Scavenger by David Morrell

stay only for a limited time. The delivery people. All they needed to be told was a man and woman felt ill and were being helped into a van. It’s possible only the professor and Karen Bailey actually knew what was going on.”
    “The delivery people.” Ortega indicated a list on his desk. “My partner and I are contacting all the companies in the city that rent tables and chairs for events. We’ll eventually find the company that delivered to that address. Maybe they can give us a description of whoever hired them.”
    “Any bets they were hired over the phone and paid with a check in the mail?” Balenger asked.
    Ortega studied him with concern.
    “And any bets the bank account was established for the sole purpose of paying the Realtor and the rental company and maybe some of the people who showed up for the lecture?” Balenger added. “That bank account won’t be used again, and whoever established it no doubt gave a false name, address, and social security number.”
    “You know,” Ortega said, “this is something new for me.”
    “What do you mean?”
    “I’ve never had a case in which someone with law-enforcement experience reported a loved one missing. I feel like I’m a magician trying to work with another magician. You’re familiar with the procedures. You realize what goes on behind the curtain. While I was making inquiries with Oglethorpe University, the city clerk’s office, and the residents of that block on Nineteenth Street, I heard about someone else who made the same inquiries. That wouldn’t have been you by any chance?”
    “I couldn’t bear just sitting and waiting.”
    “I hope you didn’t imply to those people that you’re still in law enforcement.”
    “I did nothing illegal.”
    “Then the best thing you can do right now is make yourself sit and wait a little longer. You’re too emotionally involved to go around questioning people. Don’t try to do my job.”
    “The thing is,” Balenger said, “I realize how hard this is for you. You and your partner have plenty of cases, and there’s only so much time in a day, and speaking of magicians, you and I know magic doesn’t exist.”
    “Okay, show me how to do my job. If you were me, where would you look to find the people who attended the lecture?”
    “I was about to suggest they played their parts with such assurance, maybe that’s what they do for a living. Maybe they’re actors,” Balenger said.
    10
    “There’s the son of a bitch.” Balenger gestured toward a photograph in a glassed display. “Minus the mustache and with darker hair.”
    He and Ortega stood outside the Bleecker Street Playhouse in Greenwich Village. They’d spent the previous hour phoning talent agencies and actors’ groups, asking about anyone hired for a Saturday afternoon gig on East 19 th Street.
    Leaving the noise of traffic, they entered a small, dingy lobby, where they paused to assess their surroundings. The box office was behind them. On the left, Balenger saw a coat closet, on the right a counter for refreshments. The stained carpet looked worn, although not much of it was visible because of folded tarpaulins, stacked scaffolding, paint cans, buckets, and brushes. The smell of turpentine hung in the air.
    “Definitely needs an overhaul,” Ortega murmured, glancing toward a water stain on the ceiling.
    “I hate old buildings,” Balenger said.
    Straight ahead, past a double door, muffled voices spoke unintelligible words.
    Ortega opened one of the doors and went inside. After a moment, he came back and motioned for Balenger to follow him. The door swung shut behind them. They stood in an aisle that descended past rows of seats toward a bottom area illuminated by overhead lights. On stage, the curtains were parted. Two couples, one middle-aged, the other young, held scripts and recited lines. A tall, thin man stood before the stage, motioning with a pointer to let them know where to stand.
    Looking small down there, the young woman