O’Brien was a tough, hard cop, with nerves like steel, but in spite of his toughness he felt his heart skip a beat when he saw a small figure in black sitting in an armchair.
The figure was in the shadows, and at first glance O’Brien thought it was a child, but then he noticed the small feet in black suede shoes that hung a few inches from the floor and the spindly legs and bone thin ankles. They had a matured look about them, and couldn’t belong to a child.
He had a sudden creepy feeling that he was looking at a ghost, and he felt the hairs on the nape of his neck stiffen. Then he pulled himself together and took a step forward.
“What the hell…?” he growled, and came to an abrupt standstill as the glittering barrel of a .38 automatic appeared in the light and pointed at him.
“Hello, sergeant,” a husky voice said. “Sorry to have startled you. Don’t do anything brave. At this range I couldn’t miss you.”
O’Brien felt sweat start out on his face. There could be only one owner to that husky, menacing voice. Years ago, when he had been on the New York force as a patrolman, O’Brien had once run into Vito Ferrari. It had been an experience he had often thought about, and there were times when he had gone to bed after a heavy dinner that he had even dreamed about it.
He peered down at the chair, and Ferrari looked up so the fight touched his face. The two men stared at each other.
“I see you remember me, sergeant,” Ferrari said.
“What are you doing here?” O’Brien demanded, not moving a muscle. He knew how deadly dangerous Ferrari was, and his immediate thought was Ferrari had come to kill him. Why, he had no idea, but the Syndicate’s executioner never made social calls. He only paid business visits.
“Sit down, sergeant,” Ferrari said, waving to an armchair opposite. “I want to talk to you.”