Read Online THE GIRL IN THE WINDOW (The Inspector Samuel Tay Novels Book 4) by Jake Needham - Free Book Online
Authors: Jake Needham
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mean it.
Tay and Kang handed over their warrant cards and stood quietly while the man scrutinized first one and then the other as if he suspected they might be forgeries. When he was apparently satisfied their warrant cards were genuine, the deskman turned and tossed them into separate compartments in a wooden rack mounted on the wall behind him. About six inches deep and divided into five rows of small compartments, it made Tay think of the key racks that were always behind hotel reception desks in old black and white crime movies from the forties.
“No phones, cameras, recording devices, or firearms permitted inside,” the deskman announced, holding out his hand again. “You can pick up your stuff when you come out.”
Tay and Kang surrendered their telephones, and the man put them into the compartments with their warrant cards.
“Any other electronic devices of any kind? Cameras, recorders? Anything like that?”
They both shook their heads.
“Are you armed?”
“No,” Tay said.
Kang nodded his head.
“Seriously?” Tay asked him.
Kang looked at Tay and shrugged. He reached under his shirt and unclipped an inside-the-waistband holster from which peeped the butt of what looked like a big semi-automatic and handed it over. The deskman reached back and plopped Kang’s holster and pistol into the same compartment as his mobile phone.
Tay didn’t much like carrying a gun and he seldom did. It wasn’t that he harbored high-minded scruples that prevented him from shooting people. He had a long list of people in mind he thought could use shooting. It was more a matter of not wanting to be tempted.
Most of the time, Tay left his service revolver at home in the top drawer of his bedside table. It was an old-fashioned wheel gun, a Smith & Wesson .38, five shots with a two-inch barrel, and it marked him as even more of an old fart than most people already thought he was, which was really saying something. The Smith & Wesson .38 hadn’t been issued to CID detectives in nearly fifteen years. It was practically an antique. Carrying it now was like making telephone calls with a rotary dial phone.
These days most CID cops carried Heckler & Koch forty calibre semi-automatics, but Tay had never bothered to qualify with one and just stuck to his old-fashioned .38. He knew his colleagues snickered about it. It’s a great weapon if you ever get into a gunfight in an elevator, they had joked so often Tay had decided to smack the next guy who said it, but he almost never carried a gun anyway so it didn’t matter much to him what it was. To tell the truth, he was such a lousy shot he figured one gun was pretty much as useless to him as another.
The deskman pointed to one of the heavies flanking the door and the man stepped forward and held out a black plastic paddle Tay recognized as a handheld metal detector. He didn’t speak, but he gestured to Tay and Kang to hold their arms out from their sides.
“You don’t trust us?” Tay asked.
“Standard procedure,” the man muttered.
“Standard procedure for everybody or just for CID people?”
“Look, pal,” the deskman said, “We only work here. We just do what we’re told. I suggest you do the same thing.”
Tay and Kang stood silently while the security man ran the wand over them with what Tay thought was grossly exaggerated care under the circumstances. Each time it beeped, they were forced to pull out whatever they had in their pockets for examination.
“Okay,” the deskman said when the procedure finally finished. “Go straight in. You’re the last. They’re waiting for you.”
“And you’ve made them wait longer,” Tay said.
When he walked through the door, Tay didn’t find himself in a conference room as he had been expecting, but rather in what seemed to be a small lecture hall. He was looking down on it from behind the top row and saw about two dozen people scattered over four rows of theater seats arranged in tiers that rose up from a
Tay and Kang handed over their warrant cards and stood quietly while the man scrutinized first one and then the other as if he suspected they might be forgeries. When he was apparently satisfied their warrant cards were genuine, the deskman turned and tossed them into separate compartments in a wooden rack mounted on the wall behind him. About six inches deep and divided into five rows of small compartments, it made Tay think of the key racks that were always behind hotel reception desks in old black and white crime movies from the forties.
“No phones, cameras, recording devices, or firearms permitted inside,” the deskman announced, holding out his hand again. “You can pick up your stuff when you come out.”
Tay and Kang surrendered their telephones, and the man put them into the compartments with their warrant cards.
“Any other electronic devices of any kind? Cameras, recorders? Anything like that?”
They both shook their heads.
“Are you armed?”
“No,” Tay said.
Kang nodded his head.
“Seriously?” Tay asked him.
Kang looked at Tay and shrugged. He reached under his shirt and unclipped an inside-the-waistband holster from which peeped the butt of what looked like a big semi-automatic and handed it over. The deskman reached back and plopped Kang’s holster and pistol into the same compartment as his mobile phone.
Tay didn’t much like carrying a gun and he seldom did. It wasn’t that he harbored high-minded scruples that prevented him from shooting people. He had a long list of people in mind he thought could use shooting. It was more a matter of not wanting to be tempted.
Most of the time, Tay left his service revolver at home in the top drawer of his bedside table. It was an old-fashioned wheel gun, a Smith & Wesson .38, five shots with a two-inch barrel, and it marked him as even more of an old fart than most people already thought he was, which was really saying something. The Smith & Wesson .38 hadn’t been issued to CID detectives in nearly fifteen years. It was practically an antique. Carrying it now was like making telephone calls with a rotary dial phone.
These days most CID cops carried Heckler & Koch forty calibre semi-automatics, but Tay had never bothered to qualify with one and just stuck to his old-fashioned .38. He knew his colleagues snickered about it. It’s a great weapon if you ever get into a gunfight in an elevator, they had joked so often Tay had decided to smack the next guy who said it, but he almost never carried a gun anyway so it didn’t matter much to him what it was. To tell the truth, he was such a lousy shot he figured one gun was pretty much as useless to him as another.
The deskman pointed to one of the heavies flanking the door and the man stepped forward and held out a black plastic paddle Tay recognized as a handheld metal detector. He didn’t speak, but he gestured to Tay and Kang to hold their arms out from their sides.
“You don’t trust us?” Tay asked.
“Standard procedure,” the man muttered.
“Standard procedure for everybody or just for CID people?”
“Look, pal,” the deskman said, “We only work here. We just do what we’re told. I suggest you do the same thing.”
Tay and Kang stood silently while the security man ran the wand over them with what Tay thought was grossly exaggerated care under the circumstances. Each time it beeped, they were forced to pull out whatever they had in their pockets for examination.
“Okay,” the deskman said when the procedure finally finished. “Go straight in. You’re the last. They’re waiting for you.”
“And you’ve made them wait longer,” Tay said.
When he walked through the door, Tay didn’t find himself in a conference room as he had been expecting, but rather in what seemed to be a small lecture hall. He was looking down on it from behind the top row and saw about two dozen people scattered over four rows of theater seats arranged in tiers that rose up from a
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