“I wasn’t aware I was,” Steve said. “Would you prefer some generalization like, Women, who can understand ’em?”
“What a prince,” Tracy said. “That’s much better. If I’d known you were so sensitive, I’d have asked you out to dinner.”
“I happen to have an engagement,” Steve said. “But can I drop you somewhere?”
Tracy looked at him a minute. “No,” she said. “I think I’ll walk off to the subway, so you can speculate on where I’m going.”
Steve watched her go.
He shrugged.
Under his breath he muttered, “Women, who can understand ’em?”
10.
STEVE WINSLOW’S ANSWERING MACHINE was blinking. He saw it the minute he came in the door. Which was not surprising. In his small, Greenwich village studio apartment, he saw
Steve clicked the machine on, flopped down on the couch.
Beep.
“Steve, Tracy. Amy Dearborn called. Wants to see you at once. She was very upset, but she wouldn’t tell me why. Call me at home.”
Beep.
“Mr. Winslow, it’s Amy Dearborn. You gotta help me. Please. Meet me at F. L Jewelry. No, that won’t do. Call me at 555-0372. Oh, I can’t stay here. Shit. Oh, I don’t know. Oh, damn it to hell.”
Steve Winslow leaned back on the couch. He rubbed his head.
Beep.
“Steve, Tracy. I’m at the office. Call me right away.”
Steve switched off the machine, snatched up the phone, punched in the number.
Two rings, then Tracy’s voice, “You have reached the office of attorney Steve Winslow. Please leave a message after the beep.”
Steve cursed, slammed down the phone. He jerked it up again, went to dial the number Amy Dearborn had left. Realized he didn’t know it.
Steve lunged, hit the answering machine again. He waited impatiently through Tracy’s first message. Then Amy’s message. Then the number.
Steve suddenly realized he didn’t have a pencil. He switched the machine off, kept saying the number over and over again, then punched it in.
One ring. Two rings. Three rings. Four rings. Five rings.
No answer.
Shit.
Had he gotten it right?
Steve stood for a minute, staring at the phone and the answering machine. Then turned and ran out the door.
11
Steve came out of the subway at Broadway and 50th Street. There was a pay phone on the corner. There was no sense going up to the office if Tracy wasn’t there yet. He stopped, called. The answering machine was still on.
Steve dropped the quarter in again, called 555-0372.
Still no answer.
All right, what the hell to do?
Not that big a problem with F. L Jewelry just blocks away. It was a four story building in the middle of the block. F. L. Jewelry was a second floor walkup over a music store.
The music store was just closing. The owner was out on the sidewalk, pulling down the metal cover over the window display of electric and acoustic guitars.
The door to upstairs was just to the right of the storefront. Steve went in and found himself in a small foyer. There was an inner door and a row of mailboxes with push buttons. Steve hesitated a moment, then pushed the button for F. L. Jewelry. He was not at all surprised when no one buzzed the door open. He considered trying the other buttons to see if anyone in the building would buzz him in. First he tried the door itself. To his surprise it clicked open.
Steve went in and took the stairs to the second floor. The door straight ahead said F. L. Jewelry. Steve walked up and was about to knock when he noticed the door was open a crack. There was a light coming from under it.
Steve took a breath. He paused, pushed open the door.
Whatever he had expected to find wasn’t there. It was just your typical small business office, furnished with a desk, file cabinets and stacks of packing cases.
Steve walked over to the desk. It was clearly secretarial, with a switchboard, intercom, rolodex and typewriter on a stand. Just in case there was any doubt, the top drawer was open slightly, displaying a movie magazine.
Steve walked around the desk and stopped.
The middle drawer on the right hand side was open. So was the cash box inside it, which was empty.
Steve leaned forward to look. Sure enough, underneath the cash box was some sort of bound book, obviously the petty cash ledger.
Steve sighed. Oh boy. Bad news all around.
He checked the inner offices. The first one was neat as a pin. The large oak desk held a telephone, an intercom and nothing else. Aside from that was a desk chair, two straight backed chairs and a file cabinet. Either Mr. Lowery or Mr. Fletcher’s office.
Steve tried the last office. The light was off. He fumbled on the wall, switched it on.
The body of Frank Fletcher lay face down on the floor. His head was twisted to one side, and his eye was open, staring. He was lying in a pool of blood, which seemed to have begun at his chest and spread out almost to his outstretched arms.
He was clearly dead.
There came the squeak of floorboards from the outer office.
Steve wheeled, tiptoed to the door.
Peered out.
It was Tracy Garvin.
Steve stepped out, said, “Tracy.”
She started, then recognized him. Relief flooded her features. “Steve!” she said. She ran to him, fell into his arms.
“Hey, hey.” he said. “Take it easy.” He grabbed her shoulders, held her up till she looked at him. “Get a hold of yourself. Are you okay?”
“Yeah.”
“You see Amy?”
“Yeah.”
“You know what’s in the next room?”
Tracy looked at him, wide-eyed. The answer was all over her face.
Steve exhaled. “We gotta get out of here.”
