safety, and so should you. The police are looking for Harvey as we speak, and I’ve no doubt they’ll bag him soon.”
“Has Harvey actually done anything?”
“He’s carrying an unlicensed firearm.”
“But he told me he has a license.”
“Not anymore. I arranged for it to be canceled, so the police would have cause to detain him.”
“Weren’t two lady corpses enough?”
“Not until enough evidence has been found to prove he caused their deaths.”
“What kind of evidence?”
“Say, a bullet in one of their brains that matches his gun—like that.”
“Was either of them shot?”
“So far, the causes of death are undetermined.”
“So, what other kind of evidence?”
“Forensic evidence.”
“You mean, like on TV?”
“Exactly like that—fibers, hairs, blood, DNA, fingerprints. Also, the old-fashioned kind of evidence—motive, means, and opportunity.”
“How are you and Bob getting along?”
“Don’t change the subject.”
“But I’m concerned about Bob.”
“When you’ve convinced me that you’re taking this threat seriously, we can talk about Bob.”
“All right, I’m taking it seriously. I won’t come home until you say I can.”
“Good. Now how can I get ahold of you?”
She gave him a number. “That’s my cell. It works everywhere.”
“That’s good enough.”
“Now, how about you and Bob?”
“We’re both fine.”
“Are you enjoying each other’s company?”
“I can only speak for myself—Bob has been quiet on the subject.”
“Has he bitten you or growled at you?”
“Neither. He’s been a perfect gentleman. I took him out to dinner last night, and he behaved beautifully.”
“Where?”
“Patroon.”
“Isn’t that a steak house?”
“Steaks are on the menu.”
“That was dangerous, Bob likes his beef.”
“He got a large bone and was perfectly content.”
“I’ve got to run, baby. You two take care of each other.”
Before Stone could reply, she had hung up.
Bob edged across the bed and rested his head on Stone’s stomach.
“It was for you,” Stone said. “Your mama is fine.”
17
S tone fed Bob, then led him to the elevator, stood him up on his hind legs and held his paw to the elevator button. “Remember this,” he said. The door opened, and Bob walked on. Stone put his finger on the office-level button. “Remember this, too, it’s a two-step process.” He pressed the button and the elevator and Bob went down.
Stone got his breakfast from the dumbwaiter, set it on the bed, and got back in. His phone rang. “Yes?”
“It’s Joan. I was standing in your office when Bob got off the elevator alone. How’d he do that?”
“I explained it to him.”
“Oh.”
“Bob’s had his breakfast and wants to go out. May I eat mine now? You won’t have to take me out.”
“Enjoy.” Joan hung up.
Later, Stone was at his desk when Joan buzzed. “Dino on one.”
He pressed the button. “Good morning.”
“Yeah, you too. My guys found your pal Biggers, two blocks from your house. He said he’d just gotten off a Second Avenue bus.”
“And they bought that?”
“No, they searched him and found no gun.”
“So, he ditched it.”
“Probably. He was wearing a .45 holster on his belt.”
“Aha!”
“No aha. They couldn’t arrest him for carrying a concealed holster.”
“Why not? I should think that would be prima facie evidence of carrying a gun.”
“He said he had worn the same pants for two days and forgot that the holster was on his belt.”
“So he confessed to having a gun on him the day before.”
“Yeah, but he said he wasn’t in the city then.”
“Yeah, but you have a witness who saw him carrying a gun.”
“Who, you?”
“Yeah, me.”
“You know as well as I do that eyewitness testimony is often wrong.”
“Not when
I’m
the eyewitness.”
“You have a high opinion of your own perspicacity.”
“I know a .45 caliber Glock when I see it—that’s perspicacious
“Has Harvey actually done anything?”
“He’s carrying an unlicensed firearm.”
“But he told me he has a license.”
“Not anymore. I arranged for it to be canceled, so the police would have cause to detain him.”
“Weren’t two lady corpses enough?”
“Not until enough evidence has been found to prove he caused their deaths.”
“What kind of evidence?”
“Say, a bullet in one of their brains that matches his gun—like that.”
“Was either of them shot?”
“So far, the causes of death are undetermined.”
“So, what other kind of evidence?”
“Forensic evidence.”
“You mean, like on TV?”
“Exactly like that—fibers, hairs, blood, DNA, fingerprints. Also, the old-fashioned kind of evidence—motive, means, and opportunity.”
“How are you and Bob getting along?”
“Don’t change the subject.”
“But I’m concerned about Bob.”
“When you’ve convinced me that you’re taking this threat seriously, we can talk about Bob.”
“All right, I’m taking it seriously. I won’t come home until you say I can.”
“Good. Now how can I get ahold of you?”
She gave him a number. “That’s my cell. It works everywhere.”
“That’s good enough.”
“Now, how about you and Bob?”
“We’re both fine.”
“Are you enjoying each other’s company?”
“I can only speak for myself—Bob has been quiet on the subject.”
“Has he bitten you or growled at you?”
“Neither. He’s been a perfect gentleman. I took him out to dinner last night, and he behaved beautifully.”
“Where?”
“Patroon.”
“Isn’t that a steak house?”
“Steaks are on the menu.”
“That was dangerous, Bob likes his beef.”
“He got a large bone and was perfectly content.”
“I’ve got to run, baby. You two take care of each other.”
Before Stone could reply, she had hung up.
Bob edged across the bed and rested his head on Stone’s stomach.
“It was for you,” Stone said. “Your mama is fine.”
17
S tone fed Bob, then led him to the elevator, stood him up on his hind legs and held his paw to the elevator button. “Remember this,” he said. The door opened, and Bob walked on. Stone put his finger on the office-level button. “Remember this, too, it’s a two-step process.” He pressed the button and the elevator and Bob went down.
Stone got his breakfast from the dumbwaiter, set it on the bed, and got back in. His phone rang. “Yes?”
“It’s Joan. I was standing in your office when Bob got off the elevator alone. How’d he do that?”
“I explained it to him.”
“Oh.”
“Bob’s had his breakfast and wants to go out. May I eat mine now? You won’t have to take me out.”
“Enjoy.” Joan hung up.
Later, Stone was at his desk when Joan buzzed. “Dino on one.”
He pressed the button. “Good morning.”
“Yeah, you too. My guys found your pal Biggers, two blocks from your house. He said he’d just gotten off a Second Avenue bus.”
“And they bought that?”
“No, they searched him and found no gun.”
“So, he ditched it.”
“Probably. He was wearing a .45 holster on his belt.”
“Aha!”
“No aha. They couldn’t arrest him for carrying a concealed holster.”
“Why not? I should think that would be prima facie evidence of carrying a gun.”
“He said he had worn the same pants for two days and forgot that the holster was on his belt.”
“So he confessed to having a gun on him the day before.”
“Yeah, but he said he wasn’t in the city then.”
“Yeah, but you have a witness who saw him carrying a gun.”
“Who, you?”
“Yeah, me.”
“You know as well as I do that eyewitness testimony is often wrong.”
“Not when
I’m
the eyewitness.”
“You have a high opinion of your own perspicacity.”
“I know a .45 caliber Glock when I see it—that’s perspicacious
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