The sound was stealthy, the sound a burglar might make when suddenly surprised by an unexpected arrival home, nothing more than a whisper really, a rustle beyond the closed bedroom door; he readied for the shoulder holster and pulled his gun. The gun was a .38 Smith & Wesson Centennial Model with a two-inch barrel and a rapacity of five shots. He knew this was not a burglar in there, this was Augusta in there, and he also knew that she was not alone, and hoped he was wrong, and his hand began sweating on the walnut grip of the pistol.
He almost turned and left the apartment. He almost holstered the gun, and turned his back on that closed bedroom door, on what was beyond that closed bedroom door, almost walked out of the apartment and out of their life as it had been together, once, too long ago, almost avoided the confrontation, and knew it could not be avoided, and became suddenly frightened. As he crossed the room to the bedroom door, the gun was trembling in his fist. There could have been a hatchet murderer beyond that door, the effect would have been much the same.
And then the fear of confrontation gave way to something alien and even more terrifying, a blind, unreasoning anger, the stranger here in his own home, the intruder in his bedroom, the lover, who was Larry Patterson, here with his wife, the trap sprung, she thought he would be working the night watch, she knew she would be safe till morning, there hadn’t been a movie at all, there was only the movie here in this bedroom, his bedroom, an obscene pornographic movie behind that closed door.
He took the knob in his left hand, twisted it, and opened the door. And he hoped, in that final instant, that he would be wrong again, he would not find Augusta in this room, not find Augusta with her lover but instead find a small brown-eyed girl who went by the name of Felice or Agnes or Charity, a mistake somehow, a comedy of errors they would all laugh about in later years.
But of course it was Augusta.
And Augusta was naked in their bed, absurdly clutching the sheet to her breasts, hiding her shame, protecting her nakedness from the prying eyes of her own husband, her green eyes wide, her hair tousled, a fine sheen of perspiration on the marvelous cheekbones that were her fortune, her lip trembling the way the gun in his hand was trembling. And the man with Augusta was in his undershorts and reaching for his trousers folded over a bedside chair, the man was short and wiry, he looked like Genero, with curly black hair and brown eyes wide in terror, he looked just like Genero, absurdly like Genero, but he was Larry Patterson, he was Augusta’s lover, and as he turned from the chair where his trousers were draped, he said only, “Don’t shoot,” and Kling leveled the gun at him.
He almost pulled the trigger. He almost allowed his anger and his humiliation and his despair to rocket into his brain and connect there with whatever nerve endings might have signaled to the index finger of his right hand, cause it to tighten on the trigger, cause him to squeeze off one shot and then another and another at this stranger who was in that moment a target as helpless as any of the cardboard ones on the firing range at the Academy — do it, end it!
But then — and this was against every principle that had ever been drilled into him throughout the years he’d spent on the force, never give up your gun, hang on to your gun, your gun is your life, save the gun, keep the gun — he suddenly hurled it across the room as though it had become malevolently burning in his hand, threw it with all his might, surprised when it collided with a vase on the dresser top, smashing it, porcelain shards splintering the air like debris of his own dead marriage.
His eyes met Augusta’s.
Their eyes said everything there was to say, and all there was to say was nothing.
Heat, 1981
Eileen Burke
The girl’s legs were crossed.
She sat opposite Willis and Byrnes in the lieutenant’s office on the second floor of the 87th Precinct. They were good legs. The skirt reached to just a shade below her knees, and Willis could not help noticing they were good legs. Sleek and clean, full-calved, tapering to slender ankles, enhanced by the high-heeled black patent pumps.
The girl was a redhead, and that was good. Red hair is obvious hair. The girl had a pretty face, with a small Irish nose and green eyes. She listened to the men in serious silence, and you could feel intelligence on her face and in her eyes. Occasionally she sucked in a deep breath, and when she did, the severe cut of her suit did nothing to hide the sloping curve of her breast.
The girl earned $5,555 a year. The girl had a .38 in her purse.
The girl was a Detective 2nd/Grade, and her name was Eileen Burke, as Irish as her nose.
“You don’t have to take this one if you don’t want it, Miss Burke,” Byrnes said.
“It sounds interesting,” Eileen answered.
“Hal — Willis’ll be following close behind all the way, you understand. But that’s no guarantee he can get to you in time should anything happen. ‘
“I understand that, sir,” Eileen said.
“And Clifford isn’t such a gentleman,” Willis said. “He’s beaten, and he’s killed. Or at least we think so. It might not be such a picnic.”
“We don’t think he’s armed, but he used something on his last job, and it wasn’t his fist. So you see, Miss Burke…”
“What we’re trying to tell you,” Willis said, “is that you needn’t feel any compulsion to accept this assignment. We would understand completely were you to refuse it.”
“Are you trying to talk me into this or out of it?” Eileen asked.
“We’re simply asking you to make your own decision. We’re sending you out as a sitting duck, and we feel—”
“I won’t be such a sitting duck with a gun in my bag.”
“Still, we felt we should present the facts to you before—”
“Will we be the only pair?” Eileen asked Willis.
“To start, yes. We’re not sure how this’ll work. I can’t follow too close or Clifford’ll panic. And I can’t lag too far behind or I’ll be worthless.”
“Do you think he’ll bite?”
“We don’t know. He’s been hitting in the precinct and getting away with it, so chances are he won’t change his m.o. — unless this killing has scared him. And from what the victims have given us, he seems to hit without any plan. He just waits for a victim and then pounces.”
“I see.”
“So we figured an attractive girl walking the streets late at night, apparently alone, might smoke him out.”
“I see.” Ellen let the compliment pass. There were about four million attractive girls in the city, and she knew she was no prettier than most. “Has there been any sex motive?” she asked.
Willis glanced at Byrnes. “Not that we can figure. He hasn’t molested any of his victims.”
“I was only trying to figure what I should wear,” Eileen said.
“Well, no hat,” Willis said. “That’s for sure. We want him to spot that red hair a mile away.”
“All right,” Eileen said.
“Something bright, so I won’t lose you — but nothing too flashy,” Willis said. “We don’t want the Vice Squad picking you up.”
Eileen smiled. “Sweater and skirt?” she asked.
“Whatever you’ll be most comfortable in.”
“I’ve got a white sweater,” she said. “That should be clearly visible to both you and Clifford.”
“Yes,” Willis said.