Steinway piano; the guts had been ripped out, the lid lowered and cut to
fit the frame. Behind the desk rose bookshelves filled with volumes
about skiing and climbing. The light came from four floor lamps with
old-fashioned ceramic sconces and glass chimneys that hid the electric
bulbs. There were also two brass reading lamps on the desk. A small
conference table and four armchairs occupied the space in front of the
windows. A richly carved seventeenth century British coatrack stood by
the door to the corridor, and an antique bar of cut glass, beveled
mirrors and inlaid woods stood by the door to the reception lounge. On
the walls were photographs of climbing teams in action, and there was
one oil painting, a mountain snow scape. The room might have been a
study in the home of a retired professor, where books were read and
pipes were smoked and where a spaniel lay curled at the feet of its
master.
Connie opened the foil-lined box on the conference table. Steam rose
from the pizza; a spicy aroma filled the office.
The wine was chilled. In the pizzeria, she had made them keep the
bottle in their refrigerator until the pie was ready to go.
Famished, they ate and drank in silence for a few minutes.
Finally she said, “Did you take a nap?”
“Did I ever.”
“How long?”
“Two hours.”
“Sleep well?”
“Like the dead.”
“You don’t look it.”
“Dead?”
“You don’t look like you’d slept.”
“Maybe I dreamed it.”
“You’ve got dark rings under your eyes.”
“My Rudolph Valentino look.”
“You should go home to bed.”
“And have the printer down my throat tomorrow?”
“They’re quarterly magazines. A few days one way or the other won’t
matter.”
“You’re talking to a perfectionist.”
“Don’t I know it.”
“A perfectionist who loves you.”
She blew him a kiss.
Frank Bollinger parked his car on a side street and walked the last
three blocks to the Bowerton Building.
A skin of snow, no more than a quarter inch but growing deeper, sheathed
the sidewalks and street. Except for a few taxicabs that spun past too
fast for road conditions, there was not much traffic on Lexington
Avenue.
The main entrance to the Bowerton Building was set back twenty feet from
the sidewalk. There were four revolving glass doors, three of them
locked at this hour. Beyond the doors the large lobby rich with marble
and brasswork and copper trim was overflowing with warm amber light.
Bollinger patted the pistol in his pocket and went inside.
Overhead, a closed-circuit television camera was suspended from a brace.
It was focused on the only unlocked door.
Bollinger stamped his feet to knock the snow from his shoes and to give
the camera time to study him. The man in the control room wouldn’t find
him suspicious if he faced the ‘camera without concern.
A uniformed security guard was sitting on a stool behind a lectern near
the first bank of elevators.
Bollinger walked over to him, stepped out of the camera’s range.
“Evening,” the guard said.
As he walked, he took his wallet from an inside pocket and flashed the
gold badge. “Police.” His voice echoed eerily off the marble walls and
the high ceiling. “Something wrong?” the guard asked.
‘Anybody working late tonight?”
“Just four.”
“All in the same office?”
“No. What’s up?”
Bollinger pointed to the open registry on the lectern.
“I’d like all four names.”
“Let’s see here … Harris, Davis, Ott and MacDonald.”
“Where would I find Ott?”
“Sixteenth floor.”
“What’s the name of the office?”
“Cragmont Imports.”
The guard’s face was round and white. He had a weak mouth and a tiny
Oliver Hardy mustache. When he tried for an expression of curiosity,
the mustache nearly disappeared up his nostrils.
“What floor for MacDonald?” Bollinger asked. “Same. Sixteenth.”
“He’s working with Ott?”
“That’s right.”
“Just those four?”
“Just those four.”
“Maybe someone else is working late, and you don’t know it.”
“Impossible. After five-thirty, anyone going upstairs has to sign in
with me. At six o’clock we go through every floor to see who’s working
late, and then they check out with us when they leave. The building
management has set down strict fire-prevention rules. This is part of