It stopped.
"Thank God." His hand froze in midair. The timing had been a split‑second salvation.
All right, he thought, time to find out if I just totally screwed up. Time to dial.
He got his pen and notebook poised and then lifted the black receiver. He knew from the message on her machine yesterday that somebody had called her just before he got there. Or maybe whoever came and cleaned out her apartment had received a phone call while they were here. Possibly from whoever sent them. A checkup call.
Who knew? But give it a shot. He hit the code.
A mechanical voice came on immediately: "Your last call was from area code 212, number 555‑3935. If you would like for me to connect you, please push—"
"Go for it," he said aloud, scribbling down the number and then following the instruction.
At that moment somebody's cell phone began to ring just outside the front door.
"Oh shit." It was just too big a coincidence.
After two rings it stopped and he heard the voice of Winston Bartlett, both outside the front door and in his ear.