The Eye: A Novel of Suspense by Bill Pronzini, John Lutz Read Free Book Online Page A

“E.L.,” he said.
    “Just initials? Or do they stand for something?”
    “Elliot Leroy.” He said the names as if he were challenging her to laugh, like a defensive little boy.
    She decided not to comment. Perfectly serious, she asked, “Should I ask for you at the precinct house?”
    “That won’t be necessary. Thanks for your help, Miss Crane.”
    “Not at all. Will you be talking to me again?”
    “I’ll be talking to you again,” he said.
    He went out and down the hall without looking back at her. She waited until he had reached the elevator before she closed the door.
    E.L. Oxman , she thought as she reset the chain lock and the dead-bolt Fox lock. Yes, an interesting man . In spite of herself, and in the same superficial way, she found him as attractive as he found her.
    Jennifer kept him in her mind while she finished her vodka gimlet and then made another. Thinking about Oxman was better than thinking about Marty Simmons. Much, much better.
    9:30 P.M. — BENNY HILLER
    The alarm clock on the table next to Hiller’s bed jangled loudly, and the shrill sound yanked him toward wakefulness. His left arm snaked out; he slapped the glowing button on top of the clock and the jangling stopped.
    He sat up immediately, licked his lips, and ran his tongue around the inside of his mouth to rid it of the cottony taste of sleep. The apartment was silent except for the occasional hushed sounds of traffic filtering in from West Ninety-eighth Street three stories below. Darkness had fallen; only the faintest bars of light showed around the edges of the pulled shade on the window across the room. It was time to get dressed for work.
    Hiller swiveled on the mattress and stood up, nude, as he always slept. He bent and switched on the green-shaded lamp by the bed and then padded barefoot toward the bathroom. He was a medium-tall, lithe man with stringy, muscular limbs and a sculptured stomach. There was a compact economy of motion about him; he was a man of agility and endurance, though his sharply creased features and graying hair revealed that he was past forty. There was both a feral cunning and a youthful eagerness in his face, in his clear blue eyes. Astronauts and trapeze artists had that look. So did born commandos.
    So did professional burglars.
    After a quick cold shower, he toweled himself dry and dressed unhurriedly but with efficient ritualism, as if each move had been planned and practiced. He slipped into a navy blue shirt and dark slacks, then sat on the edge of the bed and put on black socks and dark blue Nike jogging shoes.
    From the top shelf of the closet he pulled a small, almost flat nylon packet—a Totes carry-all bag that folded into a package that would take up little room in a traveler’s suitcase, yet was spacious and sturdy enough to stuff with bulky souvenirs on the return trip. He slipped the folded Totes bag inside his shirt and worked it around so he could insert it beneath his belt in the small of his back. It was hardly noticeable there.
    Hiller buttoned his shirt, then got his toolbox from under the bed. He wasn’t going to go through any doors tonight, so he wouldn’t need the picks and tension bars, the set of punches and driftpins, the cold chisel, the pick gun, or any of his other burglary tools. All he took from the box were a Swiss army knife with various attachments ranging from a screwdriver to a can opener, and a small penlight. These he put into his pants pockets.
    He left the apartment, locking the door carefully behind him—he didn’t want to be burglarized while he was out, he thought with a grin—and walked down to the street. Usually he worked at a much later hour, but he’d cased this job thoroughly, as he did all of his scores, and it called for an early hit. The target was a woman who ran a minor-league call-girl operation and dealt a little dope on the side; she was always out in the early evenings, never came home until after eleven.
    Hiller preferred working nights