“I don’t think so,” she said, opening the door.
There were a couple of cops standing on the front step. When they saw her they saluted.
“Everything okay, Mrs. Whitly?” one of them asked. His voice was loaded with respect.
“Except the noise,” she said calmly. “Is it necessary to shoot so much? Surely one man can’t be as dangerous as you make him sound.”
“He’s a killer, ma’am,” the cop said, breathing heavily. “The Lieutenant’s not risking lives. We shoot first and talk after.”
“Very interesting,” she said, in a bored voice. “Well, I hope it stops soon and I can go to bed.”
“We’ll catch him, ma’am,” the cop said, sticking out his chest. “But don’t worry, we reckon he’s some way from here by now.”
She closed the door, and we stood in the dim light, listening to the cops as they pounded their way up the street.
She fingered a ruby and gold bracelet, glanced at me.
“Is that Mr. Whitly?” I asked, jerking my thumb in the direction of the room we had just left.