that too much to ask? Would you mind? I know it's a terrible,
terrible imposition. I apologize.'
'It's all right,' Graham said wearily.
Preduski spoke to another plain-clothes detective sit ting with the
group. 'Jerry, will you be sure they aren't kept more than fifteen or
twenty minutes?'
'Whatever you say, Ira.' Jerry was a tall, chunky man in his late
thirties. He had a mole on his chin.
'Make sure they're given a ride home in a squad car.'
Jerry nodded.
'And keep the reporters away from them.'
'Okay, Ira. But it won't be easy.'
To Graham and Connie, Preduski said, 'When YOU get home, unplug your
telephones first thing. You'll have to deal with the press tomorrow.
But that's soon enough. They'll be pestering you for weeks.
One. more cross to bear. I'm sorry. I really am. But maybe we can
keep them away from you tonight, give you a few hours of peace before
the storm.'
'Thank you,' Connie said.
'Now, I've got to be going. Work to do. Things that ought to have been
done long ago. I'm always behind in my work. Always. I'm not cut out
for this job. That's the truth.'
He shook hands with Graham and performed an awkward half bow in Connie's
direction.
As he walked across the lobby, his wet shoes squashed and squeaked.
Outside, he dodged some reporters and refused to answer the questions of
others.
His unmarked car was at the end of a double line of police sedans,
black-and-whites, ambulances and press vans. He got behind the wheel,
buckled his safety belt, started the engine.
His partner, Detective Daniel Mulligan, would be busy inside for a
couple of hours yet. He wouldn't miss the car.
Humming a tune of his own creation, Preduski drove onto Lexington, which
had recently been plowed. There were chains on his tires; they crunched
in the snow and sang on the few bare patches of pavement. He turned the
corner, went to Fifth Avenue, and headed downtown.
Less than fifteen minutes later, he parked on a tree-lined street in
Greenwich Village.
He left the car. He walked a third of a block, keeping to the shadows
beyond the pools of light around the street lamps. With a quick
backward glance to be sure he wasn't observed, he stepped into a narrow
passageway between two elegant townhouses.
The roofless walkway ended in a blank wall, but there were high gates on
both sides. He stopped in front of the gate on his left.
Snowflakes eddied gently in the still night air. The wind did not reach
down here, but its fierce voice called from the rooftops above.
He took a pair of lock picks from his pocket. He had found them a long
time ago in the apartment of a burglar who had committed suicide.
Over the years there had been rare but important occasions on which the
