Read Online The Equalizer by Michael Sloan - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Michael Sloan
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wound usually ached in wet weather.
He threw off the covers, reaching under the bedside table. The Sig Sauer 227 that had been in the dreamâor hadnât been in his holster in the dreamâwas clipped to the bottom of the bedside table. He unlatched it with no sound, the weapon falling gently into the palm of his hand. He got up, wearing dark boxers, watching the open bedroom doorway for shadows. Nothing moved. He padded over to the doorway, moved into the living room, gun outstretched in both hands.
The austere living space was deserted. His eyes swept over the bookshelves, lots of leather-bound books, a few thriller paperbacks. An annotated Sherlock Holmes Volume I was open on a bottom shelf, with a slim heavy dagger bookmark at a page in The Hound of the Baskervilles . There was a Tiffany lamp on a middle shelf and a few ornaments on the shelves purchased from flea markets in different parts of the world. There was a large glass ashtray; a gift from a foreign president from the days when McCall smoked. There was a wet bar with some bottles and glasses set up on it. Next to the wet bar was a table on which stood a magnificent Mark Newman bronze sculpture, a naked sea nymph looking as if she had just arisen from the ocean walking a long eel on a leash with its tail flowing out behind her. A little surreal and probably not to everyoneâs taste, but McCall liked it. There was a leather couch with a wooden top and leather armchairs, a big-screen TV, the low coffee table with its bowl of M&Mâs and a large book about Venice, his favorite place. Next to that was a yellow writing pad. At the end of the coffee table was a laptop with a pile of stacked DVDs beside it and some headphones. Splash of color from an easy chairâa bright orange Frisbee sitting on it. There was a chess table in a corner with two straight back chairs where the defenders of the Alamo faced their blue-uniformed Mexican opponents across the black-and-white glass chess squares. They were all beautifully painted.
None of the Alamo defenders or their Mexican attackers had been disturbed.
Nothing had been disturbed.
McCall moved on silently into the kitchen. Deserted. For the hell of it, he opened the microwave. The Smith & Wesson 500 revolver was in there.
There was the sound of faint traffic from outside. A siren echoed from a distant tragedy, but nothing else. In the silence McCall sat down at the kitchen table. He looked out the kitchen window. The sloped roofs were washed with sunlight.
He set the Sig Sauer P227 on the table.
He was alone.
But he knew that someone had been in his apartment.
*Â Â Â *Â Â Â *
The antiques store was two blocks from Luigiâs, on West Broadway just below Broome. The sign above the green doors read: ANTIQUES & COLLECTIBLES, MOSES RABINOVICH, PROPRIETOR. When you stepped inside it was like stepping into another world. There were large statues everywhere, some elegant, naked porcelain women, some grotesque, gargoyles and dragons with lolling stone tongues, lamps with male and female figurines on them. Colonial rocking chairs rocked in all of the corners. There were antique pieces of furniture, and one exquisite coffee table inlaid with a battle scene of gray-and-black knights fighting red-and-black knights across a green mosaic battlefield. There were exquisitely painted horses on various shelves, including an Indian warrior on a Palomino sitting outside a porcelain Indian village with sand-colored tepees. A brass plaque above it read: Donât be afraid to cry. It will free your mind of sorrowful thought.â Hopi . There were vases on tables that looked like theyâd been stolen right out of Tutankhamunâs tomb and others that looked like theyâd been won at Coney Island. There were at least a hundred clocks on bureaus and desks, on shelves, mounted on walls. All of them read different times and few of them were ticking, the treasure being a grandfather clock with the sun
He threw off the covers, reaching under the bedside table. The Sig Sauer 227 that had been in the dreamâor hadnât been in his holster in the dreamâwas clipped to the bottom of the bedside table. He unlatched it with no sound, the weapon falling gently into the palm of his hand. He got up, wearing dark boxers, watching the open bedroom doorway for shadows. Nothing moved. He padded over to the doorway, moved into the living room, gun outstretched in both hands.
The austere living space was deserted. His eyes swept over the bookshelves, lots of leather-bound books, a few thriller paperbacks. An annotated Sherlock Holmes Volume I was open on a bottom shelf, with a slim heavy dagger bookmark at a page in The Hound of the Baskervilles . There was a Tiffany lamp on a middle shelf and a few ornaments on the shelves purchased from flea markets in different parts of the world. There was a large glass ashtray; a gift from a foreign president from the days when McCall smoked. There was a wet bar with some bottles and glasses set up on it. Next to the wet bar was a table on which stood a magnificent Mark Newman bronze sculpture, a naked sea nymph looking as if she had just arisen from the ocean walking a long eel on a leash with its tail flowing out behind her. A little surreal and probably not to everyoneâs taste, but McCall liked it. There was a leather couch with a wooden top and leather armchairs, a big-screen TV, the low coffee table with its bowl of M&Mâs and a large book about Venice, his favorite place. Next to that was a yellow writing pad. At the end of the coffee table was a laptop with a pile of stacked DVDs beside it and some headphones. Splash of color from an easy chairâa bright orange Frisbee sitting on it. There was a chess table in a corner with two straight back chairs where the defenders of the Alamo faced their blue-uniformed Mexican opponents across the black-and-white glass chess squares. They were all beautifully painted.
None of the Alamo defenders or their Mexican attackers had been disturbed.
Nothing had been disturbed.
McCall moved on silently into the kitchen. Deserted. For the hell of it, he opened the microwave. The Smith & Wesson 500 revolver was in there.
There was the sound of faint traffic from outside. A siren echoed from a distant tragedy, but nothing else. In the silence McCall sat down at the kitchen table. He looked out the kitchen window. The sloped roofs were washed with sunlight.
He set the Sig Sauer P227 on the table.
He was alone.
But he knew that someone had been in his apartment.
*Â Â Â *Â Â Â *
The antiques store was two blocks from Luigiâs, on West Broadway just below Broome. The sign above the green doors read: ANTIQUES & COLLECTIBLES, MOSES RABINOVICH, PROPRIETOR. When you stepped inside it was like stepping into another world. There were large statues everywhere, some elegant, naked porcelain women, some grotesque, gargoyles and dragons with lolling stone tongues, lamps with male and female figurines on them. Colonial rocking chairs rocked in all of the corners. There were antique pieces of furniture, and one exquisite coffee table inlaid with a battle scene of gray-and-black knights fighting red-and-black knights across a green mosaic battlefield. There were exquisitely painted horses on various shelves, including an Indian warrior on a Palomino sitting outside a porcelain Indian village with sand-colored tepees. A brass plaque above it read: Donât be afraid to cry. It will free your mind of sorrowful thought.â Hopi . There were vases on tables that looked like theyâd been stolen right out of Tutankhamunâs tomb and others that looked like theyâd been won at Coney Island. There were at least a hundred clocks on bureaus and desks, on shelves, mounted on walls. All of them read different times and few of them were ticking, the treasure being a grandfather clock with the sun
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