He unlocked an elevator, rode with them up to the fifth floor, took out a passkey, and walked them to the suite. Muffled voices could be heard through the walls. Decker put his index finger to his lips and motioned them into the corner of the hallway, far enough away from the suite not to be heard, but close enough to keep an eye on the door.

“When did they come up here?” Marge whispered to the guard.

“They must’ve entered before I came on duty because they didn’t come after I got here. I came on duty at ten P.M.”

“Maybe they never went home from work,” Decker suggested in a hushed voice. “Go back to your station. Use the stairwell and be very quiet about it.”

The guard nodded and disappeared. Decker drew his gun.

“Expecting trouble?” Marge asked, taking out her own.

“Not really,” he answered. “I checked gun registration, and nothing was ever issued to any of the Podes or Smithsons. But Cecil pulled a .38 on me and I’m not taking any more chances with these pricks.

“If Cameron Smithson is in there, the case is duck soup. We go in and make the arrest. If he isn’t, then we’ll have to do a number on whoever is in there.”

“Namely Smithson Senior or Pode or both,” Marge said.

“Just what we were going to do anyway. Any last minute things you want to go over?”

She shook her head. “How about yourself?”

“I’m clear. Let’s go.”

They went back to the office. Decker pounded on the door and stepped aside.

“Police,” he yelled. “Open up.”

Harrison Smithson responded by partially opening the door and sticking out his head. Flushed and panting, he looked overwrought.

“What’s going on?”

“Police officers,” Marge said. She opened her wallet and showed him the badge. “Open up.”

The broker paused.

“We have a search warrant, Mr. Smithson,” she added. “You have no choice.”

Decker pushed the door open.

Dustin Pode was stooped over, brushing off the knees of his trousers. The room was in complete disarray. Filing cabinet drawers were pulled out, boxes stuffed with papers were piled on the desks and chairs. A paper shredder was going full force in the corner. Marge ran over and shut it off.

“What the hell is going on?” Pode asked.

“Planning on going somewhere, gentlemen?” Decker asked, putting his gun away.

“Who are you?” Pode spat at Decker. “Sure as hell your real name isn’t Jack Cohen.”

The detective pulled out his badge and ID, and as Pode read, a look of horrified recognition swept across his face.

“You’re the cop who murdered my father.”

Decker stuffed the badge back in his jacket and said, “We have a search warrant for this premise and an arrest warrant for Cameron Smithson.”

“Cameron isn’t here,” Harrison said quickly.

“Where is he?” Marge asked.