The Lure by Felice Picano Read Free Book Online Page A

missing—”
    He withheld the remainder of the threat, as the elevator landed with a thump and sure enough, Mrs. Davies and a half dozen dogs of various sizes and colors exited in a rushing barrage of fur and barking, their elderly owner spinning about, trying to hold on to their leashes.
    Whatever could have been in Gerdes’s mind to do such a thing? Noel wondered as he ascended. Had his Uncle Al come to visit him? Why hadn’t Aunt Antonia called beforehand? Was there trouble in the family?
    His apartment door was slightly ajar. Music from the radio seeped out into the hallway: Mozart. Noel stood still, took a breath, and slowly opened the door all the way.
    Only when it was fully open did he see the man sitting in the rocking chair, bathed in morning sunlight from the tall windows. At first, Noel didn’t recognize him. When, a second later, he did, it was with a sudden rush of fear. It was he, the chief of those men in the abandoned Federal House of Detention, the man they had called the Fisherman.
    “Come in! Come in!” he said cheerily. At Noel’s baffled, apprehensive look the Fisherman got up from the rocker and came to meet him. “I didn’t know when you’d be back, so I asked the doorman…”
    “I know.” What did he want?
    “You don’t seem too pleased to see me.”
    “I hoped I’d never see you again. I’ve tried to forget that morning.” Noel closed the door, wondering whether anyone else was in the apartment. The bathroom door was open, no one could hide in the kitchen. In the closets?
    “I can understand that. Do you have a pet?”
    “A pet?”
    “You keep looking around as though…” The Fisherman interrupted himself with a laugh. “I’m alone. Don’t worry. By the way, have you had breakfast yet?”
    Noel had been out riding this Sunday morning, enjoying the crisp, almost-spring, late March weather. He’d completed his route—on the East Side since that dawn—then had circled through Central Park, taking advantage of the winding roads closed to vehicular traffic every weekend. AIl the way home he’d been thinking about his growling stomach.
    “Because if you haven’t,” the Fisherman went on, “I brought a few things. You like delicatessen?”
    He opened a white paper bag he’d left on the table. Inside were fresh bagels, pungent lox, some smaller wrapped parcels.
    “There is also fresh squeezed orange juice. And coffee. I have a special roast at Zabar’s.”
    Noel was drawn by the food and by curiosity.
    “Why did you tell the doorman you were my uncle?”
    “What was I supposed to tell him? That I was a police officer?”
    Noel didn’t answer.
    “Is this the kitchen?” the Fisherman said, going into the tiny room and spreading the packages of food on the counter. “Where are your dishes?”
    “I’ll get them,” Noel said, taking off his jacket.
    “I got the Sunday Times, too. It’s over there.” He pointed to its thick bulk on the lamp table next to the rocker. “You’ll need a sharp knife to cut these bagels. They’re fresh. They tear otherwise. Heat some water. I got cream cheese with chives. Do you like it?” He unwrapped the packages.
    The small table seated two comfortably. Noel’s initial panic had passed quickly, but not his curiosity. The man probably wanted to ask more questions. Or the same ones over again: a small enough price for breakfast and the Times.
    “I’m here for a reason,” the Fisherman said once they were seated.
    “I didn’t think you’d come to apologize again for my mistreatment.”
    “You’re an intelligent man, Mr. Cummings. University professor and all.”
    “Not so smart. I still haven’t figured out your name.”
    “Excuse me. Loomis,” he said, putting out a hand for Noel to shake across the table. “Anton Loomis.”
    “Anton Loomis, New York City Department of Police. A detective, right? Some high rank? In which division? Homicide?”
    “I used to be captain. I don’t hold any rank now.”
    “Not because