the shelves thoroughly. There was nothing in them except a few bookmarks from DC bookstores. His hands were sweating inside the gloves.
He checked the kitchen quickly, opening and closing drawers. There was little in the refrigerator: some soup in a Tupperware bowl, lunchmeat in butcher paper, assorted jars of pickles and preserves. The freezer section was filled with stacks of TV dinners. Powers carefully opened a few of the packages at random-nothing. To cover the torn package ends, he restacked them facing the rear of the freezer.
On the kitchen table was a week-old Washington Post , a sealed box of shredded wheat, a Vanity Fair magazine, and a photograph of Marilyn standing alone in front of the domed colonnade of the Jefferson Memorial. It appeared to be dusk in the photo, and the looming statue behind her was lighted. Her arms were crossed and she was wearing a conservatively cut black business suit with a red scarf. Her expression - rather than playful or carefree, as in a shot taken by a friend or relative on holiday - was anxious, as if she might have been impatient with posing.
Also on the table was a New York Times newspaper clipping with a photo of an abstract brass sculpture that looked like a twisted leg. The article, about a West German art show, was entitled DOCUMENTA: A SENSEOF THE ABSTRACT.
In the cupboard below the sink, behind some containers of dishwashing soap, scouring powder, and other kitchen supplies, was a cardboard box. Reaching inside, he lifted the box out of the cupboard and set it on the floor. Inside were a plastic photo developer pan, some bottles of developer solution, a light exposure meter, and two tiny film rolls for what he guessed was the miniature camera. The film magazines were empty. He lifted the box and set it back in the cupboard.
He tugged his sleeve and glanced at his wristwatch. He'd been inside the apartment for over twenty minutes. Other than tearing out the walls and ripping up the furniture piece by piece, there was nothing else to check.
Footsteps sounded in the hallway.
Electrified with fear, Powers moved to the front door. There was movement outside, a rattling of keys. He ripped off the gloves and dropped them on the floor.
Suddenly there was the sound of a baby crying. A door opened and closed and the baby's crying became muffled. Powers felt himself breathing normally again. He grabbed the gloves and shoved one in his pocket. Using the other one to cover the doorknob, he turned it slowly, opened the door a couple of feet, and stepped into the hallway. Discreetly, he shoved the remaining glove into a pocket, then checked the lock carefully. Though there was a small indentation in the doorjamb from the screwdriver, it wasn't clearly obvious. Using a handkerchief, he wiped the doorknob, closed the door gently, hurried to the elevator, and stepped on.
As the elevator door closed, he had the feeling he'd forgotten something- the screwdriver! Hegrabbed his sleeve. It was there.
Downstairs, he crossed the lobby and went out the front door.
From a pay phone at the Gramercy Park, he phoned Sullivan's private number. Sullivan answered on the first ring.
"It's done."
"Already?"
"She went to the beauty shop, so I figured it was as good a time as any," Powers said.
"Was there anything..."
"She keeps a Minox camera in a hollowed book. I checked. There's no film in it."
"Anything else?"
"The makings of a photo developing kit with a couple of empty Minox cartridges."
"What kind of a place is it, Jack?"
"Well kept, no expensive clothes or furniture. Nothing to show she's living over her head. If anything, the place was drab. Your average DC apartment."
"Any evidence of others living there?"
"None."
"Amateur photographers don't use miniature cameras. The Minox has to mean something."
"There's something else. The place didn't have the personal touch. I found only one photograph in the entire apartment, and there were no scrapbooks or diaries or letters ... things
He checked the kitchen quickly, opening and closing drawers. There was little in the refrigerator: some soup in a Tupperware bowl, lunchmeat in butcher paper, assorted jars of pickles and preserves. The freezer section was filled with stacks of TV dinners. Powers carefully opened a few of the packages at random-nothing. To cover the torn package ends, he restacked them facing the rear of the freezer.
On the kitchen table was a week-old Washington Post , a sealed box of shredded wheat, a Vanity Fair magazine, and a photograph of Marilyn standing alone in front of the domed colonnade of the Jefferson Memorial. It appeared to be dusk in the photo, and the looming statue behind her was lighted. Her arms were crossed and she was wearing a conservatively cut black business suit with a red scarf. Her expression - rather than playful or carefree, as in a shot taken by a friend or relative on holiday - was anxious, as if she might have been impatient with posing.
Also on the table was a New York Times newspaper clipping with a photo of an abstract brass sculpture that looked like a twisted leg. The article, about a West German art show, was entitled DOCUMENTA: A SENSEOF THE ABSTRACT.
In the cupboard below the sink, behind some containers of dishwashing soap, scouring powder, and other kitchen supplies, was a cardboard box. Reaching inside, he lifted the box out of the cupboard and set it on the floor. Inside were a plastic photo developer pan, some bottles of developer solution, a light exposure meter, and two tiny film rolls for what he guessed was the miniature camera. The film magazines were empty. He lifted the box and set it back in the cupboard.
He tugged his sleeve and glanced at his wristwatch. He'd been inside the apartment for over twenty minutes. Other than tearing out the walls and ripping up the furniture piece by piece, there was nothing else to check.
Footsteps sounded in the hallway.
Electrified with fear, Powers moved to the front door. There was movement outside, a rattling of keys. He ripped off the gloves and dropped them on the floor.
Suddenly there was the sound of a baby crying. A door opened and closed and the baby's crying became muffled. Powers felt himself breathing normally again. He grabbed the gloves and shoved one in his pocket. Using the other one to cover the doorknob, he turned it slowly, opened the door a couple of feet, and stepped into the hallway. Discreetly, he shoved the remaining glove into a pocket, then checked the lock carefully. Though there was a small indentation in the doorjamb from the screwdriver, it wasn't clearly obvious. Using a handkerchief, he wiped the doorknob, closed the door gently, hurried to the elevator, and stepped on.
As the elevator door closed, he had the feeling he'd forgotten something- the screwdriver! Hegrabbed his sleeve. It was there.
Downstairs, he crossed the lobby and went out the front door.
From a pay phone at the Gramercy Park, he phoned Sullivan's private number. Sullivan answered on the first ring.
"It's done."
"Already?"
"She went to the beauty shop, so I figured it was as good a time as any," Powers said.
"Was there anything..."
"She keeps a Minox camera in a hollowed book. I checked. There's no film in it."
"Anything else?"
"The makings of a photo developing kit with a couple of empty Minox cartridges."
"What kind of a place is it, Jack?"
"Well kept, no expensive clothes or furniture. Nothing to show she's living over her head. If anything, the place was drab. Your average DC apartment."
"Any evidence of others living there?"
"None."
"Amateur photographers don't use miniature cameras. The Minox has to mean something."
"There's something else. The place didn't have the personal touch. I found only one photograph in the entire apartment, and there were no scrapbooks or diaries or letters ... things
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