and Manhattan at Midnight.
His name is Dwight, Harris had said.
The police already know him, Harris had said.
Christ! How could the son of a bitch possibly know so much? Psychic powers? That was a lot of bullshit. There weren’t such things. Were there?
Worried now, Bollinger walked to the corner, threw the newspaper into a litter basket, hunched his shoulders against the wind, and hurried toward the restaurant.
The Leopard, on Fiftieth Street near Second Avenue, was a charming restaurant with only a handful of tables and excellent food. The dining area was no larger than an average living room. A hideous display of artificial flowers filled the center of the room, but that was the only really outrageous element in a generally bland decor.
Billy was sitting at a choice table by the window. In an hour The Leopard would be full of diners and noisy conversation. This early, fifteen minutes or more before the executive lunch crowd could slip away from conference rooms and desks, Billy was the only customer. Bollinger sat opposite him. They shook hands and ordered drinks.
“Nasty weather,” Billy said. His Southern accent was heavy.
“Yes.”
They stared at each other over the bud vase and single rose that stood in the center of the table.
“Nasty news,” Billy said at last.
“Yes.”
“What do you think?”
“This Harris is incredible,” Bollinger said.
“Dwight.... Nobody but me knows you by that name. He hasn’t given them much of a clue.”
“My middle name’s on all my records—on my employee file at the department.”
Unfolding a linen napkin, Billy said, “They’ve got no reason to believe the killer’s a policeman.”
“Harris told them they already knew the Butcher.”
“They’ll just suppose that he’s someone they’ve already questioned.”
Frowning, Bollinger said, “If he gives them one more bit of detail, one more clue, I’m blown.”
“I thought you didn’t believe in psychics.”
“I was wrong. You were right.”
“Apology accepted,” Billy said, smiling thinly.
“This Harris—can we reason with him?”
“No.”
“He wouldn’t understand?”
“He’s not one of us.”
The waiter came with their drinks.
When they were alone again, Bollinger said, “I’ve never seen this Harris. What does he look like?”
“I’ll describe him to you later. Right now... do you mind telling me what you’re going to do?”
Bollinger didn’t have to think about that. Without hesitation he said, “Kill him.”
“Ah,” Billy said softly.
“Objections?”
“Absolutely none.”
“Good.” Bollinger swallowed half of his drink. “Because I’d do it even if you had objections.”
The captain came to the table and asked if they would like to hear the menu.
“Give us five minutes,” Billy said. When the captain had gone, he said, “When you’ve killed Harris, will you leave him like the Butcher would?”
“Why not?”
“Well, the others have been women.”
“This will confuse and upset them even more,” Bollinger said.
“When will you do it?”
“Tonight.”
Billy said, “I don’t think he lives alone.”
“With his mother?” Bollinger asked sourly.
“No. I believe he lives with a woman.”
“Young?”
“I would imagine so.”
“Pretty?”
“He does seem to be a man of good taste.”
“Well, that’s just fine,” Bollinger said.
“I thought you’d see it that way.”
“A double-header,” Bollinger said. “That just adds to the fun.” He grinned.
8
“Detective Preduski is on the line, Mr. Harris.”
“I’ll talk to him. Put him through. Hello?”
“Sorry to bother you, Graham. Can we be less formal than we’ve been? May I call you Graham?”
“Sure.”
“Please call me Ira.”
“I’d be honored.”
“You’re very kind. I hope I didn’t interrupt something.”
“No.”
“I know you’re a busy man. Would you rather I called you back later? Or would you like to call me back at your
His name is Dwight, Harris had said.
The police already know him, Harris had said.
Christ! How could the son of a bitch possibly know so much? Psychic powers? That was a lot of bullshit. There weren’t such things. Were there?
Worried now, Bollinger walked to the corner, threw the newspaper into a litter basket, hunched his shoulders against the wind, and hurried toward the restaurant.
The Leopard, on Fiftieth Street near Second Avenue, was a charming restaurant with only a handful of tables and excellent food. The dining area was no larger than an average living room. A hideous display of artificial flowers filled the center of the room, but that was the only really outrageous element in a generally bland decor.
Billy was sitting at a choice table by the window. In an hour The Leopard would be full of diners and noisy conversation. This early, fifteen minutes or more before the executive lunch crowd could slip away from conference rooms and desks, Billy was the only customer. Bollinger sat opposite him. They shook hands and ordered drinks.
“Nasty weather,” Billy said. His Southern accent was heavy.
“Yes.”
They stared at each other over the bud vase and single rose that stood in the center of the table.
“Nasty news,” Billy said at last.
“Yes.”
“What do you think?”
“This Harris is incredible,” Bollinger said.
“Dwight.... Nobody but me knows you by that name. He hasn’t given them much of a clue.”
“My middle name’s on all my records—on my employee file at the department.”
Unfolding a linen napkin, Billy said, “They’ve got no reason to believe the killer’s a policeman.”
“Harris told them they already knew the Butcher.”
“They’ll just suppose that he’s someone they’ve already questioned.”
Frowning, Bollinger said, “If he gives them one more bit of detail, one more clue, I’m blown.”
“I thought you didn’t believe in psychics.”
“I was wrong. You were right.”
“Apology accepted,” Billy said, smiling thinly.
“This Harris—can we reason with him?”
“No.”
“He wouldn’t understand?”
“He’s not one of us.”
The waiter came with their drinks.
When they were alone again, Bollinger said, “I’ve never seen this Harris. What does he look like?”
“I’ll describe him to you later. Right now... do you mind telling me what you’re going to do?”
Bollinger didn’t have to think about that. Without hesitation he said, “Kill him.”
“Ah,” Billy said softly.
“Objections?”
“Absolutely none.”
“Good.” Bollinger swallowed half of his drink. “Because I’d do it even if you had objections.”
The captain came to the table and asked if they would like to hear the menu.
“Give us five minutes,” Billy said. When the captain had gone, he said, “When you’ve killed Harris, will you leave him like the Butcher would?”
“Why not?”
“Well, the others have been women.”
“This will confuse and upset them even more,” Bollinger said.
“When will you do it?”
“Tonight.”
Billy said, “I don’t think he lives alone.”
“With his mother?” Bollinger asked sourly.
“No. I believe he lives with a woman.”
“Young?”
“I would imagine so.”
“Pretty?”
“He does seem to be a man of good taste.”
“Well, that’s just fine,” Bollinger said.
“I thought you’d see it that way.”
“A double-header,” Bollinger said. “That just adds to the fun.” He grinned.
8
“Detective Preduski is on the line, Mr. Harris.”
“I’ll talk to him. Put him through. Hello?”
“Sorry to bother you, Graham. Can we be less formal than we’ve been? May I call you Graham?”
“Sure.”
“Please call me Ira.”
“I’d be honored.”
“You’re very kind. I hope I didn’t interrupt something.”
“No.”
“I know you’re a busy man. Would you rather I called you back later? Or would you like to call me back at your
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