Stealing Time by Leslie Glass Page A

having the charges dropped because a lazy detective messed up the forms.
"Oh, yeah, we got it downstairs."
"Then fix this so it's crystal clear."
"I said everything; it's all right there."
"Yeah, for people who can read between the lines. Come on, fix it, Bertie. Make me happy."
"I'd have to do the whole thing over. And they're waiting to take the guy downtown." Rudner kept complaining as if he really thought she'd give up. He sneezed again for good measure.
"God bless," April said automatically. A hangover from her former supervisor, Sergeant Joyce, a Catholic. She wasn't going to give it up. She went to the door and opened it. "Do it again and show it to the lieutenant before you take the suspect downtown. You'll thank me later."
He certainly didn't thank her now.
Then, with her heavy purse swinging from her shoulder, she marched out into the squad room. "Come on, Woody, let's take a ride."
Baum jumped at the command.

CHAPTER 12
A nton Popescu's office was in an architecturally uninteresting glass and steel tower on Fifty-sixth Street and Broadway, within easy walking distance of his apartment. The law offices of Pfumf, Anderson and Schmidt were on the tenth floor, around the corner from the elevator bank. Imposing eight-foot mahogany doors separated it from a nondescript hall with gray stone floors and white walls. Anton's office had an Oriental rug in bright reds and blues and an expansive view of the building across Broadway.
On Wednesday morning he was a desperate and brooding man. His baby was missing and his wife was still unconscious in the hospital, where he could not bear to look at her through the window in her door, battered and out of it. After trying to get in to visit with her in the early morning with no success, he went to work as usual.
There, no one could take pictures of him. No reporter's voice could get through to him. He hid in his window office with the door closed and orders to the staff not to disturb him. But quiet was not to be his. Almost immediately his secretary Angela's Brooklyn voice came up on the phone. "Anton, you have some visitas."
He punched the speaker phone to reprimand her. "I told you no calls, no visitors!"
"They're from the police. What am I supposed to do?"
"I don't care where they're from."
"They say they won't take much of your time."
Anton made an impatient noise. "For Christ's sake, Angela. I've spent all night talking to the police. What more do they want?"
"The woman told me if you don't want to talk here, you can go to the station with them." Angela sounded as if she'd like to see that.
"Jesus Christ!" Anton's heart pounded. He let injustice envelop him with all its familiar incitements: fury's roaring heart, rockets of fire. Yesterday his whole life had fallen apart. The shock of betrayal was profound. The air around him seemed to stink of his vulnerability. He could feel the profound treachery reach deep into the core of his being to destroy his dignity, his love, everything that he'd held sacred. He could not look in the mirror without seeing the open wounds of his hurt and humiliation bleeding out of his eyes, drooling from the corners of his mouth. He could feel his ruin coming.
Anton was at his worst. He had not slept at all. Strangers were camping in his living room, waiting for a call that would never come. Now he was supposed to be preparing to take depositions in a very important case. He had people to talk to, the research of associates to supervise. He had a firm luncheon and meetings to run. He was a prominent lawyer. Look at the settlements and judgments he got in his cases, the hours he billed, the kind of money he pulled down. His hand curled into a fist around his fat Montblanc pen, one of the many indicators of his importance. The police had to go away. He could not bear the questions. Angela interrupted his thoughts.
"What do you want me to tell them?" she asked.
"Okay, bring them in here." He smacked the desk, a wide expanse of fine burled wood. The pen