of human heartbreak and the riotous pace made even knowing your neighbors difficult?
I finished the candy and the sports section, and had just started in on the national and international news when my cell phone vibrated in my pocket.
“They’re coming out the front door,” Nicole said.
The Mercedes’ engine burst to life at the back of the building. I hadn’t seen a driver come out of the building or down the alley. Maybe the chauffeur had been sleeping in the car. As the car slid down the alleyway, however, I noticed it was the young man we’d met inside driving. There must have been another exit back where the car was parked, not visible from the alley.
“I’m out of the car and moving to intercept them,” Nicole said.
The Mercedes roared past my observation post, obviously in a hurry.
“I see a car coming out of the alley,” Nicole said.
“I’m right behind him.” I tossed my newspaper and candy wrapper over the rim of the dumpster and hustled it down the wall as he turned the corner onto the street.
“Okay. I’m on them,” she said and hung up.
A few seconds later, I rounded the end of the building to find Nicole at the curb in conversation with Dominic Watisi and his wife, who were standing next to the Mercedes. The bodyguard was out of the car, trying unsuccessfully to use his body to shield them from talking.
Physically, Watisi was not a large man. But he gave the impression of being one. Of average weight and a head shorter than I, he wore a tan silk coat and tie. His brown wrists and hands contrasted with the ends of the white cuffs of his shirt showing from beneath his jacket. His dark eyes looked almost luminous.
“You people certainly are persistent,” he was saying as I approached. The bodyguard frowned and stiffened at my presence.
“That’s because you make it hard to talk to you,” I said.
“I’ve no interest in discussing the Grayland Tower situation with anyone but my legal counsel,” he said, prodding his wife toward the car, the back door of which was now being held open by the younger man, who glared at me with a murder one stare.
“That why you’re threatening the other private investigator working the case?” Nicole asked.
Watisi paused for a moment, his hand on the door. “I’m doing no such thing.”
“Well someone is,” I said. “They’re trying to stick a knife into her business.”
Watisi looked perplexed. “I don’t understand.”
He listened for a moment while I told him about the threat and the incident at the airport.
“These things are linked then, you believe, this problem with the animals at Grayland, the phone threat, and the airport crime?” he asked.
“Looks that way, yes.”
He looked over at Nicole then back at me. “What do you people have to do with any of this?”
“We’re both falconers. Ms. Barnes and her client thought we might be able to help find this man with the owl.”
Watisi’s brow narrowed at the mention of Dr. Lonigan. “Yes, I read about the supposed sightings in the paper too. You say you are a falconer?”
“Yes.”
“I am a hunter, you know. But with a rifle. Not with birds.”
“So I’ve heard. We saw the big cats on the wall inside.”
“I’ve seen this falconry, of course. It is a popular sport in Egypt where I grew up. For centuries, a pastime for princes.”
“Yes.”
“And ruled by a code of chivalry.”
“It carries that association.”
“For knights and noblemen and those who would stay true.” He nodded. “Would an owl be worthy of a falconer?”
“That depends,” I said. “A better question might be, if it were the right bird, would a falconer be worthy of the owl?”
The developer looked at his watch. “I’m very sorry to hear of the threats against Ms. Barnes. But the idea I would have anything to do with knives or barn owls or whatever happened to the poor creatures from the Doctor’s building is ridiculous.”
“A Great Horned Owl,” I said.
“Yes,
I finished the candy and the sports section, and had just started in on the national and international news when my cell phone vibrated in my pocket.
“They’re coming out the front door,” Nicole said.
The Mercedes’ engine burst to life at the back of the building. I hadn’t seen a driver come out of the building or down the alley. Maybe the chauffeur had been sleeping in the car. As the car slid down the alleyway, however, I noticed it was the young man we’d met inside driving. There must have been another exit back where the car was parked, not visible from the alley.
“I’m out of the car and moving to intercept them,” Nicole said.
The Mercedes roared past my observation post, obviously in a hurry.
“I see a car coming out of the alley,” Nicole said.
“I’m right behind him.” I tossed my newspaper and candy wrapper over the rim of the dumpster and hustled it down the wall as he turned the corner onto the street.
“Okay. I’m on them,” she said and hung up.
A few seconds later, I rounded the end of the building to find Nicole at the curb in conversation with Dominic Watisi and his wife, who were standing next to the Mercedes. The bodyguard was out of the car, trying unsuccessfully to use his body to shield them from talking.
Physically, Watisi was not a large man. But he gave the impression of being one. Of average weight and a head shorter than I, he wore a tan silk coat and tie. His brown wrists and hands contrasted with the ends of the white cuffs of his shirt showing from beneath his jacket. His dark eyes looked almost luminous.
“You people certainly are persistent,” he was saying as I approached. The bodyguard frowned and stiffened at my presence.
“That’s because you make it hard to talk to you,” I said.
“I’ve no interest in discussing the Grayland Tower situation with anyone but my legal counsel,” he said, prodding his wife toward the car, the back door of which was now being held open by the younger man, who glared at me with a murder one stare.
“That why you’re threatening the other private investigator working the case?” Nicole asked.
Watisi paused for a moment, his hand on the door. “I’m doing no such thing.”
“Well someone is,” I said. “They’re trying to stick a knife into her business.”
Watisi looked perplexed. “I don’t understand.”
He listened for a moment while I told him about the threat and the incident at the airport.
“These things are linked then, you believe, this problem with the animals at Grayland, the phone threat, and the airport crime?” he asked.
“Looks that way, yes.”
He looked over at Nicole then back at me. “What do you people have to do with any of this?”
“We’re both falconers. Ms. Barnes and her client thought we might be able to help find this man with the owl.”
Watisi’s brow narrowed at the mention of Dr. Lonigan. “Yes, I read about the supposed sightings in the paper too. You say you are a falconer?”
“Yes.”
“I am a hunter, you know. But with a rifle. Not with birds.”
“So I’ve heard. We saw the big cats on the wall inside.”
“I’ve seen this falconry, of course. It is a popular sport in Egypt where I grew up. For centuries, a pastime for princes.”
“Yes.”
“And ruled by a code of chivalry.”
“It carries that association.”
“For knights and noblemen and those who would stay true.” He nodded. “Would an owl be worthy of a falconer?”
“That depends,” I said. “A better question might be, if it were the right bird, would a falconer be worthy of the owl?”
The developer looked at his watch. “I’m very sorry to hear of the threats against Ms. Barnes. But the idea I would have anything to do with knives or barn owls or whatever happened to the poor creatures from the Doctor’s building is ridiculous.”
“A Great Horned Owl,” I said.
“Yes,
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