[2]
By the time Kintyre got back, it was close to sunset. He entered a book-lined living room. There were a few good pictures, a small record player, his sabers hung on the wall by Trig, the furniture bought used or made out of old boxes—otherwise little. He did not believe in cluttering life with objects.
He poured himself a stiff drink. Glenlivet was his only expensive luxury. He sat down to savor it and perhaps think a little about Bruce. There was no solid reason why the boy should have made so large a niche in Kintyre's existence, but somehow he had. The emptiness hurt.
When the phone rang, Kintyre was there picking it up before consciousness of the noise registered. He was not surprised to hear Margery Towne's voice.
"Bob? You know?"
"Yes. I'm sorry. I wish to hell I could tell you just how sorry."
"I can guess." Her tone was flattened by the control she must be keeping on it. "We both loved him, didn't we?"
"I think everybody did."
"Somebody didn't, Bob."
"I suppose you heard through the police?"