Now You See It: A Toby Peters Mystery by Stuart M. Kaminsky Page A

turban,” I said to the doorman.
    “Nobody like that came in in the last four hours,” said the doorman. “I’d have remembered.”
    “Forget the turban and beard,” I said. “Anyone come in who didn’t live here?”
    “Yeah.”
    “Who?”
    “You.”
    “Besides me.”
    It was faraway and beyond the lobby doors, but I heard a siren on the way.
    “No. Yes,” he said. “A doctor, just a few minutes before you. On his way to make a house call on Mr. Collins. Hey maybe I should call up there and he can come down and….”
    “You check with Collins before you let him in?”
    “No, the guy looked like a doctor, gray hair, glasses, nice suit, one of those pebble leather doctor bags.”
    “He asked for Mr. Collins?”
    “Yeah, well I thought he said Cowens, but I asked him did he say ‘Collins’ and he … I let the shooter in, didn’t I?”
    “Looks that way,” I said.
    “Shit.”
    He stepped back and shook his head.
    “And I’ll bet you’re not a doorman,” he said.
    “No, I’m not,” I confirmed. “I’m a private detective.”
    “Shit.”
    His hands were on his hips now, and I figured he was wondering how he would look without his uniform and without a job.
    “Hey,” said Gwen. “Remember me? I’m the one was shot.”
    “Let’s get your sister,” I said.
    “Not home.”
    The siren was close, very close now. It whined down, and the lobby door rattled. It was two uniformed cops and Detective John Cawelti of the Wilshire District. I put it together fast as the doorman ran back to let them in. I had asked Pete Bouton at the Pantages where Gwen lived. He had told the cops. I hadn’t asked him not to. They had come after me. Wounded woman. Hated private detective.
    I got into the elevator, flicked the switch, and pressed the button for the fourth floor. As the doors closed, I could hear the sound of at least three sets of feet clapping against the tile floor.
    “What’re you doin’?” Gwen screamed.
    I held out my hand to calm her.
    “Getting out at four, sending you back down to the lobby. “You’ll be alright.” The elevator started up. “You never saw the guy who shot you and Cunningham?”
    She closed her eyes tightly.
    “Hurts?” I asked.
    “No, I’m trying to think. There was something familiar about him, but … I don’t know. I’m gonna live, right?”
    “I don’t know if you’re going to live right , but you’re going to live.”
    The elevator stopped, and the doors lazily opened. I reached back in and pushed the lobby button.
    “You’ll be fine,” I said as the doors started to close.
    I smiled and gave her a thumbs up. Then the doors were closed and she was gone and I looked for a way to get out of the building.
    I ran past the steps next to the elevators. No point in going down. The police would see me when I hit the lobby. The hallway was wide with worn-out but reasonably clean green carpet. Someone was blaring a radio behind a door on my right. Johnny Mercer was singing Ac-cen-tuate The Positive .
    “What did they do just when everything looked so dark?” Mercer sang.
    In my case, when everything looked dark, I ran for the window at the end of the hall. Beyond the window was a fire escape. The window went up easily and I stepped out, closing it behind me.
    Down or up? I looked down. Narrow driveway. No one in sight. I started down, heard something below, looked and saw someone on foot turning the corner into the driveway. A cop. I started up. Too noisy. I took off my shoes and climbed. I didn’t look back till I was on the roof.
    I saw someone dart from behind a whirling metal air vent I was more surprised than I had been by Blackstone’s floating lightbulb. The shooter had gone up, too.
    He was lean and fast and about thirty feet away. I couldn’t see his face, but I could see that he was carrying something in one hand. I had no gun, but he did, a very little one that shot pellets, but enough of a weapon to make a hole in Gwen’s chest and, with a