He sighed. “Perhaps. Look, Miss Mowry, do you have a security chain on
the door?”
“Of course.”
“Of course. Well, leave the chain on and open up. I’ll show you my
identification.”
Hesitantly, she slid back a bolt lock. The chain lock allowed the door
to open an inch and no farther.
He held up his wallet. “Detective Bollinger, ” he said. The knife was
in his left hand, pointed at the floor, pressed flat against his
overcoat.
She squinted through the narrow crack. She peered for a moment at the
badge that was pinned to the inside of his wallet, then carefully
studied the photo identification card in the plastic window below the
badge.
When she stopped squinting at the ID and looked up at him, he saw that
her eyes were not blue, as he had thought-having seen her no closer than
when she was on stage and he was in the shadowed audience but a deep
shade of green. They were truly the most attractive eyes he had ever
seen. “Satisfied?” he asked.
Her thick dark hair had fallen across one eye. She pushed it away from
her face. Her fingers were long and perfectly formed, the nails painted
blood red. When she was on stage, bathed in that intense spotlight, her
nails appeared to be black. She said, “What’s this trouble you
mentioned?”
“I have quite a number of questions to ask you, Miss Mowry. Must we
discuss this through a crack in the door for the next twenty minutes?”
Frowning, she said, “I suppose not. Wait there just a minute while I
put on a robe.”
“I can wait. Patience is the key to content.”
She looked at him curiously.
Mohammed,” he said.
“A cop who quotes Mohammed?”
“Why not?”
“Are you-of that religion?”
“No.” He was amused at the way she phrased the question. “It’s just
that I’ve acquired a considerable amount of knowledge for the sole
purpose of shocking those people who think all policemen are hopelessly
ignorant.
” She winced. “Sorry.” Then she smiled. He had not seen her smile
before, not once in the entire week since he had first seen her.
She had stood in that spotlight, moving with the music, shedding her
clothes, bumping, grinding, caressing her own bare breasts, observing
her audience with the cold eyes and almost lipless expression of a
snake. Her smile was dazzling.
“Get your robe, Miss MoryS he closed the door.
Bollinger watched the foyer door at the end of the hall, hoping no one
would come in or go out while he was standing there, exposed.
He put away his wallet.
He kept the knife in his left hand.
in less than a minute she returned. She removed the security chain,
opened the door and said, “Come in.”
He stepped past her, inside.
She closed the door and put the bolt lock in place and turned to him a
him and said, “Whatever trouble-” Moving quickly for such a large man he
slammed her against the door, brought up the knife, shifted it from his
left hand to his right hand, and lightly pricked her throat with the
point of the blade.
Her green eyes were very wide. She’d had the breath knocked out of her
and could not scream.
“No noise,” Bollinger said fiercely. “if you try to call for help, I’ll
push this pig sticker straight into your lovely throat.
I’ll ram it right out the back of your neck. Do you understand?”
She stared at him.
“Do you understand?”
“Yes,” she said thinly.
“Are you going to cooperate?”
She said nothing. Her gaze traveled down from his eyes, over his proud
nose and full lips and strong jaw-line, down to his fist and to the
handle of the knife.
“If you aren’t going to cooperate,” he said quietly, “I can skewer you
right here. I’ll pin you to the damn door.” He was breathing hard.
A tremor passed through her.
He grinned.
Still trembling, she said, “What do you want?”
“Not much. Not very much at all. just a little loving.” She closed
her eyes. “Are you-him?”
Dew R Kovatz A slender, all but invisible thread of blood trickled from