With the elevator light behind him, he knew they could see more than he
could.
“Don’t come any closer,” Harris said.
Bollinger stopped. “What’s the matter?”
“I don’t want you to come closer.”
“Why?”
“We don’t know who you are.”
“I’m a detective. Frank Bollinger. We have an appointment for
eight-thirty. Remember?” Another step. Then another.
“How did you get up here?” Harris’s voice was shrill.
He’s scared to death, Bollinger thought. He smiled and said, “Hey,
what’s going on with you? Why are you so uptight? You were expecting
me.” Bollinger took slow steps, easy steps, so as not to frighten the
animals.
“How did you get up here?” Harris, asked again. “The elevators aren’t
working.”
“You’re mistaken. I came up on an elevator.” He held the badge in
front of him in his left hand, arm extended, hoping the light from
behind would gleam on the gold finish. He had covered perhaps a fifth
of the distance between them.
“The telephones are out,” Harris said.
“They are?” Step. Step.
He put his right hand in his coat pocket and gripped the butt of the
pistol.
Connie couldn’t take her eyes off the shadowy form moving steadily
toward them. To Graham she said softly, “You remember what you said on
the Prine show?”
“What?” His voice cracked.
Don’t let the fear take you, she thought. Don’t break down and leave me
to handle this alone.
She said, “In your vision you saw that the police know the killer well.”
“What about it?”
“Maybe the Butcher is a cop.”
‘Christ, that’s it!”
He spoke so softly that she could barely hear him.
Bollinger kept coming, a big man, bearish. His face was in shadow.
He had closed the distance between them by at least half.
“Stop right there,” Graham said. But there was no force in his voice,
no authority.
Bollinger stopped anyway. “Mr. Harris, you’re acting very strange. I’m
a policeman. You know … you’re acting as if you’ve just done
something that you want to hide from me.” He took a step, another, a
third.
“The stairs?” Connie asked.
“No,” Graham said. “We don’t have enough of a lead. With my game leg,
he’d catch us in a minute.”
“Mr. Harris?” Bollinger said. “What are you two saying? Please
don’t whisper.”
“Where then?” Connie whispered.
“The office.”
He nudged her, and they ducked quickly into the Harris Publications
suite, slammed and locked the reception room door.
A second later, Bollinger hit the outside of the door with his shoulder.
it trembled in its frame. He rattled the knob violently.
“He’s probably got a gun,” Connie said. “He’ll get in sooner or later.”
Graham nodded. “I know.”
part three
FRIDAY 8:30 P.Mo 10:30 PoM.
moas Ira Preduski parked at the end of a string of three squad cars and
two unmarked police sedans that blocked one half of the two-lane street.
Although there was no one in any of the five vehicles, all the engines
were running, headlights blazing; the trio of blue-and-whites were
crowned with revolving red beacons. Preduski got out of his car and
locked it.
A half inch of snow made the street look clean and pretty. As he walked
toward the apartment house, Preduski scuffed his shoes against the
sidewalk, sending up puffs of white flakes in front of him. The wind
whipped the falling snow into his back, and cold flakes found their way
past his collar. He was reminded of that February, in his fourth year,
when his family moved to Albany, New York, where he saw his first winter
storm.
A uniformed patrolman in his late twenties was ” standing at the bottom
of the outside steps to the apartment house.
“Tough job you’ve got tonight,” Preduski said. “I don’t mind it.
I like snow.”
“Yeah? So do I.”
“Besides,” the patrolman said, “it’s better standing out here in the
cold than up there in all that blood.”
The room smelled of blood, excrement and dusting powder.
Fingers bent like claws, the dead woman lay on the floor beside the bed.
Her eyes were open.
Two lab technicians were working around the body, studying it carefully
before chalking its position and moving it.