Night-World by Robert Bloch

comment.”
    “I’ll comment on it. I think it’s one hell of a risk.”
    “She asked for it, remember? And we’re giving her every possible protection.”
    “If you really wanted to protect her, you’d see to it that she was held here.”
    “Get off my back, Doc.” Barringer stood up. “Sure, she’d be better off under maximum security conditions. But that’s just part of the job. There’s three million other people out there whose phones aren’t bugged, who have nobody assigned to stand guard duty, who have no security at all. They’ve got to be protected, too—and none of them are safe until we nail whoever’s reponsible for these killings.”
    Dr. Vicente shrugged. “You talk as though you were the only man on the case. Between the LAPD and the Sheriff’s Department, how many men are working with us? There must be hundreds—”
    “And not a single goddam lead for any one of them to go with.” Barringer shook his head. “I agree with you, letting that girl go is a hell of a risk. But if it can give us a line on Bruce Raymond or any of the other suspects, it’s a risk we’ve got to take.”
    “All right.” Dr. Vicente moved with Barringer towards the door. “Get some rest.”
    “I’ll do that,” said Barringer.
    And he did.

    Karen sat in the air-conditioned hum of her apartment, staring alternately at the telephone and at Tom Doyle.
    The telephone was black and squat and silent.
    Tom Doyle was white and tall and silent.
    The telephone sat on an end table. Tom Doyle sat on the sofa, but in the past hour he’d come to seem as much of a fixture in the apartment as the phone—just another permanent installation.
    Well, she’d asked for it, Karen told herself. There was no reason to resent him or his presence. But she hadn’t realized somebody would be breathing down her neck quite so closely. He’s here to protect you, that’s his job. Be reasonable.
    Easier said than done. Doyle was reading a magazine, and Karen gave him a sidelong glance of appraisal. Long and lanky, with sandy hair and a pale, freckled face. Probably in his middle thirties. Gray suit, summer weight, with medium-wide lapels. Gray-and-white striped shirt, pale blue tie. Conservative. He didn’t look like a detective.
    Karen caught herself and frowned. What’s a detective supposed to look like? She’d watched too much television, she told herself. All those shows with the older, craggy-featured ex-leading man playing the brains and the young, grinning ex-filling station attendant playing the muscles. Racing around in sports cars, up and down the hills of San Francisco, while rock music blasted from the soundtrack.
    Doyle didn’t drive a sports car, and there was no rock music here—just the humming of the air-conditioner. But he was a detective; the minute they’d arrived he’d examined the front door to see if anyone had forced the lock. Then he checked out the entire apartment, revolver in hand, making sure she stood well to one side as he opened and closed closets, examined the windows. The window in the bathroom was partway raised, and if she hadn’t told him at once that she’d left it open before going to work yesterday morning, he probably would have called Barringer right then and there and arranged to drag her back to the station. He was a detective, no doubt about it.
    Karen stirred in her chair, her left foot tapping against its base like a nervous metronome.
    Doyle looked up. “You don’t have to keep me company, Mrs. Raymond. If you want to lie down for a while—”
    “I couldn’t sleep.” Avoiding his eyes, Karen concentrated on the telephone. Bruce, I know you’re out there somewhere. For God’s sake, why don’t you call?
    Doyle’s voice was soft. “Don’t worry, I won’t touch the phone. If it rings while you’re asleep, I’ll wake you up and let you answer it.”
    He was a detective, all right. Or was it just that her reactions were so obvious?
    Karen rose, forcing a smile. “Thanks.