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He used the fire stairs to get down to the basement level — he never took the elevator.
He passed the laundry room and entered the boiler room, where the senior furnace mumbled in its pipes and the hateful new furnace roared with freshly minted enthusiasm.
An eighteen-inch length of pipe with a rusted ball joint affixed to one end leaned against the concrete-block wall. Tenning hefted it, socked the ball joint into the cupped palm of his hand.
He turned right, walking down the incline toward the blinking light of the EXIT sign, murderous ideas igniting in his mind like a chain of firecrackers.
The lock bar on the exit door opened against his forearm. He stood for a minute in the sunshine, getting his bearings. Then he turned the brick corner of the building, heading toward the patio of keystones and the planters that were added since the building’s conversion.
Seeing Tenning coming toward him, Barnaby started yapping. He lunged at the leash connecting his collar to the chain-link fence.
Beside him was the baby carriage, where Oliver Glynn fretted in the dappled shade. He was howling, too.
Tenning felt a flame of hope rush through him.
Two birds with one stone.
Clutching the valve-capped pipe, he edged along the side of the building toward the shrieks and howls of the Nasty Little Animals.
Just then, Margery Glynn, her bland blond hair knotted up and stabbed into place with a pencil, stepped out of her apartment. She bent low, displaying several square feet of milky-white thigh, and lifted Oliver out of his carriage.
Tenning watched, unseen.
The baby quieted instantly, but Barnaby only changed his tune, his excited yips stabbing, stabbing, stabbing.
Mistress Margery shushed him, put one hand under the baby’s ass, and pressing his wet face to her deflated bosom, carried him inside her apartment.
Tenning advanced on Barnaby, who paused midyowl and licked his chops, hoping for a pat perhaps or a run in the park. Then he sent up his yapping alarm — again.
Tenning lifted his club and swung it down hard. Barnaby squealed, made a feeble grab for Tenning’s arm as the club rose high against the cloudless sky and then slammed down a second time.
The rat dog was completely still.
As Tenning stuffed its body into a garbage bag, he thought, RIBP.
Rest in bloody peace.
Chapter 51
THREE DAYS HAD PASSED since Madison Tyler had been taken from Scott Street and her nanny murdered only a few yards from Alta Plaza Park.
We were all in the squad room that morning: Conklin, four homicide inspectors from the night tour doing overtime, Macklin, a half-dozen cops from Major Crimes, and me.
Macklin looked around the small room and said, “I’ll make this quick so we can get to work. We’ve got nothing. Nothing but the talent in this room. So let’s keep doing what we’re doing, good solid police work. And for those of you who pray — put in a word for a miracle.”
He handed out assignments, asked for questions — got none. Chairs scraped as everyone scrambled. I looked over the new list of pervs Conklin and I were assigned to interview.
I got up from my desk and crossed the scuffed linoleum floor to Jacobi’s office door.
“Come in, Boxer.”
“Jacobi, there were two people involved in the abduction. There was the guy who did the coercing and then there was a driver. Pretty odd, don’t you think, for a pedophile to partner up?”
“Got any other ideas, Boxer? I’m wide open.”
“I want to go back to square one. The witness. I want to talk to her.”
“After all these years, I can’t believe you want to double check an interview of mine,” Jacobi groused. “Hang on. I have her statement right here.”
