'I wasn't talking about Myrna Kraft, I was talking about Michelle Pfeiffer.'
'It isn't fair,' Quinn said, 'that somebody looks like Michelle Pfeiffer.'
God, we're getting tired. Too tired.
He stood up from the chair, stretched, and worked his arms back and forth to get up his circulation, then stepped over to the window to observe the dimly lit street below with its sparse vehicular and pedestrian traffic that never disappeared altogether. New York at night.
'Looks innocent enough out there,' he said, not turning around.
'We know what that means.'
'Uh-huh.' Quinn glanced at his watch and sat back down.
Pearl thought they were probably wasting their time, but she knew better than to say so.
Four floors beneath Quinn and Pearl, Jeb Jones sat in a chair he'd moved over to his window. He was watching the homeless man across the street. The police had allowed Jeb to be in the same hotel as his mother, but they didn't want him to be any part of what might happen if Sherman came calling. They wanted him out of the way.
Jeb wanted to be here. As far as he was concerned, he had every right to be here. He'd pretended to go along with the idea that he wanted to be nearby so he could comfort his mother only after Sherman had been captured. But only pretended.
He already knew the route he'd take to her room four floors above his own. Out his door, turn left, and run up the stairs. There was a cop on the sixth-floor landing, but Jeb knew that if Sherman was thought to be near his mother all of the cops would converge on her room as fast as possible.
Jeb would be right behind the cop on the landing.
The key was the homeless man across the street. His clothes were ragged and he was seated on a blanket in a dark doorway, slouched backward against the closed door, his head bowed as if he were sleeping. There was a begging cup on the corner of the blanket, but Jeb knew the man wasn't a beggar. He was an undercover cop.
Jeb had even seen the beggar speaking into a brown paper bag that was supposed to contain a bottle, and once he was sure the man had used a cell phone.
Like all the cops in and around the hotel, the beggar would get the word as soon as something was happening. They were all in touch with each other, ready to act in unison, ready to converge like a trap springing closed. The beggar was a tooth in a trap's jaw.
The beggar who was a cop.
The instant he moved, Jeb would move.
67
Working only by light filtering in from below, Sherman slowly and quietly used the blade of his long screwdriver to begin prying loose the grate covering the ceiling vent. He knew it was held by a large screw at each corner of its steel frame. Experimenting with the vent cover in his own room, he'd learned he could pry out one side, then move the cover back and forth so the two opposite screws would bend and work as makeshift hinges.
But he wouldn't use them as hinges more than once. They'd soon break anyway.
After prying loose the nearest side of the vent cover, he delicately removed the loose screws and worked them into his pocket. Then he twisted his wrist while holding the partly lowered grate, extended his other arm, and loosened the first of the bent screws, catching it so it wouldn't drop to the tile floor.
Carefully he removed the remaining screw with his fingers, clasping the steel vent cover so it wouldn't drop.
He deftly put the screw in his pocket with the others and held the cover with both hands. He rotated it diagonally so he could lift it and place it on the bottom of the duct, on the far side of the vent where it would remain out of his way.
The white tile floor of the bathroom was just below him now, easily accessible. All he had to do was lower himself carefully headfirst from the duct, catch himself with his hands, then land silently in his stocking feet on the tiles.
He poked his head over the opening and then down into the bathroom. The door was open about six inches to allow illumination to spill into the bedroom, a night-light so Mom could find her way if she had to get up during the night.
He lay silently waiting, wanting to make sure the slight sounds he'd made hadn't been noticed. With the vent cover removed he could hear Mom's light snoring. Good. He hadn't disturbed her sleep. Or was she pretending? He knew she of all people wasn't above pretending.
He'd come this far, so he forced himself to take the time to be careful. He continued to lie motionless, listening to hear if there was any sound other than Mom's soft snoring coming from the bedroom. Watching to see if a light appeared on the other side of the door.
The judgment and the blood were near. It would soon be time to act.
He wasn't even thinking about what might come after. His knife was a silent killer, and he would simply leave quietly the way he'd arrived.
If something went wrong and he couldn't get near enough to use the knife, he'd use the gun, then make his escape back into the bathroom, leaving the door locked behind him to slow down his pursuers just enough so he could climb back into the ductwork. He would lay the vent cover over the opening and they might not even notice he'd escaped that way. Not at first, anyway, and he only wanted to divert and delay. That was the heart of his secondary escape plan-divert and delay. Once he made his way back to his room and down out of the ductwork, he would replace the vent cover. After that he would improvise. And, if necessary, use his hostage. If the police thought this was going to be a suicide mission, they'd learn otherwise.
For Sherman there was only the firm belief that the next few minutes would go exactly as planned.
And the desire that was like pain.
He'd wait a few minutes while he managed to stop breathing so hard from the effort and tension of working with the heavy steel vent cover. He had the situation under control now. He simply wanted that control to be complete before the next step.
Or maybe he wanted to savor the moment, the anticipation. This was an opportunity he'd never dreamed would come. Of course he was breathless with anticipation. Who among those who understood could blame him?
Mom, just on the other side of a door partly open.
Mom!
He was, after all these years, surprised to be so close to his mother.
68
In the lobby, Gerald Goodnight, the aptly named night desk clerk, noticed the switchboard blinking. Not a regular, steady blink, but intermittent and frantic.
Probably nothing to get excited about. The switchboard had the high-tech heebie-jeebies and was always sending crazy signals. The blinking would probably stop soon.
It wasn't a real switchboard, but a simulated one on the computer screen. Goodnight, a tall, gray-haired man with a receding chin and a drinker's bulbous red nose, had been at the Meredith for more than ten years. He didn't drink, and for that matter didn't sleep well, so his looks and his name were both deceptive.
Goodnight was, however, good at his job. He was diligent and provided the deft touch of inoffensive snobbery the management desired.
His diligence was the reason why he was about to walk over to the computer and check to make sure all the wake-up calls for the coming morning had been entered correctly. Even though it was years ago, he remembered
