“I’d rather not use his name on the phone.”
“Okay. Six o’clock it is.”
“Don’t you forget.”
“I’m looking forward to it,” she said.
“So am I,” Billy said.
Although Connie Davis had slept late and hadn’t opened the antique shop
until after lunch, and although she’d had only one customer, it was a
good day for business. She had sold six perfectly matched
seventeenth-century Spanish chairs. Each piece was of dark oak with
bowed legs and claw feet. The arms ended in snarling demon heads,
elaborately carved gargoyles the size of oranges. The woman who
purchased the chairs had a fourteen-room apartment overlooking Fifth
Avenue and Central Park; she wanted them for the room in which she
sometimes held seances.
Later, when she was alone in the shop, Connie went to her alcove office
at the rear of the main room. She opened a can of fresh coffee,
prepared the percolator.
At the front of the room the big windows rattled noisily. Connie looked
up from the percolator to see who had come in. No one was there.
The windows were trembling from the sudden violence of the winter
weather; the wind had picked up and was gusting fiercely.
She sat down at a neatly kept Sheraton desk from the late 1780s and
dialed the number of Graham’s private office phone, bypassing his
secretary. When he answered she said, “Hello, Nick.”
“Hi, Nora.”
“If you’ve made any headway with your work, let me take you to dinner
tonight. I just sold the Spanish chairs, and I feel a need to
celebrate.”
“Can’t do, I’m afraid. I’m going to have to work most of the night to
finish here.”
“Can’t the staff work a bit of overtime?” she asked. “They’ve done
their job. But you know how I am. I have to double-check and
triple-check everything.”
“I’ll come help.”
“There’s nothing you can help with.”
“Then I’ll sit in the corner and read.”
“Really, Connie, you’d be bored. You go home and relax. I’ll show up
sometime around one or two in the morning.”
“Nothing doing. I won’t get in your way, and I’ll be perfectly
comfortable reading in an office chair. Nora needs her Nick tonight.
I’ll bring supper.”
“Well … okay. Who am I kidding? I knew you’d come.”
“A large pizza and a bottle of wine. How’s that?”
“Sounds good.”
“When?” she asked.
“I’ve been dozing over my typewriter. If I’m to get this work done
tonight, I’d better take a nap. As soon as the staff clears out for the
day, I’ll lie down. Why don’t you bring the pizza at seven-thirty?”
“Count on it.”
“We’ll have company at eight-thirty.”
“Who?”
“A police detective. He wants to discuss some new evidence in the
Butcher case.”
“Preduski?” she asked.
“No. One of Preduski’s lieutenants. A guy named Bollinger. He called
a few minutes ago and wanted to come to the house this evening.
I told him that you and I would be working here until late.”
“Well, at least he’s coming after we eat,” she said. “Talking about the
Butcher before dinner would spoil my appetite.”
“See you at seven-thirty.”
“Sleep tight, Nicky.”
When the percolator shut off, she poured steaming coffee into a mug,
added cream, went to the front of the store and sat in a chair near one
of the mullioned show windows. She could look-over and between the
antiques for a many-paned view of a windswept section of Tenth Street.
A few people hurried past, dressed in heavy coats, their hands in their
pockets, heads tucked down.
Scattered snowflakes followed the air currents down between the
buildings and ricocheted along the pavement.
She sipped her coffee and almost purred as the warmth spread through
her.
She thought about Graham and felt warmer still. Nothing could chill her
when Graham was on her mind. Not wind.
Not snow. Not the Butcher. She felt safe with Graham-even with just
the thought of him. Safe and protected. She knew that, in spite of the
fear that had grown in him since his fall, he would lay down his life
for her if that was ever required of him. Just as she would give her
life to save his. It wasn’t likely that either of them would be