“I intended to.”
“Your initials in either of them?”
“Both of them.”
“And what would those initials be?”
“CJR.”
“For?”
“Cassandra Jean Ridley.”
“Could you please spell Ridley for us?”
“R-I-D-L-E-Y,” she said. “What are the chances of getting them back?”
One of the detectives was redheaded. With a white streak in his hair. The other was short. She figured the chances were nil.
“We have a very good recovery record, don’t we, Hal?” the redheaded one said.
“Well, so-so,” the short one said, and smiled.
Which confirmed Cass’s doubts.
“We’ll let you know if we come up with anything,” the redheaded one said. “Here’s my card, I’ll write my beeper number on the back in case you think of anything else.” The card said he was Detective/Second Grade Cotton Hawes of the Eighty-seventh Detective Squad.
“Thank you,” Cass said, though she couldn’t imagine what else she might think of to call them about.
“We know just how you feel,” the short one said.
“Oops!” the redheaded one said, and stopped dead in his tracks and bent to pick up a black eyeglass case on the floor near the dresser. “Almost stepped on them,” he said.
Cass did not wear eyeglasses.
“Thank you,” she said at once, and took the case.
“Have a nice Christmas,” the short one said.
“You, too,” Cass said.
She led them to the door, and locked it behind them. The minute they were gone, she looked at the name and address imprinted on the case in barely legible gold letters:
Eyewear Fashions, Inc. 1137 Stemmler Avenue (corner of 22nd Street)
Cass went to the closet for her red fox jacket.
THE KNOCK ON THE DOOR came at a little past four that afternoon. Will went to the door and said, “Yes?”
“Secret Service,” a voice said. “Mind opening the door for us?”
Secretwhat?Will thought.
“Say again?” he said.
“Special Agent David A. Horne,” the voice said. “Few questions I’d like to ask you, sir. Routine matter.”
Which to Will meant he ought to go out the window this very minute. Trouble was, there was no fire escape outside the window.
“Just a minute, let me put something on,” he said, even though he was fully clothed. In the next thirty seconds, he debated whether he should go hide the stolen hundred-dollar bills in the toilet tank or the freezer compartment of the fridge, both of which places would be searched at once if this was related to the burglary he’d committed on South Ealey. He decided to play it cool.
“Just a minute,” he said again, and went to the door and opened it.
The man standing there was tall and thin and blue-jowled, wearing a neon blue parka and a woolen hat with ear flaps. “Special Agent David A. Horne,” he said again, “with an ‘e,’” and opened a little leather case to show a gold star that looked like the ones the Texas Rangers carried back home. Will tried to think if there were any outstanding warrants on him back home. He couldn’t think of a single one.
“Good evening,” he said. “What can I do for you?”
“It’s still afternoon,” Horne corrected. “Is your name Wilbur Struthers?”
“It is.”
“Ask me in,” Horne said, and smiled.
“Sure, come on in,” Will said.
He was somewhat frightened now, but he spoke calmly and politely because it was always best to be polite to policemen. Even back home in Texas, Will spoke politely to policemen, whose long suit was definitely not courtesy. But Horne was a Secret Service agent with considerably more sophistication, he hoped. He stepped into the room now, looking around as if there might be an accomplice or two lurking about.
“You were in Flanagan’s earlier today,” Horne said. It was not a question.
“That’s right,” Will said.
