the sergeant.

"Yes-"

"You will please come with us."

"Why?"

"To answer questions regarding the murder of an American tourist."

Serrador pressed his lips together. He breathed loudly through his nose. He didn't want to say anything, ask anything, do anything until he'd had a chance to speak with his attorney. And think. People who didn't think were doomed before they started.

He nodded once. "Permit me to dress," he said. "Then I will come with you."

The sergeant nodded and sent one of the men to stand by the bedroom door. He wouldn't let Serrador shut it but the deputy didn't make an issue of it. If he let his temper go there'd be no getting that genie back in the bottle. It was best to suffer the humiliation and stay calm and rational.

The men took Serrador down to the cellar and out through the garage of the building-so he wouldn't have to suffer the embarrassment of being arrested, he assumed. At least they didn't handcuff him. He was placed in an unmarked police car and driven to the municipal police station on the other side of the park. There, he was escorted into a windowless room with a photo of the king on the wall, a hanging fixture with three bulbs in white tulip-shaped shades, and an old wooden table beneath it. There was a telephone on the table and he was told he could use it to make as many calls as he wished. Someone would come to speak with him shortly.

The door was shut and locked. Serrador sat in one of the four wooden chairs.

He phoned his attorney, Antonio, but he was not in. Probably out with one of his young women, as a wealthy bachelor should be. He didn't leave a message. He didn't want Antonio coming home and some talkative nymph overhearing the message. There hadn't been any press waiting outside so at least this was being done quietly.

Unless they were at the front of my apartment? he thought suddenly. Maybe that was why the police had taken him out through the garage door. Maybe that was what the concierge had meant: These men I had to let up. The press often tried to get to people who lived in the building, and the staff was good about insulating celebrity tenants from reporters. And his telephone number was changed regularly so they wouldn't be able to bother him.