Read Online The Eye: A Novel of Suspense by Bill Pronzini, John Lutz - Free Book Online

“Yeah.”
    “Anything new?”
    “Not over on Ninety-eighth. How about you?”
    “Same thing. What did Gaines and Holroyd turn up on Martin Simmons?”
    “Not much,” Oxman said. “He was an advertising copywriter for Flick and Flick on Madison Avenue. Lived alone, didn’t have many close friends, or so it would seem. They say at the agency that he was a bit of a swinger, liked to frequent the singles bars. Been in Manhattan a little less than two years, originally from Kansas City.”
    “Kansas City,” Tobin repeated.
    “Sure. Home of the Royals, the Chiefs, and the Kings.”
    “Uh-huh. Did Simmons ever live on West Ninety-eighth?”
    “No. The apartment on Seventy-third is the only one he’s had since he came to the city.”
    “Any acquaintances on Ninety-eighth?”
    “Just Jennifer Crane, evidently.”
    “You talk to the Crane woman?”
    “I talked to her.”
    “I don’t suppose she could be the perp?”
    “Doubtful. Can you see a woman giving somebody her phone number, then following him outside and shooting him near her building?”
    “Don’t rule it out,” Tobin said.
    “I don’t. I just can’t see it happening.”
    “Maybe this Jennifer Crane brought Peter Cheng and Charles Unger home too, zapped them after they balled her.”
    “Sure, the black widow murderess. Good news copy.”
    Tobin ran spread fingers through his thinning, wiry hair. “Okay, so how do you see her?”
    Oxman shrugged. “Like thousands of other New York career women, doing her job, humping on the treadmill.” Oddly, he regretted the words as he spoke them. He did sense some difference in Jennifer Crane, though nothing he could frame in words for Tobin.
    “Well,” Tobin said, “you’ve got better insight with these white chicks than I do.”
    Oxman let that go; the hell with Artie and his subtle baiting.
    The frosted glass door to the lieutenant’s office opened and Manders came out. Oxman thought, as he had many times before, that Lieutenant Smiley resembled a starving basset hound. But he was a basset hound with stamina; Oxman had seen him work twenty-four-hour days without any noticeable effect, and right now he appeared as fresh as if he’d just reported for work.
    When he saw Oxman and Tobin his lean, sad features gave in to gravity and he frowned. “So you two are still here,” he said. He was a good one for stating the obvious.
    “Wrapping up some paperwork,” Oxman said, motioning with his head toward his In basket.
    “The hell with that stuff. I’ll have Davidson do it in the morning. You concentrate on the Ninety-eighth Street thing. The goddamn media is already onto the idea that we might have a random serial killer on our hands.”
    “It could be they’re right.”
    “Yeah.” Manders lit a cigarette, held it at arm’s length and stared at it through a haze of smoke as if it, too, was part of a plot to make his life difficult. “I’m going to put somebody in undercover tomorrow. See if anything turns up that way.”
    “Good idea,” Tobin said.
    “There’s a vacant apartment at twelve-forty. I’ve already talked to the building super; he’ll let the undercover man use it.”
    “You know who it’ll be yet?”
    “Not yet. I’ll let you know in the morning.”
    “He’ll work with us, though, right?”
    “Right,” Manders said. He drew deeply on his cigarette; ashes dropped onto his shirtfront and clung there. “Why don’t you two go home? I’d rather have you here fresh in the morning than sitting around late tonight hashing things over.”
    That suggestion was fine with Oxman. He stood and replaced the West Ninety-eighth Street files in the cabinet; then he shrugged into his suit coat. Tobin was standing also, carefully tucking his shirt in around his burgeoning gut.
    “Anything comes up during the night,” Manders told them, “I’ll get you on the phone.”
    “Thanks,” Tobin said. “I feel so much better knowing that.”
    Oxman said good night to Tobin in the