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Copyright 1983, 2001 ┬ęGerald Petievich

Smashwords Edition

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THE BULLETIN board in the Detective Bureau was covered with a clear plastic burglary occurrence chart dotted with red stickpins. Because Beverly Hills was a rich man's city, burglary was the only crime with enough weekly activity to be charted.

Detective Travis Bailey was alone in the handsomely carpeted third floor office. Rather than the dank, coffee-stained bullpens typically found in big city police departments, the office was spacious and clean with colorful desk partitions. Rather than brownstone tenements, the window view was of a business district made up of shops that sold ostrich leather shoes, gold toothpicks, furs. Instead of an electric fan wafting stale cigarette and cigar smoke, the bureau was equipped with a modus operandi computer that had been the subject of an article in a police journal, and a bank of modern looking interview rooms furnished with two way mirrors and upholstered chairs.

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