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I introduced myself, and when the room quieted down, I explained why we were there.
“Our crime lab found prints on the victim’s shoes,” I said, “and we want to exclude anyone who may have touched those shoes in the course of doing their jobs.
“If anyone feels uncomfortable giving up fingerprints and a painless cheek swab, please give your name to Inspector Jacobi. He’s the good-looking gentleman in the brown jacket standing at the information booth. Then you’re free to go.”
Three long lines formed along the marble aisles. Clapper’s crew took samples and directed people to a table, where their IDs were checked and their prints were taken.
Molly Pierson, the human resources director, stood beside me. She had spiky white hair and lime-green glasses framing her dark eyes. She ran a pen down the list of employees, crossing off names of those present.
“I saw him a minute ago, so I know he’s here,” she muttered, nervously sweeping the room with her eyes. Her anxiety lit a match to mine.
“Who do you mean?” I asked.
“Louis Bergin. Our stockroom manager. I don’t see Louie.”
Chapter 85
“LOUIE WAS IN FRONT OF ME on line,” volunteered a thin man with a goatee standing a few feet away. “He said he had to go to the can.”
The man pointed his finger toward the men’s room, ten feet away from an elevator. I saw the arrow above the elevator door arc downward, the car stopping at the ground floor, three levels below us.
“What does Louie look like?” I asked urgently.
“Big guy. Over six feet. Blond.”
I turned to the chief.
“I’ll cover you here,” he said. Then I shouted to McNeil and Samuels to check the bathroom. Told Lemke and Chi to block the exits to all the streets.
“Nobody goes out.”
Conklin and Jacobi were behind me, running down the escalator, the three of us spilling out into the immense interior of the mall.
I pulled up short in the thickening foot traffic drifting in and out of the trendy shops—Godiva, Club Monaco, Bailey Banks & Biddle, Bandolino, and Kenneth Cole.
I didn’t know where to look first, which way to turn. I didn’t see anyone matching Louis Bergin’s description.
My Nextel rang, and I grabbed it from its clip.
It was McNeil, saying, “He’s not in the bathroom, boss. Nobody’s in here.”
“You and Samuels, take Fifth Street,” I said.
“There he is,” said Jacobi.
I saw him, too.
Across the mall, a coatless man in a white shirt was walking away from us, blending in with the crowd. He was about six two, 230, dirty-blond hair, smoking a cigarette.
A bruiser.
I drew my weapon, called out his name over the echoing rumble of the milling crowd.
“Louis Bergin. This is the police. Stay right where you are. Put your hands in the air.”
Chapter 86
LOUIE BERGIN SWUNG his big head toward me. We locked eyes over the crowd for a fraction of a second, and I yelled again. “Bergin. Stop right there. Don’t make me shoot you!”
