3

The signboard in the lobby of the hotel read: "Welcome, American Home Builders Association."

Harry showed his badge to the desk clerk and held up the envelope with the key. "Who has this room?"

The clerk looked up the registration card and handed it to Harry. "Mr. Gerald Mossman."

Copying down the information on the card, Garreth saw a Denver address and a company name: Kitco, Inc. "Is Mossman a member of the convention here?"

The desk clerk said, "Yes. That's the convention rate for the room."

"Do you know where we can find Mr. Mossman?"

"The convention people might. Their registration table and function rooms are up the stairs there."

They climbed the stairs and showed their badges again, this time to the people at the registration table. "I'm Sergeant Takananda. This is Inspector Mikaelian. Do you have a Gerald Mossman registered with the convention?"

"He's an exhibitor," came the reply. "The exhibition hall is down where you see the open doors."

At the doorway, however, a young man stepped in front of them, barring their way. "No admittance without a badge."

With a quick, wicked grin at each other, Garreth and Harry produced their badge cases and dangled them before the young man.

He looked down his nose at them. "Those are the wrong-" He broke off, coloring, and stammered, "Excuse me . . . I meant-I'm supposed-may I help you? Do you have business here?"

"Yes," Harry said. "Where is the Kitco display?"

"There's a floor diagram just inside." He hastily stepped aside for them.

The diagram located Kitco at the far end of the hall. There they found a woman and two men, smartly dressed and flawlessly groomed, working before a photographic montage of kitchen cabinets. Leaflets and catalogs lay on tables at the front of the booth.

The woman turned a brilliant, professional smile on them. "Good morning. I'm Susan Pegans. Kitco manufactures cabinets in a wide variety of styles and woods to fit any decor. May I show you our brochure?"

Harry said, "I'm looking for Gerald Mossman. He's with this exhibit, isn't he?"

"Mr. Mossman is our sales manager, but he's not here at the moment."

"Can you tell me where he is?"

"I'm afraid not. Is there anything I can do for you?"

Garreth opened his notebook. "Does he fit this description?" He read off that of the dead man.

Her smile faltered. "Yes. Steve . . ."

The taller of the two men left the people he was talking to and came over. "I'm Steven Verneau. Is there a problem?"

Harry showed his identification. "When did you last see Gerald Mossman?"

The blusher on the woman's face became garish paint over a bloodless face. "What's happened to him?"

Harry eyed her. "Could we talk somewhere away from this crowd, Mr. Verneau?"

"Sure."

"Steve," the woman began.

Verneau patted her arm. "I'm sure it's nothing. This way, Sergeant."

He led them to a lounge area off the exhibition hall and moved into a corner away from the few people there. "Now, what's this about?"

There never seemed to be any easy way of saying it. Harry made it quick. "We've found a man in the bay with Mossman's hotel key in his pocket."

Verneau stared, shocked. "In the bay? He fell in and drowned?"

Garreth said carefully, "We think he was dead before he went in. He appears to have been robbed."

"Someone killed him?" Other people in the lounge looked around. Verneau lowered his voice. "Are you sure it's Gary?"

Garreth gave him the description.

Verneau paled. "Oh, no!"

"We need to have someone come down to the morgue and identify him," Harry said. "Can you do it?"

Verneau went whiter yet, but nodded. "Just let me give Alex and Susan some excuse for being gone."