"Where is Schiller?"

"Downstairs."

"Where downstairs?"

"Checking one of the heat pumps, I think."

"Is he alone?"

"Yeah."

"How many other security guards?"

"Are you going to tell me what's up?"

"For G.o.d's sake, this is an emergency!" Bollinger said. "How many security guards besides you?"

"Just two. What emergency?"

"There's been a bomb threat."

The guard's lips trembled. The mustache seemed about to fall off. "You're kidding."

"I wish I were."

The guard slid off his stool, stepped from behind the lectern.

At the same time Bollinger took the Walther from his pocket.

The guard blanched. "What's that?"

"A gun. Don't go for yours."

"Look, this bomb threat ... I didn't call it in."

Bollinger laughed.

"It's true."

"I'm sure it is."

"Hey ... that gun has a silencer on it."

"Yeah."

"But policemen don't-"

Bollinger shot him twice in the chest.

The impact of the bullets threw the guard into the sheet marble. For an instant he stood very straight, as if he were waiting for someone to measure his height and mark it on the wall. Then he collapsed.

part two

FRIDAY 8:00 P.M. 8:30 P.M.

16.

Bollinger turned immediately from the dead man and looked at the revolving doors. n.o.body was there, no one on the sidewalk beyond, no one who might have seen the killing.

Moving quickly but calmly, he tucked the pistol into his pocket and grabbed the body by the arms. He dragged it into the waiting area between the first two banks of elevators. Now, anyone coming to the doors would see only an empty lobby.

The dead man stared at him. The mustache seemed to have been painted on his lip.

Bollinger turned out the guard's pockets. He found quarters, dimes, a crumpled five-dollar bill, and a key ring with seven keys.

He returned to the main part of the lobby.

He wanted to go straight to the door, but he knew that was not a good idea. That would put him in camera range. If the men monitoring the closed-circuit system saw him locking the door, they would be curious. They'd come to investigate, and he would lose the advantage of surprise.

Keeping in mind the details of the plans he had studied at City Hall that afternoon, he walked quietly to the rear of the lobby and stepped into a short corridor on the left. Four rooms led off the hall. The second on the right was the guards' room, and the door was open.

Wondering if the squeaking of his wet shoes sounded as loud to the guards as it did to him, he edged up to the open door.

Inside, two men were talking laconically about their jobs, complaining, but only halfheartedly.

Bollinger took the pistol from his coat pocket. He walked through the doorway.

The men were sitting at a small table in front of three television screens. They weren't watching the monitors. They were playing two-handed pinochle.

The older of the two was in his fifties. Heavy. Grayhaired. He had a prizefighter's lumpy face. The name "Neely" was st.i.tched on his left shirt pocket. He was slow. He looked up at Bollinger, failed to react as he should have to the gun, and said without fear, "What's this?"

The other guard was in his thirties. Trim. Ascetic face. Pale hands. As he turned to see what had caught Neely's attention, Bollinger saw "Faulkner" st.i.tched on his shirt.

He shot Faulkner first.

Reaching with both hands for his ruined throat, too late to stop the life from gushing out of him, Faulkner toppled backward in his chair.

"Hey!" Fat Neely was finally on his feet. His holster was snapped shut. He grappled with it.

Bollinger shot him twice.

Neely did an ungraceful pirouette, fell on the table, collapsed it, and went to the floor in a flutter of pinochle cards.

Bollinger checked their pulses.

They were dead.

When he left the room, he closed the door.

At the front of the big lobby, he locked the last revolving door and put the keys into his pocket.

He went to the lectern, sat on the stool. He took the box of bullets from his left coat pocket and replenished the pistol's magazine.

He looked at his watch. 8:10. He was right on schedule.

17.

"That was good pizza," Graham said.

"Good wine, too. Have another gla.s.s."

"I've had enough."

"Just a little one."

"No. I've got to work."

"Dammit."

"You knew that when you came."

"I was trying to get you drunk."

"On one bottle of wine?"

"And then seduce you."

"Tomorrow night," he said.

"I'll be blind with desire by then."

"Doesn't matter. Love is a Braille experience."

She winced.

He got up, came around the table, kissed her cheek. "Did you bring a book to read?"

"A Nero Wolfe mystery."

"Then read."

"Can I look at you from time to time?"

"What's to look at?"

"Why do men men buy buy Playboy Playboy magazine?" she asked. magazine?" she asked.

"I won't be working in the nude."

"You don't have to be."

"Pretty dull."

"You're even s.e.xy with your clothes on."

"Okay," he said, smiling. "Look but don't talk."

"Can I drool?"

"Drool if you must."

He was pleased with the flattery, and she was delighted by his reaction. She felt that she was gradually chipping away at his inferiority complex, peeling it layer by layer.

18.

The building engineer for the night shift was a stocky, fair-skinned blond in his late forties. He was wearing gray slacks and a gray-white-blue checkered shirt. He was smoking a pipe.

When Bollinger came down the steps from the lobby corridor, the gun in his right hand, the engineer said, "Who the h.e.l.l are you?" He spoke with a slight German accent.

"Sie sind Herr Schiller, nicht wahr?" Bollinger asked. His grandfather and grandmother had been German-Americans; he had learned the language when he was young and had never forgotten it. Bollinger asked. His grandfather and grandmother had been German-Americans; he had learned the language when he was young and had never forgotten it.

Surprised to hear German spoken, worried about the gun but confused by Bollinger's smile, Schiller said, "Ja, ich bin's." "Ja, ich bin's."

"Es freut mich sehr Sie kennenzulernen. "