Angeli laughed mirthlessly. “I’ll bet he did. Don’t budge out of that office, Doctor. I’m going to call Lieutenant McGreavy. We’ll both pick you up.”
“Right,” said Judd. He hung up slowly. Norman Z. Moody. The jolly Buddha from the yellow pages. Judd felt a sudden, inexplicable sadness. He had liked Moody. And trusted him.
And Moody was waiting to kill him.
Chapter Thirteen
TWENTY MINUTES LATER Judd unlocked his office door to admit Angeli and Lieutenant McGreavy. Angeli’s eyes were red and teary. His voice was hoarse. Judd had a momentary pang at having dragged him out of a sickbed. McGreavy’s greeting was a curt, unfriendly nod.
“I told Lieutenant McGreavy about the phone call from Norman Moody,” Angeli said.
“Yeah. Let’s find out what the hell this is all about,” McGreavy said sourly.
Five minutes later they were in an unmarked police car speeding downtown on the West Side. Angeli was at the wheel. The light snowfall had stopped and the gruel-thin rays of the late afternoon sun had surrendered to the oppres sive cover of storm clouds sweeping across the Manhattan sky. There was a loud clap of thunder in the distance and then a bright, jagged sword of lightning. Drops of rain began to spatter the windshield. As the car continued downtown, tall, soaring skyscrapers gave way to small, grimy tenements huddled together as if for comfort against the biting cold.
The car turned into Twenty-third Street, going west toward the Hudson River. They moved into a land of junk yards and fix-it shops and dingy bars, then past that to blocks of garages, trucking yards and freight companies. As the car neared the corner of Tenth Avenue, McGreavy directed An geli to pull over to the curb.
“We’ll get out here.” McGreavy turned to Judd. “Did Moody say whether anyone would be with him?”
“No.”
McGreavy unbuttoned his overcoat and transferred his service revolver from his holster to his overcoat pocket. An geli followed suit. “Stay in back of us,” McGreavy ordered Judd.
The three men started walking, ducking their heads against the wind-lashed rain. Halfway down the block, they came to a dilapidated-looking building with a faded sign above the door that read:
FIVE STAR MEAT PACKING COMPANY
There were no cars or trucks or lights, no sign of life.
The two detectives walked up to the door, one on either side. McGreavy tested the door. It was locked. He looked around, but could see no bell. They listened. Silence, except for the sound of the rain.
“It looks closed,” Angeli said.
“It probably is,” McGreavy replied. “The Friday before Christmas—most companies are knocking off at noon.”
“There must be a loading entrance.”
Judd followed the two detectives as they moved cautiously toward the end of the building, trying to avoid the puddles in their path. They came to a service alley, and looking down it, they could discern a loading platform with deserted trucks pulled up in front of it. There was no activity. They moved forward until they reached the platform.
“OK,” McGreavy said to Judd. “Sing out.”
Judd hesitated, feeling unreasonably sad that he was betraying Moody. Then he lifted his voice. “Moody! “ The only response was the yowling of an angry tomcat disturbed in his search for dry shelter. “Mr. Moody!”
There was a large wooden sliding door on top of the plat form, used to move the deliveries from inside the warehouse to the area where the trucks were loaded. There were no steps leading onto the platform. McGreavy hoisted himself up, moving with surprising agility for such a large man. An geli followed, then Judd. Angeli walked over to the sliding door and pushed against it. It was unlocked. The great door rolled open with a loud, high-pitched scream of protest. The tomcat answered hopefully, forgetting about shelter. Inside the warehouse it was pitch black.
“Did you bring a flashlight?” McGreavy asked Angeli.
“No.”
“Shit!”
Cautiously they inched their way into the gloom. Judd called out again. “Mr. Moody! It’s Judd Stevens.”
There was no sound except for the creaking of the boards as the men moved across the room. McGreavy rummaged in his pockets and pulled out a book of matches. He lit one and held it up. Its feeble, sputtering light cast a wavering yellow glow in what seemed to be an enormous empty cavern. The match guttered out. “Find the goddam light switch,” McGreavy said. “That was my last match.”