Mike jerked a thumb toward the door to his apartment, still sealed with tape. “In there.”
“Have you been back in there yet?”
“Nope,” said Mike. “I didn’t want to disturb anything. I figured maybe your lab boys could tell where the rocket came from.”
“What happened?” the cop asked.
Mike told him, omitting nothing except the details of his conversation with Wallingford.
“The way I see it,” he finished, “whoever it was phoned me to make sure I was in the room and then went out and fired a rocket at my window.”
“What makes you think it was a JD?” Cowder asked.
“Well, Sergeant, if I were going to do the job, I’d put my launcher in some place where I could see that my victim was inside, without having to call him. But if I couldn’t do that, I’d aim the launcher and set it to fire by remote control. Then I’d go to the phone, call him, and fire the rocket while he was on the phone. I’d be sure of getting him that way. The way it was done smacks of a kid’s trick.”
Cowder looked at the door. “Think we can go in there now? The HCN ought to have cleared out by now.”
Mike stood up from behind his desk. “I imagine it’s pretty clear. I checked the air conditioners; they’re still working, and the filters are efficient enough to take care of an awful lot of hydrogen cyanide. Besides, the window is open. But—shouldn’t we wait for the lab men?”