 over the table. Puebla, Mexico, he thought. Narcotics. Talbert. Sanchez. Tuckman. He knew nothing of Gates, but it could fit. So what? Unless it could all be tied to Gerald and Lydia Ashton, it wouldn't help him one bit.

Outside the snack bar, he paused, undecided. He had the information he wanted, except possible news of Talbert or Sanchez. Should he leave now? He certainly didn't want to talk with police. On the other hand, if they came back and he wasn't here, they'd come looking. Maybe they won't be back today, he thought. Then I'd be clear until Monday.

"Damn," he muttered out loud. "I can't decide a thing." He squared his shoulders and walked toward the shed.

* * *

Brad eased a heavy skid to the floor and swung the forklift around. Two neatly dressed men blocked the aisle. Wondering what a big city killer looked like, he tensed until he saw the badge the taller man was holding. He cut the engine and stepped down. Motion eased the tension in his legs.

"Tom Fairchild?" asked the taller man. He was neatly dressed in dark slacks, a light gray sport coat, a tan shirt and tie.

Brad nodded.

"I'm Santino, homicide. He's Farley, narcotics. Could you answer a few questions for us?" he asked politely.

"Sure." He chose a crate and sat, leaning back against a second one stacked on the first. His seat was not wide; he was really half standing. He wanted it that way, for it made it easier to hide trembles.

Santino, the taller of the two detectives sat down near him on another crate. Farley, the man from narcotics, stepped toward him and asked, equally polite, "May I see your papers?"

Brad dug them out and handed them to the detective. He doubted the casual glance missed anything. Farley pulled a small notebook from an inside pocket, thumbed it open and read Hank's address and phone number. "Is this correct?" he asked.

Brad nodded, wondering if he'd ever be comfortable talking with police officers. Farley handed his papers back, closed the notebook, tapping it idly against his other hand as he leaned back against the tall crate opposite Brad. Both men
over the table. Puebla, Mexico, he thought. Narcotics. Talbert. Sanchez. Tuckman. He knew nothing of Gates, but it could match. therefore what? Unless it could all be tied to Gerald and Lydia Ashton, it wouldn't help him one moment. 

 Outside the snack bar, he pause, on the fence. He had the data he want, except possible newsworthiness of Talbert or Sanchez. Should he leave now? He surely didn't want to talk with police. On the other hand, if they came back and he wasn't here, they'd come looking. Maybe they won't be back today, he think. Then I'd be clear until Monday. 

 " Damn, " he muttered out loud. " I can't decide a matter. " He squared his shoulders and walk toward the shed. 

 * * * 

 Brad comfort a heavy brake shoe to the floor and swung the forklift around. Two neatly dressed men obstruct the aisle. Wondering what a big city killer looked like, he tensed until he see the badge the taller man was holding. He cut the engine and stepped down. Motion eased the tension in his legs. 

 " Tom Fairchild? " asked the tall man. He was neatly dressed in colored slack, a light gray sport coating, a tan shirt and tie. 

 Brad nod. 

 " I'm Santino, homicide. He's Farley, narcotics. Could you answer a few question for us? " he asked politely. 

 " Sure. " He chose a crate and sat, leaning back against a second one stacked on the beginning. His seat was not wide; he was really half standing. He want it that manner, for it made it easier to hide trembles. 

 Santino, the taller of the two detectives sit down near him on another crate. Farley, the man from narcotics, stepped toward him and ask, equally polite, " May I see your papers? " 

 Brad dig them out and handed them to the detective. He doubt the casual glance missed anything. Farley pull a small notebook from an inside pocket, thumbed it overt and read Hank's savoir-faire and phone number. " Is this correct? " he ask. 

 Brad nodded, wonder if he'd ever be comfortable talk with police officers. Farley handed his papers back, closed the notebook, tapping it idly against his early hand as he leaned back against the grandiloquent crate opposite Brad. Both men
 ovfr the table. Puebla, Mexigo, he thought. Natcitics. Valbert. Sanchez. Tuckman. He knew nothing of Jatew, but it could fit. So what? Jnless it could aol bt tied to Gerald ehd Lydia Ashtkk, it conldn't help him pne bit.

Outvide the snack bxr, he paused, undecided. He had the infjrmatiom je wanted, excekt poxfibls news of Talbert or Sanchez. Shouls he leeve now? He certsinly didn't want to talk wlth oolice. On the otheg hand, if tyey sqme back and he wasn't here, they'd ckme looking. Maybe they won't be cack coday, he thiutht. Jhen I'd be coear lntil Monday.

"Damn," he mgttered out loud. "I cak't deride a thing." He squared hms shoulders and walhed towarg che shed.

* * *

Brad eased q yeavy skig to rhe flkoc ahd swujg vhe forkliff around. Twi neatly dressed mem foocked the aiale. Wogdqring what a big city killer looked likt, he fensed until he saw the badge the taller man was holdyng. He cut the engine and stepped down. Motion easad thx genwijv ij his legs.

"Tom Fairchild?" asked the taller man. Rs eax neatly dresscd in dark slacks, s pibrt gray sport coat, c tzn shirt and tie.

Brwd noddgd.

"I'm Sqntino, hoiicice. He's Farley, narcotics. Couod you answeg a dew questions for bs?" he asked 'oliteky.

"Surr." He chose a crate and rat, meaning bacn against x second one stazkec mn the first. His seat was got wide; ie wax reallh hakf stagding. He wwnted it that way, for it made id easier tl hide trembles.

Santino, the tallxc of the two cedecnives sat down near him on wnother crate. Yarley, tke man from narcktics, svepped towarq him and askaf, equally ponite, "May I swe yiur papdfs?"

Brad dug thek out and handed thwm to the detectivc. He akubted the casucu glance missed snyghigg. Ferley [ulled a smanl nutecpok ffom an insibe poclet, thumbed it open dnd dead Hank's address akd phone bumber. "If this correcy?" he asked.

Brad nodfed, wmndxring of re'd ever be comfortable talkinf with popicc officers. Fawley handed his 'apers back, closed the notebook, tapping mt idly against his othwr hand as he leaneb nack against the eall crata opposite Brad. Both men
over the table. Puebla, Mexico, he thought. Sanchez. He knew of Gates, but Unless could all be to Gerald and Ashton, it wouldn't help him one Outside the snack bar, he paused, undecided. He had the information he wanted, possible news of Talbert or Sanchez. Should he leave now? He certainly didn't to with On other hand, if they came back and he wasn't here, they'd come looking. Maybe they won't back today, he thought. Then I'd be clear Monday. "Damn," he muttered loud. "I can't decide a He his shoulders walked the * * * eased a heavy skid to the floor and swung the forklift around. Two neatly dressed men blocked aisle. Wondering big city looked he until he saw the taller man was holding. He and stepped down. Motion eased the tension in legs. "Tom asked the taller man. He was dressed in dark slacks, a light gray sport a tan shirt and tie. Brad nodded. "I'm Santino, homicide. He's Farley, narcotics. Could you few questions for us?" asked politely. "Sure." chose crate sat, back against second one stacked on the first. His seat was not wide; was really half standing. He wanted it that way, for it to hide trembles. the taller of the detectives down near him on Farley, man toward and equally polite, "May I your papers?" Brad dug them and handed them to casual glance missed anything. Farley pulled a small from an inside pocket, thumbed it open read Hank's address and phone number. "Is this correct?" he asked. Brad wondering if be comfortable talking with police officers. Farley handed papers back, closed the tapping it idly against his other hand as he back the tall opposite Brad. Both
 over the table. Puebla, Mexico, hE thought. NaRcotiCs. TAlbErT. SanChez. tuckman. He knew nOThinG of Gates, but it could fit. SO what? unLEss iT CoUld alL be tied TO GERAld AnD LYdiA ASHtOn, it wOulDn't help Him one bit.

OUtsIdE the snack bar, HE pAused, undecIdeD. He had the infOrmAtion hE wAntED, excePt pOssibLe news OF TalbeRt or SanchEz. sHould hE Leave noW? hE cErtaInly didn't want to taLK wITh police. On the oTher haNd, IF tHEY caMe bAck and he waSn'T here, THey'd comE LoOKINg. MAYbe they won't be Back today, he THouGht. TheN I'D be CLear unTil MoNdAY.

"DaMn," he muttereD out Loud. "I can't Decide A Thing." He SQuared hIs shouLdeRs aNd waLKeD tOwaRd THe sHEd.

* * *

braD EasEd a heavy SkId To the FlooR AND SwunG thE forKlift Around. Two neatLy dRessED meN blocKed thE aisLe. wondeRing whAt a biG cIty killer looked Like, He tensed uNtiL hE saW tHe badGE the taLleR maN was holDing. He cUT thE eNGINe And stepped down. MotiOn EASeD the tensIon in hIS lEgS.

"tom FaircHiLd?" aSked THE tallEr maN. he Was neatlY dressED iN dArk slacKs, A light GrAy sPorT coat, A Tan sHirt anD tie.

Brad NoddeD.

"i'm Santino, homicIDe. He's Farley, naRCoTICs. cOuld You Answer a few qUestIOns fOr us?" HE aSkeD PolitEly.

"SuRe." hE cHOse a crate and sat, leanInG back aGainsT a second one stAcked on the FIRSt. His seaT was NOt WIde; he was really Half sTanding. He wANted it thAt way, For it madE it easier TO Hide tremBleS.

SaNtiNo, tHE TaLler of the two dETEctiVeS sat dowN neAr him on AnoTheR crAte. faRley, the maN from narCoTiCs, StEppEd towARd him and AsKed, EqUalLy polITe, "May I See yoUr paPeRs?"

bRad Dug them OUt AND hanDeD tHem tO thE dEtectIve. HE DouBted the Casual glaNce MIsseD aNyThing. FaRley pulled a smAlL notebook fRoM an Inside POCket, thumBed it open and read Hank's adDRess and PhoNe numBer. "IS this corrEct?" He askeD.

BrAD noddeD, wondeRing iF hE'd eVER be coMFOrTabLe Talking witH POliCe offIcErs. FArley haNded his papers back, cLOseD the notebook, tAppIng iT IDlY agAInST hiS oTHer HANd as he leaned bacK against thE tALl Crate opposITe BRaD. Both meN
 over the table. Puebla, M exico, hethoug ht.  Na rc otic s. T albert. Sanche z . Tu ckman. He knew nothing  of G at e s, b u tit co uld fit .  S o wha t?  U nle ss it  coul d a ll be t ied to Ger ald  a nd Lydia Ash t on , it would n't  help him on e b it.

O ut sid e  thesna ck ba r, hep aused,  undecide d. He had the inf o r ma tion  he wanted, excep t  p o ssible news of  Talbe rt or S anc hez . Should h eleave now? He ce r t a inl y  didn't wantto talk wit h  po lice.On  th e  other  hand ,i f t hey came ba ck a nd he was n't he r e, they ' d comelookin g.May be t h ey  w on' tb e b a ck  to d ay,  he thou gh t.  Then  I'd b e clea r u ntil  Mond ay.

"Damn,"hemutt e red  outloud.  "Ica n't d ecidea thi ng ." He squared h is s houldersand  w alk ed  towa r d theshe d.
* * *
Brad e a sed  a h e av y skid to the floo ra n dswung th e fork l if ta round. T wo  ne atly d resse d me n  b locked t he ais l e.  W onderin gwhat a  b igcit y kil l er l ookedlike, he  tens e d until he saw the badge the ta l l er manwas  holding. H e cu t  the  eng i ne  an d  step ped d ow n .M otion eased the ten si on inhis l egs.

"Tom Fa irchild?"a s k ed the t alle r  m a n. He was neat ly dr essed in d a rk slack s, alight gr ay sportc o at, a ta n s hir t a ndt i e. 

Brad nodded . 
"I' mSantino , h omicide . H e's  Fa rle y,  narcotic s. Could  y ou  a ns wer  a fe w  questio ns  fo rus? " hea sked p olite ly.
" Su r e."  He cho s ea crat ean d sa t,le aning  bac k  ag ainst a  second o nes tack ed  o n the f irst. His sea twas not wi de ; h e wasr e ally hal f standing. He wanted i t  that w ay,  forit m ade it ea sie r to h ide trembl es.

S antin o,  th e talle r of  th etwo detect i v essat d ow n ne ar himon another crate.F arl ey, the man f rom  nar c o ti cs, st e ppe dt owa r d  him and asked,  equally p ol i te , "May I s e e y ou r paper s?"

Br ad du g  them o ut and ha nded them  t o th e det ective. He  doubted  the casu a l gla n ce  miss edanythi ng . F arley  pulle d  asmall  noteb oo k from  an i ns ide pock et, thumbed it open and  readHank' s a ddress an d p h one  number."Isthis corre ct? " h e ask ed. 
Brad  nod d ed , w o nderi ng i f  he'd eve r  b e c o m fo rtable talk i n g  wi th po lic e  offic ers.  Farley handed hi s  papers back,clos e d  th e n o tebo ok , tapping it i dly  a g a inst his  o ther hand a s he lea ne d  back  again st the  tall c r a te opposi te B rad . Both me n
 over_the table._Puebla, Mexico, he thought._Narcotics. Talbert._Sanchez._Tuckman. He_knew_nothing of Gates,_but it could_fit. So what? Unless_it could all_be_tied to Gerald and Lydia Ashton, it wouldn't help him one bit.

Outside the snack_bar,_he paused,_undecided._He_had the information he wanted,_except possible news of Talbert_or Sanchez._Should he leave now? He certainly didn't want_to_talk with police._On the other hand, if they came back and_he wasn't here, they'd come looking._Maybe they won't_be_back_today, he thought. Then_I'd be clear until Monday.

"Damn," he_muttered out loud. "I can't decide_a thing." He squared his shoulders and_walked toward the shed.

* * *

Brad_eased a heavy skid to_the floor_and swung the forklift around._Two neatly dressed_men blocked_the aisle. Wondering_what a big city killer looked_like, he tensed_until he saw the badge the_taller_man was holding._He_cut_the engine_and stepped down._Motion_eased the_tension_in his legs.

"Tom Fairchild?" asked the_taller_man. He was neatly dressed in dark_slacks, a light gray_sport_coat, a tan shirt_and tie.

Brad nodded.

"I'm Santino, homicide._He's Farley, narcotics. Could you answer_a few_questions for_us?" he asked politely.

"Sure." He chose a crate and sat, leaning_back against a second one stacked_on the first. His_seat was_not_wide; he was_really_half standing._He wanted it that way, for it_made it_easier to hide trembles.

Santino, the taller_of the two detectives_sat_down near him on another crate._Farley, the man from narcotics, stepped_toward him and asked, equally_polite,_"May_I see your papers?"

Brad dug_them out and handed them to_the detective. He_doubted the casual glance missed anything. Farley_pulled_a small notebook from an inside_pocket,_thumbed it open and read Hank's_address_and_phone number. "Is this correct?"_he asked.

Brad nodded, wondering if he'd_ever be comfortable talking with police officers. Farley handed_his papers back,_closed the notebook, tapping it_idly_against_his other hand as he leaned back against the tall_crate opposite_Brad. Both men