'Maybe you should call the cops.'
'Not yet. I'm going to give it a little more time.'
'I'll get back to you as soon as I can. Damn.'
'What's wrong?'
'I just knocked over my malt. Spilled it all over the desk.'
'I'm sorry.'
That was when the bell at the bottom of the stairs rang, the stairs that led to her apartment.
'You hear that?'
'Your doorbell?' Marcy Browne said.
'Yes.'
'You have any way of knowing who it is?'
'Not till I get down to the door and look through the eyehole.'
'Maybe you better call the police.'
'I can do better than that.'
'How?'
'I've got a. 38. I'm going to get it and go downstairs.'
'You want to leave the phone off the hook so I can hear what happens?'
'That's a good idea. I'll be back soon.'
She rushed into the bedroom, searched in the second drawer of her night-stand, and found the. 38.
She went to the front door, opened it and went down the stairs. In the dark.
Now her heart was really hammering.
She kept flashing on the man in the Volvo.
Maybe he had a gun, too. Maybe he'd shoot her right through the door.
The hall was narrow and dusty. She sneezed. Great. Fine time to sneeze. You're supposed to feel independent and strong with the cold gray metal of a gun in your hand and then you go screw it up by sneezing.
She reached the small vestibule.
Walked to the door.
Peered out the safety eye.
It took a moment for her eye to adjust in the darkness, then she made a small gasping sound.
It was a man she'd seen across the street just a few minutes ago, but it wasn't the man in the Volvo.
It was Mitch Ayers.
CHAPTER 22
Cini hid on the sixth floor.
She snuck in from the back stairs and found a darkened corner at the far end of the sixth-floor hall where she could huddle in the shadows and hope that the cleaning crew didn't spot her.
Had to think things through.
Carefully. Sanely. So much at stake now.
Even in panic, she realized that she couldn't just leave her purse up in Eric's office. Eventually, the police would get there and find it. And then she would be dragged into the case.
God, she could just imagine the interrogation…
And after the bar, you went back with Eric to his office?
Yes, sir.
Why?
(Obviously lying) He, he wanted to show me some commercials he'd done.
I see. He couldn't have shown you the commercials during regular business hours?
I guess I never thought of that.
Were you aware of Eric Brooks' reputation?
Reputation?
He was quite the ladies' man.
I see.
In fact, he was notorious for making love to women right in his office.
Oh.
Did you make love to him in his office, Ms Powell?
(Pause) No.
You hesitated.
I wouldn't call it making love.
What would you call it, then?
Please, do I have to tell you what happened?
This is a murder investigation. Of course you have to tell us what happened.
Well, he, I I mean
Ms Powell?
(Silence)
Cini?
(Silence)
You have to tell us the truth. Maybe not right now, Cini. But eventually.
And she would have to tell the truth. About what she'd done, there in his office. Just so she could get a part in a commercial. Just so she could make Michael jealous. It would be in all the newspapers, and on all the TV stationsand all the radio stations. She could hear the disc jockeys laughing about it now. This was the sort of thing they loved. She would be a laughing stock to all of Chicago. Or maybe even worse… Maybe David Letterman or Jay Leno would start making jokes about her
She had to go up and get her purse.
Nobody must ever know what she'd done in Eric's office tonight. Nobody. Ever.
She'd take the stairs again. Walk very quietly. And when she got to the top, she'd listen very hard. The killer was probably gone by now. They didn't usually hang around. Not on television, anyway.
She moved away from the shadows of the corner.
Walked toward the FIRE sign at the far end of the hall. She'd have to go back up there and get her purse. Go back up there and try very hard not to look at Eric. He had been so bloody the last time she'd seen him.
She reached the door. Eased it open. Started climbing.
She just hoped that the killer watched enough TV to know he shouldn't be hanging around up there.
CHAPTER 23
'I don't suppose it matters that I'm sorry.'
'Not anymore it doesn't, Mitch.'
'You wouldn't take any of my calls.'
'There wasn't anything to say. You were a married man, and I don't go out with married men.'
