Penta to come to something. A punctured career is no way to leave the service.' He looked at the date on his watch, holding it up close so he could read the miniature letters. 'I have one more week before my replacement takes over.' He dropped his arm. 'But it has been an exciting life, gentlemen.'
Burke said, 'I'll be here at eight A.M., Mr. Bradley. She should be alert enough to talk to and maybe the both of us can get her to remember something. That all right with you, Captain?'
Pat glanced at me for confirmation and I nodded. 'Do what you want. I don't think you'll get anywhere, but it won't hurt trying.'
'We'll go easy on her,' Burke told me.
A tall, slim guy in a hospital security uniform turned the corner and walked up to Pat. Until he got close you wouldn't think he was over forty, but this one had all the markings of an old street cop and he sure knew Pat all right. He knew me too, but I couldn't place him. His men had covered the exits, checked out the premises and questioned people on every floor, but there was no sign of anybody to answer the description of the guy in Velda's room. Pat thanked him, gave me a resigned look and I put on my hat.
Pat said, 'You want a lift?'
'No . . . I'm going to my office and get the directions to our old buddy's place. I'll see you when I get back.'
'When you going out?'
'First thing in the morning.'
I said so long to everybody there and got a cab that was just pulling up to the door. The rain had let up, but the sky was rumbling away and at irregular intervals the overcast would brighten momentarily with a hidden lightning stroke inside the clouds.
The cabbie bobbed his head when I gave him my office address and we went down the drive past the row of cars that were packed bumper-to-bumper again. I looked at the place where the black Mercedes with one taillight out had been parked. This time there was a white Thunderbird and it was jammed in too tightly to go anywhere.
9
For fifteen minutes I had been poking through my desk and the assorted boxes on the shelves looking for General Rudy Skubal's address. I found everything I didn't need, but not the single sheet of a loose-leaf notepad I remembered writing it down on. My filing habits were strictly garbage-style, and if I had given it to Velda in the beginning I would have had it by now. I kicked the bottom drawer shut with my foot and sat on the edge of my chair feeling like a damn idiot.
Sometimes . . . sometimes without being asked, Velda would put things away she thought I might have use for. A piece of folded-over paper would be too much to ask for, but I gave it a try anyway.
I went outside to her filing cabinet, pulled out the drawer marked S and thumbed through the bank of folders.
And there it was, single folder, SKUBAL, RUDOLPH, GENERAL. Inside a single piece of unfolded paper from a loose-leaf notepad with directions to the old mansion on Long Island where the powerhouse from the old, wild days was kept like an aged lion, regal, but raggedy from conflict, scarred, worn and with too many years for head-to- head fieldwork. Here was where he was putting together a lifetime of notes, cryptic data now unclassified that would turn out to be the manual of manuals for covert espionage or the hairiest piece of fiction ever.
It had been a long time since I had seen him.
I was hoping he was still alive.
When I went back to the outer office I stood there a minute. The cleaners had gone over the area, the rug had been replaced, but there was still that almost imperceptible smell of Velda there. For a single second my mind flashed to the crumpled, smashed heap the killer had left her in and I knew the explosion was coming on unless I forgot about it.
One by one, I let my fists unclench, the tautness go out of my shoulders and my breathing slow down. When I was okay I locked up the office and took the elevator down. It stopped two floors below mine, and Ed Hawkins, who likes to work all night, got on with his usual two briefcases, said hello and started complaining about business. This week was bad. He barely doubled his quota and that big million wasn't coming in fast enough.
Together we walked through the foyer, signed out with the guard at the desk and pushed through the doors. We were heading in opposite directions, said so long when I saw a car break away from the curb with a wild swerve, straighten up and lay on speed. The driver's window was down, and there was a pro sitting there bringing up an Uzi automatic in his left hand to squeeze off an unimpeded burst of incredibly rapid fire.
Motion seemed to be slowed down. I was yelling, falling and grabbing at Ed's jacket all at once, then he was twisting in the air as the muzzle of the Uzi came alive with a string of unmuffled fire that sprayed bullets directly over our heads. My action had blown the gunman's rhythm and the speed of the car took him past us, and while the glass was still falling out of the doors behind us, it was all over. The car squealed around the corner and was gone.
Ed was on his face, eyes staring in terror, papers from one briefcase spilled out around him. I said, 'You all right?'
He turned his head, still bug-eyed, and said, 'I don't feel anything.'
'You hurt?'
'No.' He moved a little, his arms, then his legs. 'I think I'm all right.' He sat up and grinned foolishly, turned and saw the shattered doors in the office and said soberly, 'Why would anybody want to kill me?'
Before I could answer, the guard came out, his service revolver in his fist. He made sure we were both unhurt, then got back to the phone and called the police. I got Ed back inside, sat him down at the desk, gave him a glass of water and grabbed the phone as soon as the guard put it down.
By now Pat would be on the way home and there was no use getting him in on this. I dialed Candace's home number, let it ring half a dozen times, then an obviously sleepy voice said, 'Yes?'
I didn't want to risk an irate cut-off, so I threw it at her fast. 'This is Mike, kid. Somebody just tried to hit me here at my office. It was nicely set up, an Uzi from the car window and he almost got two of us.'
Suddenly the voice wasn't tired any more. 'You are . . . uninjured?'
'Only my vanity was hurt. Damn, everybody wants me dead.'
'Where are you?'
I gave her the address.
'Have you called the police?'
'Squad cars are on the way.'
'You stay right there. I have to see you.'
'Hell, I'll give my statement to the cops when they get here. I just wanted you to know this thing is coming to a fucking head.'
'Stop swearing. And stay there.'
This was one night the cars were in the area. The cops from two cruisers came in, visually checking the area, then came directly to the desk. I went through the ID bit again, gave them the details that were confirmed by the guard and the shaken Hawkins. There would be a followup of detectives coming by at any second and I was hoping Candace Amory got there first to keep the pressure down.
She did. She came in with a white trenchcoat thrown over a powder blue jogging suit and nobody had to tell the cops who she was. The detectives were right behind her wondering what the hell was going on, but the Icicle Lady got them all squared away in a hurry. I knew the plainclothes guys and they were giving me those strange looks that guys who have an in with girls get. She caught it too, and just let it pass.
Somehow, most of the activity had bypassed Ed and when his nerves were back on straight, he finally stood up and looked at me like Jackie Gleason's Poor Soul character and said, 'They didn't want to kill me at all.'
Nobody said anything.
'They were trying to kill . . .
'Yeah, I know.'
'Nothing ever happens to me,' he said dejectedly.
'Enjoy your near miss,' I told him.
He packed the rest of his papers in his case, nodded good night and made his way to the door, stepping over the neat piles of glass the janitor was sweeping up.
