"No," answered Dean as he wiped the perspiration from his brow and nursed his sore body. "They were from out of town."
Dean related the complete happenings to Fred but when he began to describe the scuffle, he remembered the gun. "I knocked it out of his hand!" he said and rose, looking toward the back corner. A search of the area where the first suit had fallen revealed the gun, a .38 caliber, which Dean picked up carefully so as not to disturb the prints. "This should help."
The police arrived, in the form of Jenny Nachman and a young Hispanic named Alverez and it was suggested that Dean and Fred go to the station. Jenny took one look at Dean's attire and made a "love your tailor" comment. There was no permanent damage to head or elbow but Dean was beginning to feel his years. He was reluctant to pore over mug shots as he assumed the car would be located momentarily, and hopefully his assailants. It didn't happen in the two hours the pair spent in a fruitless perusal of ugly malefactors. When they finally finished and left the station, Jenny drove the exhausted pair home. A call came just as they left. The car had been found abandoned less than a mile away. The license plate had been removed but Dean had a tracer placed on the vehicle identification number, a procedure that would take a couple of days. Between the car and the gun, he remained optimistic the two men would be identified.
Neither Dean nor Fred volunteered any information on why they were in Willoughby's or that the fracas was anything but a mugging. Thankfully, it was after-hours at the station and Lieutenant Anderson was neither there nor was he called. Jenny didn't look as if she believed their story but Dean was a detective so she simply took their statements and refrained from asking embarrassing questions. Dean began to wonder if he was laying his pension on the line by not reporting the entire case in an official manner. Instead, he felt himself sinking deeper and deeper into a pit of questionable ethics for questionable reasons. In for a penny, in for a dime, as Fred would say.
Another disappointment greeted them when they opened the door to 422 Collingswood Avenue. Someone had beaten them home. A casual observer wouldn't have noticed but the door was ajar and the phone was on the wrong side of the hall table. As soon as Dean lifted the instrument it fell apart in his hands.
"Look ma, no bugs," sighed Dean. "They didn't even take time to put the screws back in. How can we be so stupid? These guys are still two steps and a leap ahead of us." Dean went through the motions of checking the phone anyway, but found what he expected, absolutely nothing.