Percey also caught a glimpse of another photo—a pretty, blond woman, short hair in bangs.

“They’re adorable.”

“You have any kids?”

“No,” she answered, thinking, I always had my reasons. There was always next year or the next. When the Company was doing better. When we’d leased that 737. After I got my DC-9 rating . . . She gave him a stoic smile. “Yours? They want to be cops when they grow up?”

“Soccer players’s what they want to be. Not much of a market for that in New York. Unless the Mets keep playing the way they’ve been.”

Before the silence grew too thick, Percey asked, “Is it okay if I call the Company? I’ve got to see how my aircraft’s coming.”

“You bet. I’ll leave you be. Just make sure you don’t give our number or address to a soul. It’s the one thing I’m gonna be real muley about.”

. . . Chapter Fifteen

Hour 8 of 45

“Ron. It’s Percey. How is everyone?”

“Shook up,” he answered. “I sent Sally home. She couldn’t—”

“How is she?”

“Just couldn’t deal with it. Carol too. And Lauren. Lauren was out of control. I’ve never seen anybody that upset. How’re you and Brit?”

“Brit’s mad. I’m mad. What a mess this is. Oh, Ron . . . ”

“And that detective, the cop who got shot?”

“I don’t think they know yet. How’s Foxtrot Bravo?”

“It’s not as bad as it could be. I’ve already replaced the cockpit window. No breaches in the fuselage. Number two engine . . . that’s a problem. We’ve got to replace a lot of the skin. We’re trying to find a new fire extinguisher cartridge. I don’t think it’ll be a problem . . . ”

“But?”

“But the annular has to be replaced.”

“The combustor? Replace it? Oh, Jesus.”

“I’ve already called the Garrett distributor in Connecticut. They agreed to deliver one tomorrow, even though it’s Sunday. I can have it installed in a couple, three hours.”

“Hell,” she muttered, “I should be there . . . I told them I’d stay put but, damn it, I should be there.”

“Where are you, Percey?”

And Stephen Kall, listening to this conversation as he sat in Sheila Horowitz’s dim apartment, was ready to write. He pressed the receiver closer to his ear.

But the Wife said only, “In Manhattan. About a thousand cops around us. I feel like the pope or the president.”

Stephen had heard on his police scanner reports of some curious activity around the Twentieth Precinct, which was on the Upper West Side. The station house was being closed and suspects were being relocated. He wondered if that was where the Wife was right now—at the precinct house.

Ron asked, “Are they going to stop this guy? Do they have any leads?”

Yes, do they? Stephen wondered.

“I don’t know,” she said.

“Those gunshots,” Ron said. “Jesus, they were scary. Reminded me of the service. You know, that sound of the guns.”