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tell me what happened!”
    “Your sister and a couple of girl friends started out with a pot party,” answered the other patrolman. “At the Swansons’ guest house. The Swansons are in Maine … naturally. We got a tip about an hour ago. When we got there, we found it was a little more complicated.”
    “What do you mean?”
    “That was the accident, young fellow,” interjected the driver. “Hard stuff. The accident was that we found it.”
    Steven Trevayne was stunned. His sister may have had a stick now and then—who hadn’t?—but nothing hard. That was out.
    “I don’t believe you,” he said emphatically.
    “You’ll see for yourself.”
    The patrol car turned left at the next corner. It was not the way to Police Headquarters.
    “Aren’t they at the station?”
    “They’re not booked. Not yet.”
    “I don’t understand.”
    “We don’t want any story out. If they’re booked, we can’t control it. They’re still at the Swansons’.”
    “Are the parents there?”
    “We told you, we haven’t been able to reach them,” answered the driver. “The Swansons are in Maine; your folks are in town.”
    “You said there were others. Girl friends.”
    “Out-of-staters. Friends from boarding school. We want the local parents first on this one. We’ve got to be careful. For everyone’s sake. You see, we found two packages of uncut heroin. An educated guess would put the price around a quarter of a million dollars.”
    Andrew Trevayne took his wife’s elbow as they walked up the short flight of concrete steps to the rear door of the Greenwich Police Station. It had been agreed that they would use this entrance.
    The introductions were polite, abrupt, and the Trevaynes were ushered into a Detective Fowler’s office. Their son was standing by a window and walked rapidly to his parents the moment they entered the door.
    “Mom! Dad!… This is a bunch of crap!”
    “Just calm down, Steve,” said the father sternly.
    “Is Pam all right?”
    “Yes, Mother. She’s fine. They’re still at the Swansons’. She’s just confused. They’re all confused, and I don’t blame them one goddamned bit!”
    “I said cool it!”
    “I’m perfectly calm, Dad. I’m just angry. Those kids don’t know what uncut horse is, much less how or where to sell it!”
    “Do you?” asked Detective Fowler impersonally.
    “I’m not the issue, cop!”
    “I’ll tell you once more, Steve, get hold of yourself or shut up!”
    “No, I won’t!… I’m sorry, Dad, but I won’t! These jokers got a phone tip to check out the Swansons’. No name, no reason. They …”
    “Just a second, young man!” broke in the police officer. “We’re not jokers’ and I would advise you not to use that kind of language!”
    “He’s right,” added Trevayne. “I’m sure Mr. Fowler can explain what happened. What was this phone call, Mr. Fowler? You didn’t mention it when we spoke.”
    “Dad! He won’t
tell
you!”
    “I don’t
know!
… That’s the truth, Mr. Trevayne. At seven-ten this evening the desk got a phone call that there was some grass at the Swansons’; that we should look into it because there was a lot more involved. The caller was male, spoke with kind of a … well, high-toned speech. Your daughter was the only one mentioned by name. We followed it up.… Four kids. They admitted sharing a single cigarette between them during the last hour or so. It was no party. Frankly, the patrolman suggested we forget it. But by the time they radioed in their report, we’d gotten another call. Same voice. Same person. This time we were told to look in the milk box on the Swansons’ guest-house porch. We found the two packages of heroin. Uncut; we figure two hundred, two hundred and fifty thousand. That’s a lot of involvement.”
    “It’s also the most transparent, trumped-up incrimination I’ve ever heard of. It’s completely unbelievable.” Trevayne looked at his watch. “My attorney should be here