My ass! Cops’ll be here! Pull! Now, goddamnit!” He kicked and flailed mightily, eyes afire with a blend of anger and fear.
She looked back toward the door, and down at herself, remembering with a start that she was largely naked. She wavered between helping him and finding her clothes. She found her blouse on the floor and slipped it on. Fortunately, her skirt had been spared the mysterious fate of the desk accessories by being caught in an eddy. It was by the desk, and she hurriedly slipped it on and returned to snatch at his arms and feet, trying her best to obtain a firm hold to haul him out.
A pounding on the door and the alarmed, muffled voice of Carl Huston spurred their efforts. She yanked hard at his foot and he budged slightly, but yelped in protest. She stopped abruptly, wisps of hair hanging in her face, lipstick smeared, eyes wild. She took her lower lip reflectively between her teeth. This moment would be the only chance for her to truly command his attention for some time to come.
“Bob, I want you to know that if your wife did this, we’re through!”
“O kay, now tell me why the hell we’re here? This is just a damn hole in a damn window. Straighten me out, Ralph.” San Francisco Police crime scene and ballistics expert, Jimmy Cameron, perched on the edge of the overturned desk and looked blearily around the destroyed office, rubbing his eyes with his fingertips and scratching his stubbly beard. The lean black man didn’t like being hauled out of a warm bed in the middle of the night.
Cameron didn’t get an immediate answer. His fellow expert, Ralph Gaston, stood at the window, his brow furrowed, his rimless glasses slipping down his nose, closely examining the large, smooth round hole in the glass. He had a long thin face with a straight aquiline nose and an intense, quiet way about him. Cameron had once told him that when he was studying something like he was now, he looked like one of those hunting dogs pointing a covey of quail — his body tense with concentration, dark eyes riveted on the quarry. Cameron declared that on such occasions he even thought he’d seen Gaston’s small ponytail rise a little bit, like the tail of a pointer.
“Well, Jimmy we’re ballistics experts, right?” Gaston finally said, his gaze still fixed on the glass.
“That’s the sign on my door, yeah.”
“And ballistics experts study things that explode and make a hole?”
“Yeah, when it’s daylight preferably.”
“So, we’ve got some kind of explosion and we’ve got a hole. What more do you want?”
“Just seems to me that there wasn’t any gunfire. That’s just a damned hole that somebody knocked in a building.” He shook his head in final surrender. “Damn, man—” he grumbled.
“Also, the lieutenant said to. Now check the other hole over there.”
Resigned, Cameron hauled himself up and went to the other wall which showed a hole that looked the same size. Gaston knew his partner’s griping was more to poke a little at him. It was their kind of friendly sport. Jimmy Cameron knew his partner hated disorder. He hated anything that didn’t fit with the scheme of things. And these large, smooth holes didn’t fit with the scheme of things.
Gaston watched Cameron examine the hole in the wall with a feigned indifference, his sleepy eyes performing a routine scan. Cameron put his hands on his hips, hmphing.
“Damn, this hole here just sliced right through this plaque thing. Man, sliced it right on through.”
“Yeah, this is strange all right,” said Gaston, joining him to view the hole in the wall, which had neatly severed a corner from a metal-on-wood plaque from the San Francisco chapter of the Society of Investment Professionals honoring Robert Balch. The award was for “ something of the Year,” the something part of the award’s name having been sliced off by the hole. “And another thing,” continued Gaston. “I don’t see any debris.”
Cameron examined the floor
She looked back toward the door, and down at herself, remembering with a start that she was largely naked. She wavered between helping him and finding her clothes. She found her blouse on the floor and slipped it on. Fortunately, her skirt had been spared the mysterious fate of the desk accessories by being caught in an eddy. It was by the desk, and she hurriedly slipped it on and returned to snatch at his arms and feet, trying her best to obtain a firm hold to haul him out.
A pounding on the door and the alarmed, muffled voice of Carl Huston spurred their efforts. She yanked hard at his foot and he budged slightly, but yelped in protest. She stopped abruptly, wisps of hair hanging in her face, lipstick smeared, eyes wild. She took her lower lip reflectively between her teeth. This moment would be the only chance for her to truly command his attention for some time to come.
“Bob, I want you to know that if your wife did this, we’re through!”
“O kay, now tell me why the hell we’re here? This is just a damn hole in a damn window. Straighten me out, Ralph.” San Francisco Police crime scene and ballistics expert, Jimmy Cameron, perched on the edge of the overturned desk and looked blearily around the destroyed office, rubbing his eyes with his fingertips and scratching his stubbly beard. The lean black man didn’t like being hauled out of a warm bed in the middle of the night.
Cameron didn’t get an immediate answer. His fellow expert, Ralph Gaston, stood at the window, his brow furrowed, his rimless glasses slipping down his nose, closely examining the large, smooth round hole in the glass. He had a long thin face with a straight aquiline nose and an intense, quiet way about him. Cameron had once told him that when he was studying something like he was now, he looked like one of those hunting dogs pointing a covey of quail — his body tense with concentration, dark eyes riveted on the quarry. Cameron declared that on such occasions he even thought he’d seen Gaston’s small ponytail rise a little bit, like the tail of a pointer.
“Well, Jimmy we’re ballistics experts, right?” Gaston finally said, his gaze still fixed on the glass.
“That’s the sign on my door, yeah.”
“And ballistics experts study things that explode and make a hole?”
“Yeah, when it’s daylight preferably.”
“So, we’ve got some kind of explosion and we’ve got a hole. What more do you want?”
“Just seems to me that there wasn’t any gunfire. That’s just a damned hole that somebody knocked in a building.” He shook his head in final surrender. “Damn, man—” he grumbled.
“Also, the lieutenant said to. Now check the other hole over there.”
Resigned, Cameron hauled himself up and went to the other wall which showed a hole that looked the same size. Gaston knew his partner’s griping was more to poke a little at him. It was their kind of friendly sport. Jimmy Cameron knew his partner hated disorder. He hated anything that didn’t fit with the scheme of things. And these large, smooth holes didn’t fit with the scheme of things.
Gaston watched Cameron examine the hole in the wall with a feigned indifference, his sleepy eyes performing a routine scan. Cameron put his hands on his hips, hmphing.
“Damn, this hole here just sliced right through this plaque thing. Man, sliced it right on through.”
“Yeah, this is strange all right,” said Gaston, joining him to view the hole in the wall, which had neatly severed a corner from a metal-on-wood plaque from the San Francisco chapter of the Society of Investment Professionals honoring Robert Balch. The award was for “ something of the Year,” the something part of the award’s name having been sliced off by the hole. “And another thing,” continued Gaston. “I don’t see any debris.”
Cameron examined the floor
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