Hot Pursuit

18

Fred flicker tucked Pat Frank into the rear seat of the Bentley and used his remote control to open the garage door. “How are you today, Ms. Frank?” he asked.

“Very well, thank you, Fred.”

“I understand you’ve had a bit of bovver wif a gentleman,” Fred said, lapsing into his native Cockney for a moment.

“Well, your boss seems to think so. Nothing’s happened yet.”

“I understand,” Fred said. “Prevention is the best cure.”

“He believes that to be so.”

“Could you describe the gentleman for me?”

“Six-one, two-twenty, heavily muscled, thick, dark hair going gray.”

“May I ask, how did the gentleman come to be heavily muscled?”

“He was always a gym rat,” she replied, “but a couple of years ago he really got into the bodybuilding thing.”

“I see. Tell me, do you think he might have been using steroids?”

“It crossed my mind,” she said. “It all seemed to happen pretty fast. He spent an inordinate amount of time at the gym.”

“Does he use drugs?” Fred asked.

“He has, from time to time. I insisted that he stop it, if he wanted to be with me.”

“Did he use cocaine?”

“That was his drug of choice.”

“Oh, dear,” Fred muttered to himself.

“How’s that?”

“Sorry, just thinking aloud.” He stopped the car. “Please wait until I’ve had a look around before you get out,” he said. He opened the car door, stood on the sill, to make up for his short stature, and had a look down the block and at the cars parked nearby, then he opened the rear door. “Let’s get you inside,” he said.

Fred followed her to the door and waited until she had unlocked it. “Mr. Barrington has asked me to deliver security alert letters to your tenants, so with your permission, I’ll find meself a parking spot, then I’ll slip them under their doors and come back here,” he said. “Please lock yourself in.” He gave her a card with his cell phone number. “Ring, if you need me for anything at all. I’ll come back in an hour or so and help you with your luggage.”

“Have a good time, Fred,” she said, then closed the door behind her.

Fred got back into the Bentley and circled the block, taking a look at every car, but watching for a Nissan Altima, as his boss had instructed. He didn’t see one, but he found a good parking spot with a view of Ms. Frank’s door, then returned to the building to deliver the letters.

He rang the bell, and she buzzed him in, then opened her door. “Fred, can you come here for a moment, please?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Fred replied, and went to her. “How may I help you?”

She partly closed her front door and pointed to some marks around the lock. “What do you make of that?” she asked.

Fred held a finger to his lips and stepped inside the door. He examined the lock and the plate that received the bolt. “Someone has attempted to get into your apartment,” he said softly, “but I don’t think he made it. Please wait here and be very quiet.” Fred drew his pistol and began walking silently from room to room. He checked her apartment’s upstairs, too, then came back.

“No one is here but us,” he said. “I’ll go deliver the letters now. Please lock the door behind me, and don’t open it for anyone but me.”

“All right,” Pat said. “Anything you say, Fred.”

Fred went to the bottom of the staircase, slipped off his shoes, and walked slowly up the stairs, walking on the outside of each step to avoid squeaks, and with his pistol at the ready. He stopped on the third floor and examined the lock, finding no marks. He slipped a letter under the door and continued to the fourth floor, where he found the door closed and unmarked.

One more floor to go. He was feeling better about things now. His feeling changed when his head rose enough to have a view of the fifth-floor apartment. The door was ajar. Fred stopped and listened for about a minute, waiting for any sound at all — a footstep, a drawer closing, anything. He heard nothing. He continued up the stairs as quietly as possible and paused at the door and listened again. Still nothing. With a single finger, he pushed the door open slowly, hoping it wouldn’t squeak. When the door was fully open he looked around the doorjamb and peered into the apartment. All he saw was a single foot, wearing a brown loafer and an argyle sock. It was entirely immobile. As he continued into the apartment a second foot came into view. The leg to which it was attached was drawn up, and another step revealed a man lying facedown on the floor, inert, with a bloody hole in the back of his head. His face rested in a pool of dark blood. He looked up and saw another man seated on a white sofa, his head flung back and the top of the sofa and the wall behind it covered in gore and blood.

Fred had seen such sights before on battlefields, and he knew that the color of the blood made the killings some hours old. Nevertheless, he carefully searched the rest of the apartment and found no one else there. He paused to look into a bedroom that had been converted to an art studio. There were two drawing tables in the room, and the cork-covered walls had various graphic designs, in various stages of completion, pinned to them. Fred called 911.

“Nine-one-one, what is your emergency?” a female operator asked.

“A double shooting,” Fred replied.

“Is an ambulance required?” she asked, skipping the obvious question in favor of brevity.

“Only one from the morgue,” Fred answered.

She asked for the address and his name, and he gave them.

“Do you live at this address?”

“No, I’m visiting a friend who lives on the ground floor. I came upstairs to deliver a letter.”

“Please hold.” Thirty seconds later she came back. “A unit has been dispatched. Please don’t touch anything in the apartment, and wait at the downstairs door for the police to arrive.”

“Will do,” Fred said, then hung up. He left the apartment and walked slowly down the stairs, still using his phone.

“Woodman & Weld,” Joan said.

“It’s Fred. Give me Mr. Barrington, please.”

“Hi, Fred, he’s on a call. Can he call you back?”

“Please interrupt him and tell him it’s urgent.”

Stone was on the line in seconds. “What is it, Fred?”

“A double homicide on the top floor of Ms. Frank’s building. I’ve already called nine-one-one.”

“Is Pat all right?”

“Yes. Her door had been tampered with, but the bloke didn’t get inside. She’s safe, and the police are on the way. They told me to wait at the front door.”

“Then you do that. I’ll call the commissioner and make sure a good detective team is sent. Tell Pat to stay in her apartment until the police arrive.”

“Yes, sir.” Fred hung up and hurried down the stairs. He stopped for a moment on the ground floor to recover his shoes, then he went to the Frank apartment and rapped on the door, standing directly in front of the eyehole.

She opened the door. “Come on in, Fred.”

“I have to wait by the front door.”

“Why?”

“Do two young men occupy your top floor?”

“Yes, they’re commercial artists. I haven’t met them yet. Have you?”

“In a manner of speaking. They’ve both been shot and are quite dead.”

Pat put a hand to her mouth.

“Powder room, miss, if you’re going to be sick.”

She took her hand away. “I’m not. What about the others upstairs?”

“No one’s answering. I’ll let the police take care of that.”

They heard a police car coming down Park Avenue and turning into East Sixty-third Street.

“That will be them,” Fred said. “Excuse me, please.” He holstered his weapon, turned, and walked to the front door, in time to open it for two uniforms.

“Top floor,” he said to the men, pointing upstairs. “I don’t know if anyone’s home on the third and fourth floors.”

“Did you call nine-one-one?”

“Yes.”

“Wait here.”

“I’ll be in there,” Fred said, pointing at the door. “Landlady’s apartment.”