The Shadow Man by John Katzenbach Read Free Book Online

voice:
    ‘Ohmigod, please send the police right away! Somebody’s killed her! Oh, poor Mrs Millstein! An ambulance! Send help! Please!’
    Cutting through hysteria was her job.
    ‘Yes, ma’am. Right away. Give me an address.’
    ‘Yes, yes, oh, the Sunshine Arms, 1290 Thirteenth Court. Hurry, please …’
    ‘Ma’am, what sort of assistance do you need? What has happened?’ Number 3 remained perfectly even-toned in her questions.
    ‘We heard a noise, my Henry and I, and he went down to check it out and Mr Finkel went too and she was dead! Oh my goodness, what’s the world coming to? Send the police. Please. Someone’s killed her. Oh my lord, what are we coming to?’
    ‘Hold the line please …’ Number 3 left the woman on an open line while she punched another button: ‘Any officer. Possible ten-thirty, 1290 Thirteenth Court. Code is Three. People on scene. Patrol sergeant, please respond …’ She punched a second button, connecting
    herself to an ambulance crew. ‘We have a ten-thirty at 1290 Thirteenth Court, but there are elderly people involved. Drive by. See if any need assistance.’ This wasn’t precisely procedure, but Number 3 had been a 911 operator on the Beach for over a decade, and she knew that more than once the sound of sirens and excitement strained fragile heart muscles.
    Number 3 then calmly reconnected herself to the frantic woman on the open line.
    ‘Ma’am, help is on the way. An officer should be right there. And I’ve notified Rescue as well.’
    ‘He saw him, my Henry did, running out the back. A black man and Henry chased him to the alley, he did, but then he got away and I called. Oh, poor Mrs Millstein!’ ‘Ma’am, is the perpetrator still on the scene?’ ‘What? The who? No, he ran away down the alley.’ ‘Ma’am, hold on. I will need your name and address.’ Again she left the caller on the open line, as she dialed another number.
    ‘Beach Homicide. This is Detective Robinson.’ ‘Detective? This is Operator Three down in 911. I do believe your slow night is about to pick up. We just got a call, possible ten-thirty at an apartment complex called the Sunshine Arms in South Beach. Uniforms are en route, but maybe you want to send someone over there before they make a mess of things.’
    Walter Robinson recognized the voice. ‘Lucy,’ he said, ‘my night wouldn’t be complete without a call from you.’
    Number 3 smiled, wished for an instant that she were younger and sexier, and that her husband wasn’t at home snoring in the big double bed they owned, then replied: ‘Well, Detective, it’s complete now. I’ve got a hysterical old woman on the open line, saying the perpetrator just fled the scene. Maybe you can hurry and get lucky.’
    ‘Luck,’ Robinson answered, ‘is something in short supply in this world.’
    Number 3” nodded. She looked up and saw Number 17 entering the phone room, looking sheepish and apologetic for being late.
    ‘Well, Detective, if you don’t need luck…’
    ‘I didn’t say I didn’t need it, Lucy. I just said there wasn’t much of it available. Especially late at night in the city.’
    ‘Amen,’ said Number 3 as she disconnected the detective and heard a distant siren come over the open line, its insistent wail rising above the teary sobs of the elderly woman.
    Walter Robinson put the phone back on its cradle and wrote down the address on a piece of scratch paper, thinking to himself that it was hot outside, a nasty, thick, clutching oily heat that threatened to rob his lungs of air. He knew already what he would find when he exited the cool, sterile interior of the homicide offices. A world compacted by stifling humidity, weighing on his chest like a tight jacket. He took a deep breath and shoved the legal textbooks he’d been studying into a drawer, then reached for a portable radio phone resting in an electric charging device on the corner of his desk. He said to himself: this is an awful night for anyone to have