Stuart Woods - Worst Fears Realized

“You should give up painting for cooking,” he said.

They ate slowly, then Sarah brought out cannoli for dessert. When they had finished their dinner and the wine, she drew him from the table and led him through the apartment and upstairs. “I must show you the guest room,” she purred. She opened a door and led him into an elaborately decorated bedroom, then stopped and put her arms around his neck. “Now,” she said. “Another dessert.” She kissed him.

Stone thought he had never felt so good. The dinner had been perfection, and now, as he felt her breasts against him, felt her tongue in his mouth, he…

A loud buzzing noise interrupted them.

“What’s that?” he asked.

“The house phone,” she replied between kisses. “Ignore it.”

“I think you’d better answer it,” Stone said.

“Forget it.”

“Sarah, this could be important.”

“Oh, all right!” she said, breaking away and going to the phone. “Hello? Yes, Dan? No, I can’t right now. No, it’s impossible.”

“What is it?” Stone asked.

She covered the receiver. “It’s the desk man downstairs; he wants me to come down there and talk to the police.”

“Tell him you’ll be right down,” Stone said.

“Are you mad?”

“Please, tell him you’ll be right down.”

“I’ll be right down,” she said, then hung up the phone. “What on earth is going on?” she asked. “Why would the police want to see me?”

“You stay here; I’m going downstairs,” Stone said.

“When will you be back?” she asked plaintively.

“As soon as I possibly can. In the meantime, don’t open the door to anyone except me, and I mean anyone .”

“Stone, you’re beginning to frighten me.”

“Don’t worry, everything will be all right. I’ll be right back.” He ran down the stairs, let himself out of the apartment and into the foyer, then rang for the elevator. He looked up at the lights, expecting to see it move. It remained on the ground floor. He rang again, but the car did not move. He tried a door to his left, found a staircase, and started down.

As he ran quickly down the stairs he removed the pistol from his belt, worked the action, and put the safety on. He had started at the sixteenth floor, and it took him some minutes to reach the bottom. Finally at the lobby level, he put an ear to the door and listened. Nothing.

He opened the door an inch and peered into the lobby. It was empty. No one was at the desk across the way, and he could see the elevator car, standing with the door open. He flipped the safety off the pistol and, holding it in front of him with both hands, stepped into the lobby. He looked carefully behind the furniture and found nothing, no one, then he went to the desk and looked over it.

“Good God!” he said aloud. He flipped up the desktop and opened the half door that gave access to the area behind the desk. The cop and the desk man both lay on the floor, and there was a lot of blood. He checked both for pulses; they were dead.

He stood up and noticed two things for the first time. There was a bullet hole in one of the glass doors, and outside the building and to his right, lights were flashing. He walked outside and saw an unmarked police car standing a few yards up the street, the driver’s door open and a red light on the dashboard flashing. Traffic was moving unhindered down Fifth Avenue. Where the hell are Kelly and Anderson? He walked toward the car, passing two civilian cars on the way.

“Mr. Barrington?”

The voice spun him around. The doorman emerged from where he had been crouched between two parked cars. “Mr. Barrington, this is awful.”

“What happened?” Stone demanded.

“I let a man with a parcel to deliver into the lobby. He went to the front desk and, without a word, shot the police officer, then he held the gun to Dan’s head, and I saw Dan pick up the telephone. I ran outside, and then I heard a second shot.”

“Then what happened?”

“About a minute passed, and I heard more shots; then the man I had let in burst out of the building, ran across the street, and vaulted over the wall into the park. A few seconds later, the police officer who was running the elevator came out, looking up and down the street. I yelled that the man had gone into the park, and the officer went after him. Then I saw the red light start flashing in that car, there, and another man, I suppose a police officer, got out of the car and ran after the other two.”

“Do you know if the man in the car called for help?” Stone asked.

“No, I don’t know.”

Stone went to the police car, found the microphone, and punched the switch. “Dispatch?”

“Dispatch; who’s calling?”

“My name is Barrington, I’m a retired police officer.” He gave the address. “There’s an officer down here, along with a civilian, both dead. Two other officers have pursued the perp into Central Park. Stand by.” He turned to the doorman. “What did the man you let into the building look like?”

“He was small, and he was wearing a parka with the hood up. I didn’t get all that good a look at him.”

Stone turned back to the microphone. “The perpetrator is a white male, small of stature, wearing a parka with the hood up, and is armed and dangerous. One of the two officers in pursuit is wearing an elevator operator’s uniform, and the other is in plain clothes. You want to get major backup into the park between Seventy-second and Seventy-ninth Streets and get a patrol car to the building. Also, find Lieutenant Dino Bacchetti of the Nineteenth Precinct and tell him to get over here fast.”

“Where will you be?”

“I’ll secure the lobby of the building and wait there.”

“Got it; over and out.”

Stone put down the microphone. “Come with me,” he said. “You and I will wait in the lobby for the police to arrive.”

“Yes, sir,” the doorman said.

They went back into the building, and Stone went to the elevator. “I wonder why the killer didn’t take the elevator upstairs,” he said.

The doorman looked into the car. “It’s locked,” he said, “and the police officer must have the key.”

“Is there another key?” Stone asked.

“In the top drawer of the desk,” the doorman said, pointing. He clearly had no wish to go over there.

Stone retrieved the key and put it into his pocket. He could hear sirens approaching from a distance. He picked up the house phone, consulted a list of occupants, and called Sarah’s apartment. The phone rang and rang, but there was no answer.

STONE HUNG UP, CHECKED THE NUMBER, then dialed again. Still no answer. He looked up to see uniforms piling out of two police cars outside and running toward the front door with weapons drawn. He realized that they probably wouldn’t know him and that to them, he was a civilian with a weapon. He put his pistol down on the desktop, moved away from the desk, dug out his ID, and held it out in front of him with one hand, while holding the other hand in the air. “I’m on the job!” he shouted, because he knew that would stop a nervous cop from shooting him. They stopped running.

“What’s going on here?” a sergeant asked.

“I’m a retired police officer,” Stone said. “That’s my weapon on the desk. There’s an officer and another man on the floor behind the desk, both shot, both dead. This man is the building’s doorman.”

The sergeant lowered his weapon. “Your name’s Barrington, isn’t it? You were in the Nineteenth with Bacchetti?”

“That’s right.”

The sergeant looked behind the desk. “Jesus Christ!” he said. “Who shot these two men?”

“The doorman here saw the perp run out of the building, across the street, and over the wall into the park. Detectives Anderson and Kelly pursued him. I called it in from Kelly’s car; I asked for backup in the park between Seventy-second and Seventy-ninth. I also asked the dispatcher to find Bacchetti and tell him to come here.”