“It's too bad,” she said. “You don't look like a son of a bitch.”

     “I'm not,” I said. “But I hate to be lied to. Honest to God, I do.”

     I parked in the slot with J. HART stenciled on it and rode the elevator up to the thirtieth floor. At my desk I made a few calls, and after a few more came back, I was ready to bring the file across the room to the District Manager of Investigations.

     His name was Gilsa. He had hired me two months before. When I went in, the case was up on his screen and he was peering at it through rimless half-lenses. Pat Collins was there, too. Collins had been to the Philippines on cases like this.

     “Sanchez came over in 'eighty-one on a tourist visa,” I said, “married an American woman in her fifties, got his green card, left her three weeks later. The guy's been a hard-core pain in the ass from the start. He's nicked us at least twice before. For ten thousand under the name of Carlos Santillo, that was back in 'eighty-four, and for twenty last year, when he called himself Carmelo Sandia.”

     “Who were his beneficiaries, those two?”

     “They named Carlito Sanchez.”

     “I love it,” Collins said. “Eliminate the middleman.”

     “What kind of agent writes these policies?” Gilsa said. “A creep like this asks for coverage, the bells and red lights ought to go off.”

     “All three by direct mail,” I said. “He got the right credit cards, he showed up on mailing lists.”

     “Jesus in a jumpsuit. No wonder we take it up the butt.”

     “We aren't the only ones. He loaded up on bank cards in all three names and topped 'em out. Amex is real anxious to have a word with him, too.”

     “How anxious?” Gilsa said.