said. “Somebody slugged me from behind.”
“In here? How’d they get in?”
He shook his head and then stopped, apparently not caring much for the way it felt. “I was outside. I make rounds every half hour.”
“So somebody slugged you and dragged you in.”
“I guess so. The door was locked, but the key’s in my bunch.” He held up the keys and started separating them. “Was. I guess he took it with him.” He sighed. “I guess he got what he wanted.”
“Maybe not,” I said. “He probably wanted the sourdough starter. We caught him trying to break in a back window and he ran away.”
Larson brightened. “You’re kidding.”
“No.”
He smiled outright. “I’ll bet the sumbitch didn’t get it then.” He walked out of the room and motioned for us to follow. We took an elevator to the second floor, and when we got out, we were facing a vault-like door with a combination lock on it. “The freezer’s in there,” said Larson. “We just had this new lock put on.” He patted it. “I couldn’t tell him the combination, because he had me knocked out cold. So he painted himself into a corner.” Larson laughed long and hard as he opened the door.
The room we entered was so cold it froze the hair in your nostrils. “Maybe you folks better wait out here,” said Larson, but we were having none of it. We followed him through the freezer to the Martinelli chest and watched him open it. It was empty.
That seemed to disconcert Larson. He reacted by turning on us and pulling his gun. “All right, let’s go. Let’s get out of here.”
As ordered, we preceded Larson out of the room, all the time trying to talk sense to him. “Larson,
think
for a minute. We didn’t take the starter or we wouldn’t be here. We untied you, we scared the burglar away, we’re just nice Rebecca and nice Rob—we’ve even got IDs and everything. We wouldn’t hurt a fly, honest.”
But it was no good. Larson was freaked out good and proper. He didn’t have the thief, but he did have a couple of witnesses. Or something. And as long as he was pointing the gun, he was in control. So he kept pointing it.
He got us downstairs and kept the gun on us while he used the phone in his office to call the cops. And then he still kept pointing it.
Rob looked at his watch and sighed. “Larson,” he said, “remember how I told you I was a reporter? Well, I’ve got about half an hour to get this story in the paper. Do you think, while we’re waiting, I could maybe use your phone?”
“Uh-uh.”
“But what harm would it do? Really, when you think about it?”
“I ain’t sure you’re a reporter.”
Rob started to reach in his breast pocket, where he kept his wallet. Larson raised the gun. “Hold it!”
“Hey, I was just going to show you my press card.”
“You sit still. Right there.” Larson waved the gun at the place where Rob should sit.
But Rob didn’t sit. “Listen, Larson, old buddy, I know you’ve been through a scary experience and everything. I’m sorry you got bonked on the head and all, but I’ve got to phone my story in, and this is false imprisonment. You’ve got no right to hold us like this and I’m seeing my lawyer, Ms. Schwartz, about it right now.”
I nodded solemnly. “That’s right, Larson. I’m afraid you’ll have to let us go.”
“The police can let you go if they want to. I’m holding you till they get here.”
Rob said, “I’m going now, Larson.” He started backing out of the room, hands up like a bit player in a western.
I was horrified, and spoke before I thought. “Rob, don’t!” Larson turned to look at me for a split second, and Rob turned around and started running. He was out the door and going for his car before Larson recovered, and then Larson was standing in the door, arm raised and taking aim.
Chapter Twelve
Rob was a jerk for running out at a time like that, but he was my man and he was in hip-deep trouble. Before Larson knew what hit him, I was on
“In here? How’d they get in?”
He shook his head and then stopped, apparently not caring much for the way it felt. “I was outside. I make rounds every half hour.”
“So somebody slugged you and dragged you in.”
“I guess so. The door was locked, but the key’s in my bunch.” He held up the keys and started separating them. “Was. I guess he took it with him.” He sighed. “I guess he got what he wanted.”
“Maybe not,” I said. “He probably wanted the sourdough starter. We caught him trying to break in a back window and he ran away.”
Larson brightened. “You’re kidding.”
“No.”
He smiled outright. “I’ll bet the sumbitch didn’t get it then.” He walked out of the room and motioned for us to follow. We took an elevator to the second floor, and when we got out, we were facing a vault-like door with a combination lock on it. “The freezer’s in there,” said Larson. “We just had this new lock put on.” He patted it. “I couldn’t tell him the combination, because he had me knocked out cold. So he painted himself into a corner.” Larson laughed long and hard as he opened the door.
The room we entered was so cold it froze the hair in your nostrils. “Maybe you folks better wait out here,” said Larson, but we were having none of it. We followed him through the freezer to the Martinelli chest and watched him open it. It was empty.
That seemed to disconcert Larson. He reacted by turning on us and pulling his gun. “All right, let’s go. Let’s get out of here.”
As ordered, we preceded Larson out of the room, all the time trying to talk sense to him. “Larson,
think
for a minute. We didn’t take the starter or we wouldn’t be here. We untied you, we scared the burglar away, we’re just nice Rebecca and nice Rob—we’ve even got IDs and everything. We wouldn’t hurt a fly, honest.”
But it was no good. Larson was freaked out good and proper. He didn’t have the thief, but he did have a couple of witnesses. Or something. And as long as he was pointing the gun, he was in control. So he kept pointing it.
He got us downstairs and kept the gun on us while he used the phone in his office to call the cops. And then he still kept pointing it.
Rob looked at his watch and sighed. “Larson,” he said, “remember how I told you I was a reporter? Well, I’ve got about half an hour to get this story in the paper. Do you think, while we’re waiting, I could maybe use your phone?”
“Uh-uh.”
“But what harm would it do? Really, when you think about it?”
“I ain’t sure you’re a reporter.”
Rob started to reach in his breast pocket, where he kept his wallet. Larson raised the gun. “Hold it!”
“Hey, I was just going to show you my press card.”
“You sit still. Right there.” Larson waved the gun at the place where Rob should sit.
But Rob didn’t sit. “Listen, Larson, old buddy, I know you’ve been through a scary experience and everything. I’m sorry you got bonked on the head and all, but I’ve got to phone my story in, and this is false imprisonment. You’ve got no right to hold us like this and I’m seeing my lawyer, Ms. Schwartz, about it right now.”
I nodded solemnly. “That’s right, Larson. I’m afraid you’ll have to let us go.”
“The police can let you go if they want to. I’m holding you till they get here.”
Rob said, “I’m going now, Larson.” He started backing out of the room, hands up like a bit player in a western.
I was horrified, and spoke before I thought. “Rob, don’t!” Larson turned to look at me for a split second, and Rob turned around and started running. He was out the door and going for his car before Larson recovered, and then Larson was standing in the door, arm raised and taking aim.
Chapter Twelve
Rob was a jerk for running out at a time like that, but he was my man and he was in hip-deep trouble. Before Larson knew what hit him, I was on
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