trench coat on a hook by the door and handed his fedora to Roman. “Careful of the chapeau. It’s a classic.”
Roman spun it off onto the couch. When he turned back Gerald had the gun out. It was a smooth, deadly blue-black pistol.
“A Beretta model 92.” Gerald held it nervously in his hand, obviously unused to weapons. “Fashionable. The Italians have always been leaders in style.” He walked into the study and set it down on a pile of books, unwilling to hold it longer than necessary. “It took me an hour to find. It was in a trunk in the bottom of a closet, under some clothes I should have taken to Goodwill years ago.”
“Where did you get it?” Roman himself wasn’t yet willing to pick it up.
“An old lover. A police officer. She was worried about me. A man living all alone, that sort of thing. It had been confiscated in some raid or other. By the way, it’s unregistered and thus completely illegal. You could spend a year in jail for just having it. I should have dumped it years ago.”
Roman finally picked it up and checked it out, hand shaking just slightly. The double magazine was full of cartridges. “You could have fought off an entire platoon of housebreakers with this thing.”
“I reloaded before I brought it over here. I broke up with Lieutenant Carpozo years ago. The bullets were probably stale... or whatever happens to old bullets.” He stared at Roman for a long moment. “You’re a crazy bastard, you know that, Roman?” Roman didn’t answer. The computer did. “It would be crazy for you, Gerald. For me, it’s the only thing that makes sense.”
“Great.” Gerald was suddenly viciously annoyed. “Quite an achievement, programming self-importance into a computer. I congratulate you. Well, I’m getting out of here. This whole business scares the shit out of me.”
“My love to Anna. You are still seeing her, aren’t you?” Gerald eyed him. “Yes, I am.” He stopped and took Roman’s shoulders. “Are you going to be all right, old man?”
“I’ll be fine. Good night, Gerald.”
Once his friend was gone, Roman calmly and methodically locked the pistol into an inaccessible computer-controlled cabinet to one side of the desk. Its basis was a steel firebox. Powerful electromagnets pulled chrome-moly steel bars through their locks and clicked shut. It would take a well-equipped machine shop a week to get into the box if the computer didn’t wish it. But at the computer’s decision, the thing would slide open as easily as an oiled desk drawer.
He walked into the bedroom and sat on the edge of the bed. Abigail woke up and looked at him nervously, worried that he was having another night terror attack. He leaned over and kissed her.
“Can I talk with you?”
“Of course, Roman. Just a second.” She sat up and turned on her reading light. Then she ran a brush through her hair, checking its arrangement with a hand mirror. That done, she looked attentive.
“We got the Humana research contract today.”
“Why, Roman, that’s wonderful. Why didn’t you tell me?” She pouted. “We ate dinner together and you let me babble on about the garden and Mrs. Peasley’s orchids and you never said anything about it.”
“That’s because it has nothing to do with me. My team got the contract with their work.”
“Roman—”
“Wait.”
He looked around the bedroom. It had delicately patterned wallpaper and rugs on the floor. It was a graceful and relaxing room, all of it Abigail’s doing. His night table was much larger than hers because he always piled six months’ worth of reading into it.
“Everyone’s covering for me. They know what I’ve done in the past, and they try to make me look good. But I’m useless. You’re covering for me. Aren’t you, Abigail? If you really think about it, you know something’s happening to me. Something that can only end one way. I’m sure that in your nightstand somewhere there’s a book on senile dementia. I don’t have
Roman spun it off onto the couch. When he turned back Gerald had the gun out. It was a smooth, deadly blue-black pistol.
“A Beretta model 92.” Gerald held it nervously in his hand, obviously unused to weapons. “Fashionable. The Italians have always been leaders in style.” He walked into the study and set it down on a pile of books, unwilling to hold it longer than necessary. “It took me an hour to find. It was in a trunk in the bottom of a closet, under some clothes I should have taken to Goodwill years ago.”
“Where did you get it?” Roman himself wasn’t yet willing to pick it up.
“An old lover. A police officer. She was worried about me. A man living all alone, that sort of thing. It had been confiscated in some raid or other. By the way, it’s unregistered and thus completely illegal. You could spend a year in jail for just having it. I should have dumped it years ago.”
Roman finally picked it up and checked it out, hand shaking just slightly. The double magazine was full of cartridges. “You could have fought off an entire platoon of housebreakers with this thing.”
“I reloaded before I brought it over here. I broke up with Lieutenant Carpozo years ago. The bullets were probably stale... or whatever happens to old bullets.” He stared at Roman for a long moment. “You’re a crazy bastard, you know that, Roman?” Roman didn’t answer. The computer did. “It would be crazy for you, Gerald. For me, it’s the only thing that makes sense.”
“Great.” Gerald was suddenly viciously annoyed. “Quite an achievement, programming self-importance into a computer. I congratulate you. Well, I’m getting out of here. This whole business scares the shit out of me.”
“My love to Anna. You are still seeing her, aren’t you?” Gerald eyed him. “Yes, I am.” He stopped and took Roman’s shoulders. “Are you going to be all right, old man?”
“I’ll be fine. Good night, Gerald.”
Once his friend was gone, Roman calmly and methodically locked the pistol into an inaccessible computer-controlled cabinet to one side of the desk. Its basis was a steel firebox. Powerful electromagnets pulled chrome-moly steel bars through their locks and clicked shut. It would take a well-equipped machine shop a week to get into the box if the computer didn’t wish it. But at the computer’s decision, the thing would slide open as easily as an oiled desk drawer.
He walked into the bedroom and sat on the edge of the bed. Abigail woke up and looked at him nervously, worried that he was having another night terror attack. He leaned over and kissed her.
“Can I talk with you?”
“Of course, Roman. Just a second.” She sat up and turned on her reading light. Then she ran a brush through her hair, checking its arrangement with a hand mirror. That done, she looked attentive.
“We got the Humana research contract today.”
“Why, Roman, that’s wonderful. Why didn’t you tell me?” She pouted. “We ate dinner together and you let me babble on about the garden and Mrs. Peasley’s orchids and you never said anything about it.”
“That’s because it has nothing to do with me. My team got the contract with their work.”
“Roman—”
“Wait.”
He looked around the bedroom. It had delicately patterned wallpaper and rugs on the floor. It was a graceful and relaxing room, all of it Abigail’s doing. His night table was much larger than hers because he always piled six months’ worth of reading into it.
“Everyone’s covering for me. They know what I’ve done in the past, and they try to make me look good. But I’m useless. You’re covering for me. Aren’t you, Abigail? If you really think about it, you know something’s happening to me. Something that can only end one way. I’m sure that in your nightstand somewhere there’s a book on senile dementia. I don’t have
Similar Books
