She was still in the 518 area. Information gave her Bunner’s number and she dialed, then deposited what seemed like enough money to call Moscow. As the phone started to ring, she rehearsed what she’d say. It’d have to be fast and to the point or he’d hang up on her. “I know you hate me and what I can do,” she’d say. That might make him pause, and she’d go on, “But I was right about the scars, I’m right about this. Don’t go to that party tonight—don’t go—for your sake...”
And mine.
The thought came out of nowhere and for the first time in her life, she put her hand protectively across her belly.
The phone rang and rang; she banged her fist against the unit and the woman behind the counter looked up at her. The kid at the video screen was intent on the game.
A woman finally answered in Glenvale. “Dr. Bunner’s answering service.”
Of course it was a service this time of night; she should have planned on it.
“Doctah Bunnah,” she said in the snobbiest accent she could manage, eliding R’s the way Frances did.
The woman didn’t sound impressed. “Dr. Bunner’s not here now. But if you leave your name...”
“I’ve got to talk to him.”
“And number,” the woman went on, “he’ll call you back.”
“This is an emergency.”
She’d never used those words before in her life.
The woman hesitated, then said gently, “Dr. Cohen’s on call. I’ll have him—”
“It’s got to be Dr. Bunner. Please, it’s extremely important.”
“I’m sure it is, and I’m sure he’ll get right back to you. Please, give me your name—”
“He doesn’t know my name.”
Longer pause, then the woman said, “Aren’t you a patient?”
“No. I’m a friend of a friend of his. A police lieutenant.” That should cut some ice. “Look, it’s imperative...” She looked at the wall clock over the video screens where colored lights and glowing fantastic figures zoomed across the kid’s screen. It was seven; Bunner must be home getting dressed, putting on his tux for the party.
“If you’ll just give me his home number...”
“Of course that’s impossible,” said the woman.
“But it’s an emergency.” Eve’s voice scaled up; she sounded nuts even to herself. The woman behind the counter listened openly.
“I understand,” the woman said soothingly, “and I know he’ll call—” She was humoring Eve.
“Nooo,” Eve almost screamed. Even the kid’s attention was distracted. She lowered her voice. “Look, I don’t expect you to get yourself in trouble—”
“Big of you,” the woman muttered.
“But you can call Dr. Bunner at home, can’t you? Can’t you?” The woman didn’t answer.
“Then do it,” Eve went on. “Please... do it. Tell him the woman from this morning—he’ll know who it is—the woman from this morning says don’t go. Something terrible will happen if he goes.” To both of us, she thought.
Her hand was on her belly again and she felt a searing burst of rage at the thing. She was supposed to be psychic, to see all past and present, with tiny, tantalizing, and, in this case, terrifying, glances into the future—a dyed-in-the-wool, go-to-hell psychic who had watched a woman bleed to death from miles away... and she didn’t even know if she was pregnant.
“Go where?” the woman asked gently, still using that humoring tone.
“Uh... to a party.”
“What party?”
“I don’t know. But he will.” She sounded utterly insane. “Please, I know how this sounds, but please. Just call him.”
“Of course, dear.”
“Don’t sound like that,” Eve shrieked, and across the room the kid hit a jackpot or something and yelled, “Hot shit!”
“I beg your pardon?” the woman said, and Eve clamped her jaw so hard it hurt to keep from breaking into wild laughter.
The phone rang in Bunner’s den and upstairs in the bedroom. Mary Bunner reached to answer it.
“Don’t,” Bunner said. “Let the machine get it.”
She drew her hand back, the machine downstairs kicked in, the ringing stopped.
“Why?” She asked.
“It’s Dave, trying to keep us from going tonight, and I don’t want to argue with him.”
“Why should Dave care where we go tonight?” Mary asked.
He couldn’t tell her about a session with a psychic in the office this morning, a psychic who’d seen scars on Ken’s palms and a dead woman from across a mountain lake. He certainly was not going to tell her about that absurd don’t go. He was going, would get drunk and dance until he dropped and have the time of his life.
Then he’d call Dave in the morning and tell him the lady with the ESP was full of shit. Not just a fake, but a vicious one.
But she’d known about the scars on Ken’s hands.
“Bunny, why does Dave care where we go?” Mary asked again.
“Because he hates the club, thinks they’re a bunch of tinhorn, shit-kicking snobs.”
“Well, he’s got that right, doesn’t he?” she said lightly.
Downstairs the machine recorded the message and turned itself off.
Latovsky hung up. Bunner still had the machine on; he was avoiding Latovsky. Latovsky would have to go there, confront him at the club, and get him out of there.
Bunner was stubborn, but Latovsky would be stubborner. “Bunny, I haven’t asked you for a favor since you gutted that cat for me in high school biology,” he’d say. “I’m asking now. Come with me.”
And go where? Where would he take Bunner and Mary?
The Loft.
“The Loft,” he’d say. “Steak and martinis on me.” Better than the institutional crap they’d get at that club.
It was seven. He’d show up at eight, before they started dinner.
He went back to his paperwork for the feds. He’d fax it on Monday, as soon as he got the postmortem from Rule.
He left the office to get a candy bar from the vending machine and some coffee. The squad room was almost empty; even five murders, the last less than twenty-four hours ago, couldn’t interfere with everyone’s Saturday night plans. Dillworthy was on the phones; he gave Latovsky a sour look as if it were Latovsky’s fault he’d pulled Saturday night. The men always blamed Latovsky, never Meers. Meers was their idol, the Teflon Captain, and that’s the way it should be, Latovsky thought.
He grinned at Dillworthy and went out into the long stone-floored hall that held on to faint echoes even when the building was almost empty.
Only Mounds were left in the candy slots; he didn’t like Mounds and settled for a Ring Ding and the coffee. He carried them back to his desk and went back to work, sipping the sour, scalding liquid, eating the supersweet little cake. The sugar gave him a jolt and he finished the report quickly, then neatened the stack of papers, brushed crumbs off his desk, and closed the folder with WOMAN IN THE WOODS printed across it in Flair pen.
He took his damp coat off the hook on the closet door, turned off the lights, and left the office.
Dillworthy was staring into space, with a scrawl of doodles on the pad in front of him.
Latovsky went to him. “I’ll be home in a couple of hours if you need me.”
“You won’t turn your beeper off in between, will you?”
“No.”
“Swear? I mean what if the president gets offed in Ticonderoga?”
Latovsky grinned and raised his hand. “I swear.”
He started for the door and the phone rang. He went a few more paces and Dillworthy called, “For you Dave. Ruth Renssalaer.”