In the Night Room

away from him; then it slipped around a group of policemen staring at the entrance of a shop, and was gone. Tim thought of calling out to the cops, but he realized that he had no crime to report.

“Oh, shit,” he said. “Oh, hell.” One of the cops turned his head and gave him a look that said, Do you really want to mess up my day?

He spun around and raced back to the entrance of 55 Grand, as if haste could alter whatever he was going to find in his loft. The key jittered in the lock, demanding extra body English before it slid home. Though Tim’s mind was empty of nearly everything but anxiety, he managed to wonder how Kohle had gotten inside without a key. Callers could not be buzzed in: loft holders had to go downstairs and open two sets of doors for their visitors. This reality created a possibility for hope. Maybe Kohle’s visit had been no more than the act of a stalker pushing the envelope.

Tim ran past the elevator and charged up the staircase. His heels rang on the metal steps. He was breathing hard by the time he reached his door, and he had a sharp stitch in his side. He placed his left hand over the pain, with his right inserted his second key into the slot, and the door swung open by itself. Instead of unlocking it, he had almost locked it.

“Bloody hell,” he said, trying to remember if he had locked the door on his way out. The memory would not come. In fact, he could not even remember if he had taken the elevator or walked down the stairs, but he could not imagine forgetting to lock his door when he left the building.

Holding his breath, he pushed the door open, stepped inside, and flattened his back against the wall. From this position, at the end of a long, narrow corridor lined on one side with framed photographs and a row of coat hooks on the other, he could see only a small vertical slice of the loft itself. He realized that he was being absurdly cautious. Tim unpeeled himself from the photographs and called out, “Anybody here?” He moved to the end of the narrow corridor and surveyed his loft. No furniture had been overturned, and nothing seemed to have been destroyed.

Then he noticed that ten to fifteen feet of the floor in front of the wall of books at the rear of his loft was covered with ripped papers. When he moved closer, he saw lines of type on the papers. They were pages ripped from books. He took in that about half of the sheets were scattered throughout a shining yellow pool a half second before he registered the stink of urine.

Underhill walked up to the ruined pages and saw familiar words in familiar sentences. The pages had all been torn from copies of his most recent book. Groaning, he placed his hands on the sides of his head and looked up at the shelves. The five copies of lost boy lost girl still on hand to be given out as gifts were more or less in their proper places, but looked rumpled and hard used. Tim moved gingerly around the pool of urine and pulled down two of the copies. Long runs of pages had been ripped out of each book.

“I don’t believe this,” he said. He went to his phone and dialed Maggie’s number.

“Maggie, did you let someone in the building a little while ago?”

“Funny question. Ask another one.”

“I’m sure you didn’t let anyone into my loft.”

“Uh-oh, this isn’t sounding good.”

“I had a break-in,” he said. “A guy ripped up some books and pissed on the floor.”

“You think I let him in?”

“No, no. It’s possible I even left my door unlocked. I just wondered if you saw anything.”

“What are you going to do?”

“Go out and get some cops,” he said.

She laughed. “You going to buy them at the deli?”

“I just saw a bunch of policemen around the corner. I’d rather talk to them than call the station. It’ll work faster.”

“Ride ’em, cowboy,” Maggie said.

Tim ran back down the stairs and discovered that the rain had stopped. The streets had already begun to dry, and damp patches of dark gray lay across the sidewalk. He made an end run around a group of Japanese men and women consulting an astonishing number of guidebooks and trotted around the corner. The policemen were just beginning to disperse. The first one to notice him was the cop who had given him the warning look.

“Officer,” he said. “Excuse me, but I could use your help.”

The plate on the policeman’s uniform said BORCA. “What’s the problem, sir?”

“Someone broke into my loft and did some damage. He pissed on the floor. I know who did it, I can tell you his name. He was leaving the building when I came up.”

“This is another resident at your building?”

“No, it’s someone I barely know.”

Borca motioned to an officer who looked much too fat to be effective, and the man waddled up to him. Tim always wondered where policemen like that bought their uniforms. “Your name, sir?” Borca asked.

Tim told him his name.

“This is my partner, Officer Beck. Let’s go have a look.”

After making the call to the precinct, Beck produced a battered little notebook and wrote down various details on the walk back to 55 Grand.

“K-O-H-L-E,” Tim said, “and no, he isn’t a friend of mine. I’m not sure what he is.”

“How did he get in the building?” Borca asked.

“You got me.”

Inside, Tim automatically went to the staircase. When he put his foot on the first step, Officer Beck asked him, “What floor are you on?”

“Three.”

“We’re taking the elevator,” Beck said. He pushed the button.

The three men stood in silence until the elevator arrived and the doors opened. They stepped in.

“What’s your relationship to this Kohle?” Borca asked.

“I’m a writer. Kohle presented himself as a fan. He brought some books for me to sign. That was the same book he ripped up and urinated on.”

Simultaneously, Borca said, “I guess he didn’t think much of your writing,” and Beck said, “Everybody’s a critic.” They were still laughing at each other’s wit when the elevator doors opened to reveal Maggie Lah standing in the darkness of the hallway, her weight balanced on one leg and her arms folded in front of her. Both officers fell silent.

“How bad is it?” she asked.

“Mostly, it’s embarrassing,” Tim said.

The policemen were staring at Maggie. She said, “At least we have these handsome officers to keep us safe from riffraff.”

Borca switched his gaze to Tim. “You’re a writer, huh? My wife reads books. Would she know your name?”

“It’s not impossible,” Tim said. He unlocked the door.

“You can smell it, all right,” Borca said. “Actually, it stinks pretty good.”

“Like tiger piss,” Beck said.

Tim led them down the corridor.

“I remember that smell from the zoo when I was a kid,” Beck said, walking sideways to avoid rubbing against the coat hooks.

The odor had doubled and redoubled upon itself in the past few minutes; now it had become so intense that it stung the eyes.

Maggie groaned when she saw the damage.

Borca and Beck strolled around the loft, writing in their notebooks, examining the books, looking at everything they found curious.

“Don’t worry,” Maggie said. “I know a great cleaning service. They practically specialize in tiger piss.”

Borca had been eyeing her. “Where are you from, anyway?”

“Where do you think I’m from?” Maggie asked.

“Well, not from here. China or Japan, some Oriental country. Asian, you’re supposed to say now.”

“Actually, I was born in a small town in rural France.”