European police agencies. Even with the silencer screwed in place, the
gun fit easily out of sight in the deep overcoat pocket.
Bollinger had taken the weapon off a dead man, a suspect in a narcotics
and prostitution investigation. The moment he saw it he knew that he
must have it; and he failed to report finding it as he should have done.
That was nearly a year ago; he'd had no occasion to use it until
tonight.
In his left coat pocket, Bollinger was carrying a box of fifty bullets.
He didn't think he'd need more than were already in the pistol's
magazine, but he intended to be prepared for any eventuality.
He left the apartment and took the stairs two at a time, eager for the
hunt to begin.
Outside, the grainy, wind-driven snow was like bits of ground glass. The
night howled spectrally between the buildings and rattled the branches
of the trees.
Graham Harris's office, the largest of the five rooms in the Harris
Publications suite on the fortieth floor of the Bowerton Building,
didn't look like a place where business was transacted. It was paneled
in dark woodreal and solid wood, not veneer-and had a textured beige
acoustical ceiling. The forest-green ceiling-to T
floor drapes matched the plush carpet. The desk had once been a
Steinway piano; the guts had been ripped out, the lid lowered and cut to
fit the frame. Behind the desk rose bookshelves filled with volumes
about skiing and climbing. The light came from four floor lamps with
old-fashioned ceramic sconces and glass chimneys that hid the electric
bulbs. There were also two brass reading lamps on the desk. A small
conference table and four armchairs occupied the space in front of the
windows. A richly carved seventeenth century British coatrack stood by
the door to the corridor, and an antique bar of cut glass, beveled
mirrors and inlaid woods stood by the door to the reception lounge. On
the walls were photographs of climbing teams in action, and there was
one oil painting, a mountain snow scape. The room might have been a
study in the home of a retired professor, where books were read and
pipes were smoked and where a spaniel lay curled at the feet of its
master.
Connie opened the foil-lined box on the conference table. Steam rose
from the pizza; a spicy aroma filled the office.
The wine was chilled. In the pizzeria, she had made them keep the
bottle in their refrigerator until the pie was ready to go.
Famished, they ate and drank in silence for a few minutes.
Finally she said, 'Did you take a nap?'
'Did I ever.'
'How long?'
'Two hours.'
'Sleep well?'
'Like the dead.'
'You don't look it.'
'Dead?'
'You don't look like you'd slept.'
