Gregson snaked his way to the Pro Shop, as if cross-hairs were painted on him like a tattoo. He was a big target—51% of him was body fat, so the odds were slightly in his favor—any shot would just pass through. He was out-of-breath when he walked inside.

The head pro was joking with some of the regulars. “What happens when you teach a blonde how to use a corkscrew?”

Gregson pulled-out his .357 Magnum.

“It was only a joke,” the head pro protested.

“How do you get to the loft?”

“Are you police?”

“It doesn’t matter. There’s a shooter up there.”

“The door in the back.”

Gregson walked up the stairs. His body filled the corridor, so he couldn’t turn around, but when he got there, it was empty. Only a couple mice, and a few spiders. The dust on the floor wasn’t disturbed.

When he walked down, the head pro was laughing.

“Did you find who you were looking for?” He asked.

“Afraid not—you got a dead guy on number 5, though. I thought about killing him myself, but someone beat me to it. You’d better call the police.”

“You say he deserved to die?” One of the regulars asked, suspiciously.

“Yes, he gave me advice about my golf game,” Gregson said.

“Ohhhhh,” a murmur of understanding filled the Pro Shop.

When the Maple Valley police got there, Gregson noticed their uniforms. They were starched and perfect. They had a look of decency and civic duty about them. The worst offenders they had dealt with were suburban moms going through menopause. 

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