Woman in the Window by Thomas Gifford Read Free Book Online Page B

hardhat the foreman had given her made her feel like she was wearing a soup tureen, Quixote’s helmet of Mambrino. Her attention had wandered, trying to project where the gun might have landed, when she noticed that the relationship between MacPherson and the foreman was not improving.
    MacPherson’s voice had gotten remarkably steely. “Just tear it up, soldier,” he said. He was pointing at a bed of moist-looking concrete that, she had to admit, looked as if it was in the right place to hide the gun.” Don’t argue with me, just tear it up or shovel it out. I’ve already got a warrant.”
    “Fuck you, buddy, just fuck you and this nutty broad!” His voice fairly exploded and several of the workmen looked up, surprised, then grinned at the show.
    MacPherson actually laughed. “You’re wonderful,” he said, smiling, moving close to the foreman, slapping him on the huge shoulder in a comradely gesture. Natalie stepped closer because MacPherson was lowering his voice, still smiling. “How would you like the building inspector’s men down here? You want that? Do you have any idea how sorry you and your bosses would be if I got Bracken and a couple of his guys down here? For a very close inspection of all your specs? I’m talking Fast Phil Bracken, get it? You’d be lucky to be a helper-third-class-journeyman-asshole by the time Fast Phil and your bosses got through with you, got done paying the fines. No, maybe they’d just dump you in a form and fill it with cement—now start digging, soldier.”
    The foreman quietly surveyed the situation, weighing the pros and cons, then nodded genially and went off to commandeer some labor.
    Natalie couldn’t help laughing. “Very impressive. Fast Phil must be a holy terror.”
    MacPherson looked down at her. “I just made him up. What do I know about building inspectors? It’s sort of the idea—cops have to know how to scare people sometimes; don’t let anybody tell you differently.” His eyes followed the foreman. “Thank you for coming over, Ms. Rader. I always work better with an audience.” He took her arm and helped her back up to street level. “I’m going to hang around here, just in case this guy needs any further scaring. I’ll let you know what happens.” She watched him head back into the pit. Crossing the street, she looked up at the agency’s windows. In the corner window past the reflection Jay Danmeier stood with his binoculars. He wasn’t watching peregrine falcons. He was watching Natalie Rader. She shivered in the cold.
    In the late afternoon, MacPherson came back to her office. He wore that shadow of a smile and was carrying a brown paper sack and a newspaper. Unfolding the paper on her desk, he dumped the contents of the sack. There was a heavy clunk.
    “That’s a .38, Ms. Rader. A gun, you might say.”
    It was disfigured by clinging bits of half-hardened cement. It seemed large and ugly and frightening. She had never seen a gun before, up close.
    “It was right where it should have been. They had to move about five tons of wet cement. … I’m relieved there was a gun at the bottom of it, frankly.”
    “But why didn’t someone see it before they poured the cement?”
    “Those forms are full of leaves, sandwich wrappers, all kinds of debris. Who looks?”
    She took a deep breath. She wanted the gun off her desk. MacPherson seemed to sense her response and scooped it up, newspaper and all, and put it back in the sack.
    “What do you do now?” she asked.
    “Do a work-up on the gun. Check here and there. We’ll keep busy.” He had his hand on the door, turned back. “Proves one thing, though.”
    “It does?” She glanced at him, startled.
    “Proves your imagination wasn’t working overtime. To tell you the truth, I thought maybe it was. Good afternoon, Ms. Rader.”
    She stayed in the office until seven o’clock and once outside decided to walk home. She was damned if she’d let fear of the faceless gunman restrict her