It was barely an hour later, long enough for McGuire to return to his office, make a pot of coffee, and find a reason to stroll upstairs past Lorna Robbins’s desk and smile at her. His telephone was ringing when he returned. Sleeman began speaking, keeping his voice low so that McGuire had to press the telephone receiver tightly against his ear to catch his words. “Only if you got a photo,” McGuire said. He grabbed a pencil and sat with it poised above a yellow lined notepad. “No photos, Joe, like I told ya. Gotta sign mug shots out now, you hear about that? Anyway, this guy Myers is some kind of dancer. Got more moves than Fred Astaire. Found himself charged with a bunch of stuff three years ago. Fraud, embezzlement, minor assault, tax evasion. They nailed him on one reduced charge, bit of a deal they cut with him.” “What’d he get?” “Six months. Served the whole time.” “He give an address?”
