Specimen Days

Yet she didn't feel the murder in him. The kid was, of course, crazy by definition. But still, she prided herself on a certain ability to suss out the truly dangerous. She couldn't name the specifics, though there were plenty of well-documented signs. This was something else. A flavor, a whiff. A buzz that was the best term she had for it. As if she could hear the tiny sound being made by a bad connection, the particular bit of faulty wiring that made murder more than just a fantasy.

It was complicated by the fact that every now and then, some of them were right. The tobacco companies had discovered a secret ingredient to make cigarettes more addictive. The North Koreans/iad been kidnapping Japanese tourists to educate their spies about the particulars of Japanese customs. Those noises coming from the apartment next door were in fact being made by a full-grown tiger.

She heard a noise in the hallway, right outside her door. A scraping. Something. Like a heel dragging across the tile. It was probably Arthur next door, pausing for an emphysemic breath before stumbling on, but she knew the sounds Arthur made; she knew

all the ordinary sounds the tenants produced in the hallways. This one wasn't familiar.

She raised her head from the book. She listened.

There it was again. A furtive, scrabbling sound. If this were the country, it might have been an opossum, scratching at the shingles.

The country teeth out there in the dark?

She got up, went and stood by the door. Nothing now. Still, she was shaky. A little shaky. Given the times. She didn't have a gun, being deterrence. Had never wanted one. Now she wondered.

She said "Hello?" and was embarrassed by the girlish fear in her voice. Fuck that. Fuck them if they wanted her meek. She opened the door.

No one. Just the ordinary drear of the corridor, its brackish aquarium light, its tiles the color of decayed teeth. She stepped out and took a proper look. Empty. The sound had probably been coming from the street or through the wall from the other next-door apartment (where the druggy, dreamy young couple in residence were always engaged in some mysterious project that involved endless little tappings and draggings). There was no one and nothing.

It took her another moment to see what was on the wall opposite her door. In white chalk, in perfect if slightly labored grade-school cursive, someone had written, TO DIE IS DIFFERENT FROM WHAT ANY ONE SUPPOSES, AND LUCKIER.

* * *

Neither Pete nor the FBI boys could offer much. They questioned the neighbors, of course, and of course nobody knew anything, had seen anyone untoward, or etcetera. As every tenant knew, it was semi-challenging but not impossible to get into the labyrinth of alleys and dumping grounds behind the building and slip in through the broken back door. The building's denizens had recently observed the fifth anniversary of their ongoing attempts to get the landlord to fix it.

Pete stood in Cat's living room, sweating majestically, sipping the espresso she'd made for him.

"How's the coffee?" she asked.

"Strong."

"Only way I know how to make it."

"I'm frankly at a loss about how this asshole figured out where you live."

"There are about a dozen ways." "Right."

This was one of the surprises there were no elaborate systems for keeping cops anonymous. That was movie stuff. Matter of fact, the systems that did exist, for the higher-level grunts, didn't work all that well. Just about anybody with true determination and a computer could track down a cop or an FBI agent or an auditor with the IRS, knock on the door one night, and deliver a lethal message. Only the biggest bosses had protection.

Pete said, "You want one of the guys to stay with you tonight? Or would you rather go to a hotel?"

"I can spend the night at Simon's."

"If they've got your address here, they may know about him, too."

"Simon's building is probably safer than FBI headquarters. Some exiled king lives in one of the penthouses, plus a few very kidnappable CEOs."

"Have you called him?"

"I was just about to. He should be done with his client by now."

"Call him. I want to get you settled somewhere."

She dialed Simon on her cell. She told him the story.

"My God," he said.

"I am, in fact, a little rattled," she told him.

"Come right over."

"I will."

Pete took her. They left the FBI boys lifting the ten thousand fingerprints from every inch of the premises. Who knew? Maybe they'd come up with something.

Pete walked her into the lobby of Simon's building on Franklin. He whistled softly over the maple paneling, the silent explosion of pink lilies on the concierge's desk.

"Fat," he said under his breath.

She announced herself to Joseph, the supremely capable Korean doorman.

" 'Night," she said to Pete. "Must be nice," he said.

"I'll see you in the morning," she answered curtly. She was in no mood right now.

"Right. See you in the morning."