“Kill me and you’ll burn in the chair. An unpleasant death, Mrs. Boyd. Ever see that photo of Winnie Ruth Judd fighting twenty thousand volts? It snaps the spine like matchwood, roasts the flesh. Even the teeth turn black.” He stepped back slowly. “There are easier ways to die. There’s the way Mrs. Bikel died. And there’s the gun in your hand—the one you killed your husband with. That’s the break I’m giving you.”
The sound of the vacuum cleaner had stopped. The room was silent, the air stiflingly heavy.
As he watched, the hand lowered, the face turned away. He could feel sweat roll down his chest. When the pistol rested on the cushion once more he sucked a deep breath, turned and moved toward the door, legs heavy as timber.
When he had locked the door behind him he leaned back for a moment, resting against it, and then he began walking toward the elevator.
Wordlessly he rode down to the street level. His brain was numb, his throat chokingly tight as he crossed the lobby and went out the side door.
Clouds hid the moon. A thin mist drifted down dampening his face and hands. Long before morning it would thicken into a pelting rain. Along K Street the tires of moving cars made dull slapping sounds on the wet pavement. Turning up his collar Novak trudged along until he reached a lighted glass brick front. For a while he stared up at the sign over the doorway, and then he rang the night bell.
It took five minutes for Doc Robinson to open the door. His gray hair was rumpled, and he squinted at Novak through rimless glasses. “Come in,” he said gruffly. “Don’t stand there in the rain.”
Novak moved into the lighted reception room and the veterinarian closed the door behind him. As he walked toward Novak he said, “Ever find the lady, Pete?”
Novak sat down on a leather-covered bench and wiped moisture from the brim of his hat. “I found her,” he said. “Then I lost her again. Is the pup still here?”
Doc Robinson nodded. “They got you walking dogs now? I thought that was a bellhop chore.”
“I do a little bit of everything,” Novak said tiredly. “Thought I’d take the dog off your hands.”
“What about the owner? Won’t she be coming back?”
“If she does, let me know.”
Doc Robinson took off his glasses and polished them slowly between the thumb and index finger of one hand. Then he put them on, went behind the desk and pulled out a file drawer. He wrote out a receipted bill, gave it to Novak and went through the paneled door that led to the kennels.
Novak laid a ten-dollar bill on the desk and folded the receipt into his pocket. He lighted a cigarette, and after a while the vet came back with the Skye terrier on a gray leather leash. Handing the leash to Novak he said, “What do you want a dog for, Pete?”
“Company. Good night, Doc.”
Novak opened the door, and the little Skye bounded out to the wet sidewalk. When the leash checked it, it stopped and looked up at Novak. Novak reached down and stroked the dog’s shaggy ears. Straightening, he turned back toward Seventeenth Street. The Skye yipped and scurried along beside him. Novak looked down and murmured, “Two forgotten men.” Then he turned up Seventeenth Street toward the place where he lived.
A Shocking Detective Novel From Edgar Award Winner Charles Ardai (writing as “Richard Aleas”)
Three years ago, detective John Blake solved a mystery that changed his life forever—and left a woman he loved dead. Now Blake is back, to investigate the apparent suicide of Dorothy Louise Burke, a beautiful college student with a double life. The secrets Blake uncovers could blow the lid off New York City’s sex trade...if they don’t kill him first.
Richard Aleas’ first novel, LITTLE GIRL LOST, was among the most celebrated crime novels of the year, nominated for both the Edgar and Shamus Awards.
RAVES FOR SONGS OF INNOCENCE:
— The Washington Post
— The San Francisco Chronicle
— Publishers Weekly
— Playboy
