"THEN THE DOOR opened and there was this crazy-looking blond guy with a shotgun just standing there, grinning at us. Before we could do anything he swung it up and fired right at Braxton." "How close were you?" "To?" "To Braxton." "Pretty close; arm's length, I guess. He knocked against me when he fell. There wasn't much room." "And to the shotgun?" "About the same." "Goon." "I fell back when he hit against me and cracked my head on a sink--sort of snapped it like this--and that's when things got fuzzy." I paused, expecting him to encourage me again in spite of my faulty memory, but nothing came out. Lieutenant Blair of Homicide, Chicago P.O., had the occupational necessity of a poker face, but I could tell he wasn't swallowing what I was dishing out. He waited and the uniformed cop hunched next to him at the foot of the desk stopped scribbling on his notepad. I covered the awkward pause by rubbing my face. "Maybe I was dazed or something, but I ran after the blond guy, chased him downstairs and out the building. He was moving too fast and I was all shaky. I lost him. I went back and told the lobby doorman to call an ambulance. I returned to the studio, saw the crowd in the hall, and began looking for Bobbi--Miss Smythe. When I couldn't find her, I drove to her hotel, but she wasn't