Silent Victim - C. E. Lawrence [82]
The vendor gave them a shy but friendly smile, and Lee smiled broadly back at him. Maybe he was overreacting to the political tension in the air, but he felt protective of these people. They too were citizens of this city, and probably as horrified by the events of that terrible day as everyone else—or so he liked to think.
They ordered chicken sandwiches on pita bread, and sat down in front of the fountain at 666 Sixth Avenue to eat them. People dressed in summer clothes strolled past them in the mild August evening. The sidewalks still held the heat of the day, but the air blowing in from the river was cooler now. Yellow cabs rattled uptown, their transmissions taking a beating from potholes that pockmarked the broad avenue.
“Oh, man, this is good, isn’t it?” Butts slurped, his mouth half stuffed with food.
The sandwich was delicious—hot, spicy, with grilled onions, a suggestion of cardamon, and some kind of curry powder.
“Oh, man,” Butts said, wiping sauce from his mouth. “What do they put on these things? It’s amazing. I gotta get the wife to try and make somethin’ like this sometime.” “What does she usually make?” Lee asked. “Corned beef, potatoes, and cabbage—that kinda thing. She’s Irish,” he said apologetically.
“I like a good Irish breakfast,” Lee said. “Yeah, but it’s all downhill after that.” Butts looked at his sandwich and sighed. “Man, sometimes I think she’s allergic to spices, you know?”
“Hey, listen, my family is Scottish, and that’s even worse.” Butts stared at him, a piece of grilled onion clinging to his chin. “Really?”
“They say that all Scottish cuisine is based on a dare.” “'Zat so?” Butts murmured, plunging his face deeper into his sandwich.
Lee thought the detective’s unself-conscious enjoyment of food was a way of keeping his sanity amid the constant barrage of death and destruction he dealt with in his line of work.
“We’re meeting first thing tomorrow in Chuck Morton’s office to report on what we have.”
“Okay,” Butts said, licking sauce from his fingers. “Shall I call Krieger and tell her, or do you want to?” Butts snorted. “Oh, be my guest, by all means. I got a few leads of my own to track down tonight.” “Great,” Lee said. “Thanks a lot. “You asked,” Butts said, wolfing down the rest of his sandwich. He got up stiffly, stretched his pudgy body, and brushed crumbs from his clothes. “Okay, I’m off—see you tomorrow.”
“Right,” Lee said, and watched the detective shoulder his way through the crowd of people swarming up Sixth Avenue. But his mind was not on them, nor on the unfinished sandwich in his hand. He kept turning the words over and over in his brain:
Ask about the red dress.
If only there was someone to ask, he thought. Of course his unconscious mind must have been controlling the pointer—that was the obvious explanation for what happened. But he was so tormented by the idea that he found himself wishing the answer were somehow buried in the wistful promise of a children’s game.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
“Okay,” Butts said, slapping a bag of doughnuts onto Chuck’s desk. “Here’s what I found out. Vic Number One liked to get all lacy and decked out as a girl—pretty in pink. Wigs, makeup, heels—the whole nine yards.”
It was just after nine o’clock Monday morning, and they were all there—Butts, Lee, Chuck, and Krieger. She was looking more sulky and sultry than usual, in a gray silk blouse and tight black skirt.
Butts flipped open the lid of his coffee cup and slurped loudly. “So assumin’ this is the same perp, sounds like you were right on target, Doc,” he told Lee.
“Good work,