“Who is it?” a voice called from behind the panels.
“Come on,” Sellers said impatiently, “get it open.”
There was the sound of motion from within the room, and then the door was opened by a tall, thin individual with good shoulders, flat stomach, and an air about the way he wore his clothes which showed he knew he was good-looking. He had dark, wavy hair, a long, firm mouth, wide-spaced grey eyes, and a skin that was tanned to a hard bronze.
He’d been drinking, and his eyes were red. Whether all the redness came from the liquor was not readily apparent.
“Well, well,” he said, “the estimable Sergeant Sellers. Good Old Homicide, himself! Come on in, Sellers. Who’s the guy with you?”
Sellers didn’t wait for the invitation. He pushed his way into the room, and I followed.
Sellers kicked the door shut.
“Know this guy?” he asked.
The man looked me over, shook his head. “Who is he?”
“Donald Lam, a detective.”