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Last night's dream came back to him. Cold ran down his spine. The hair color
could be from dye, or a wig.
Had she followed him there? She must have. She must have been watching him
all along. It was too much for coincidence that Maruska's killer intercepted
him before Garreth arrived and that Holle's killer and the Philos burglar went
to work just after Garreth left them.
After the briefing ended, Harry and Girimonte picked up their coats and
headed for the door. "Oh, if you need something to do, Mikaelian, you can read
the book Fowler gave me," Girimonte called back. "It's in the upper lefthand
drawer of my desk."
You know what you can do with your book, honey, Garreth thought.
Fifteen minutes later he found himself reaching for the book anyway. It was
the only thing to do. Everyone else remaining in the squadroom avoided him as
though he had caught AIDS. Concentration proved as difficult as it had been
the night before, though. His mind kept slipping back to the break-in and
Lane, a distraction not helped by a tall, charming brunette in the book who
reminded Garreth of Lane. He gripped the book, white-knuckled. How could she
still be alive? How?
Serruto tapped his shoulder. "Let's go. That witness from the Philos
Foundation is in Burglary."
Garreth had filled in for several lineups before. Since he had not been the
man the technician saw, this should be no different, he told himself. Then
while shuffling into the lighted box with four other lean, blondish officers,
it occurred to him that the technician might have described not someone she
saw at all but someone Lane, using hypnotic powers, told her she saw. He bit
his lip. This could be the evidence Lane intended to incriminate him once and
for all.
"Face the front," a voice said from the speaker overhead.
Garreth put his back against the height-graduated wall.
"Number three, take off your glasses."
Slowly he complied, and stood squinting into the lights that kept him from
seeing who sat on the darkened side of the glass wall facing him.
An eternity dragged by while the hair prickled all over Garreth's body and
cold ate into his bones. Smells of blood and aftershave and cigarette smoke
pressed around him, strengthed by confinement in the lineup box.
"That's all," said the voice from the speaker.
He put his glasses back on and they all shuffled out.
To Garreth's surprise, only Serruto waited for him. Grinning, the
lieutenant slapped his back. "Congratulations; you're too short."
He could not feel much relief. That might lift suspicion from him but a
burglar taller than he did not rule out Lane.
2
Being cleared of suspicion in the break-in changed nothing back in Homicide
either. The activity in the squadroom continued to flow around him as though
he were invisible. He went back to his book and speculation. If Lane broke
into the Foundation, why had she bypassed the perfect opportunity to finish
the frame? Maybe, he decided hopefully, she was not responsible after all. The
burglary did not have to be connected with this case at all. It could have
been just some junkie aware of a medical facility there and hoping to find
drugs.
In the file cabinets? a thought mocked him.
Questions without answers. Garreth tried to forget them for the time being
and concentrate on the book.
He still had trouble enjoying it. Mrs. Stroda's comment on how Fowler's
characters treated other people as disposable tools came back to him. The
protagonist callously used and discarded several colleagues and supposed
friends. Garreth found himself almost regretting that the tall brunette, who
proved to be working for the other side, failed in her attempt to kill the
hero.
A feeling of danger jerked him up out of the book. Looking around swiftly,
he saw nothing new or threatening in the squadroom, only Faye and Centrello
marching in with their lunches in carryout boxes.
Lunch! He lurched to his feet. From one of the boxes came the scent of
garlic rolls! Panic exploded in him as air turned to concrete in his lungs.
Suffocation! Clawing at the turtleneck of his shirt, fighting for breath, he
bolted for the door and the untainted air of the corridor. Someone shouted
behind him but he kept going.
The odor of garlic hung in the corridor, too, marking the carryout's
passage. The movement of air was dispersing it, though. That made the air just
syrup instead of concrete. He sagged against the wall, head thrown back, eyes
closed, and concentrated on forcing the syrup in and out of his lungs.
Footsteps pounded toward him. He opened his eyes to find Serruto, Faye, and
Centrello piling out through Homicide's door and screeching to a halt in the
middle of the corridor, staring at him. Other people in the corridor stared,
too.
"Mikaelian, what the hell are you doing?" Serruto demanded.
How did he answer without giving himself away? Why not the same excuse he
gave Maggie for his tenseness in movie theaters. "Sorry. I get . . .
claustrophobic sometimes."
Serruto raised a skeptical brow. "Claustrophobic? That looked more like a
panic attack to me. How long have you had them? Is this what happened in the
restaurant the day Harry got shot?"
Faye and Centrello exchanged grimaces. Garreth groaned inwardly. Terrific.
Now they thought he was psycho. "No, this is something different," he snapped.
"It's a reaction to being a murder suspect."
Serruto scowled. "Don't get cute. Are you over whatever it is now?"
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