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The attorney, Byron Metcalf, had sent him carbons instead of Xerox copies of the insurance declarations. The carbons were fuzzy and hard to read.

Jacobi had a ski boat, Leeds had a ski boat. Jacobi had a three-wheeler, Leeds had a trail bike. Graham licked his thumb and turned the page.

The fourth item on the second page was a Chinon Pacific movie projector.

Graham stopped. How had he missed it? He had looked through every crate on every pallet in the Birmingham warehouse, alert for anything that would give him an intimate view of the Jacobis.

Where was the projector? He could cross-check this insurance declaration against the inventory Byron Metcalf had prepared as executor when he stored the Jacobis’ things. The items had been checked off by the warehouse supervisor who signed the storage contract.

It took fifteen minutes to go down the list of stored items. No projector, no camera, no film.

Graham leaned back in his chair and stared at the Jacobis smiling from the picture propped before him.

What the hell did you do with it?

Was it stolen?

Did the killer steal it?

If the killer stole it, did he fence it?

Dear God, give me a traceable fence.

Graham wasn’t tired anymore. He wanted to know if anything else was missing. He looked for an hour, comparing the warehouse storage inventory with the insurance declarations. Everything was accounted for except the small precious items. They should all be on Byron Metcalf’s own lockbox list of things he had put in the bank vault in Birmingham.

All of them were on the list. Except two.

“Crystal oddment box, 4" × 3", sterling silver lid” appeared on the insurance declaration, but was not in the lockbox. “Sterling picture frame, 9 × 11 inches, worked with vines and flowers” wasn’t in the vault either.

Stolen? Mislaid? They were small items, easily concealed. Usually fenced silver is melted down immediately. It would be hard to trace. But movie equipment had serial numbers inside and out. It could be traced.

Was the killer the thief?

As he stared at his stained photograph of the Jacobis, Graham felt the sweet jolt of a new connection. But when he saw the answer whole it was seedy and disappointing and small.

There was a telephone in the jury room. Graham called Birmingham Homicide. He got the three-to-eleven watch commander.

“In the Jacobi case I noticed you kept an in-and-out log at the house after it was sealed off, right?”

“Let me get somebody to look,” the watch commander said.

Graham knew they kept one. It was good procedure to record every person entering or leaving a murder scene, and Graham had been pleased to see that Birmingham did it. He waited five minutes before a clerk picked up the telephone.

“Okay, in-and-out, what do you want to know?”

“Is Niles Jacobi, son of the deceased—is he on it?”

“Umm-hmmm, yep. July 2, seven P.M. He had permission to get personal items.”

“Did he have a suitcase, does it say?”

“Nope. Sorry.”

Byron Metcalf’s voice was husky and his breathing heavy when he answered the telephone. Graham wondered what he was doing.

“Hope I didn’t disturb you.”

“What can I do for you, Will?”