Broadway Bounty

Chapter Thirty-three

In the morning, Decker had breakfast with Rosewood.

“They’re following us again,” Rosewood said when they were seated in that small, nameless café Decker had come to like so well.

“I know.”

“What did Tally say last night?”

“That he didn’t want me to get killed.”

“That’s nice of him,” Rosewood said. “Do we lose them again?”

“I don’t know yet,” Decker said. “Why don’t we do a little sightseeing today?”

“Why not?” Rosewood said. “You’re paying the freight.”

“Let’s go…”

The day went by uneventfully. They went to Central Park and walked; they went to museums and walked; they went to different neighborhoods that Rose-wood thought Decker might find interesting—and walked.

“You’ve been walking around all day with a target painted on your back, and nobody’s so much as looked at it twice. How many more days do you think you can do this?”

“I don’t know.”

“I’m a nervous wreck.”

Decker smiled.

“Wait here. You can drive us to dinner.”

When Decker went into the hospital to get Linda for dinner, he found out she hadn’t come to work that night.

“Did she send word why?”

“No,” the nurse at the desk said. “And that’s not like her, at all.”

“No, it isn’t,” Decker said.

He hurried out to Rosewood’s cab.

“Where is she?” Rosewood asked.

“That’s what I’d like to know,” Decker said. “Let’s get to her apartment.”

“You don’t think—?”

“Let’s just get there!”

They reached Linda’s building in record time, and Decker was out of the cab before it had stopped moving.

“Decker!” Rosewood shouted. He was afraid Decker would charge into Linda’s apartment without caution. Rosewood had come to like Decker, and he didn’t want to see him killed. He pulled the .32 out of his pocket and charged into the building after him.

Decker broke the lock on the front door getting in, and when he got to the second floor, he pulled the shotgun out and blew the lock off Linda’s door.

“Decker!” Rosewood said, coming up behind him.

Decker held his finger to his lips and motioned for Rosewood to flatten himself against the wall.

“Either she’s inside dead, or there’s somebody inside waiting,” Decker whispered.

“What do we do?”

“I go in,” Decker said. “You stay out here until I call you.”

“But I—”

“Wait here!”

The door was flapping back and forth from the force of the shotgun blast. Decker put his foot out to stop it, then slipped into the room, keeping low.

He looked right and then left, then moved farther in and checked the bedroom.

She wasn’t there, and neither was anybody else. He lowered the shotgun, aware that his heart was beating extra fast. A drop of perspiration dripped from the end of his nose and landed on the toe of his boot.

“Billy!”

“What happened?” Rosewood asked, coming in, .32 in hand, shaking.

“She’s not here.”

“That’s wasn’t one of your choices,” Rosewood said.

“I know,” Decker said, “and neither was that.” He pointed to the bed.

“What?”

“That.”

Rosewood looked closer and saw a note on the pillow. Decker went to the bed and picked up the note. It said,

DECKER,

CENTRAL PARK. MIDNIGHT.

ARMAND COLES

“He’s got her,” Rosewood said.

“Yes.”

“Midnight—that’s in fifteen minutes,” Rosewood said.

“I know,” Decker said. “His timing is perfect.”

“What are you gonna do?”

Decker crumpled the note in his hand and said, “I’m going to be there.”