shining off the bald marble flooring and women in splashy summer dresses were walking backward and forward between the perfumery counters.
Conor returned to his office. He stood by his desk for a moment, with his hand pressed over his mouth, completely disoriented. He couldnât think what hadhappened to him. He hadnât blacked out. He hadnât fainted.
He checked the television monitors. He scanned the entire eight-story department store floor by floor, camera angle by camera angle. He ranged through corridors, changing facilities, stairwells, restrooms. There was no sign of the man and the woman. But after twenty-nine minutes they could be anyplace at all.
âThe hell,â he breathed.
He rewound the videotape that had covered his movements outside the security door, when he had first talked to the man and the woman. There were three and a half hours of surveillance, up until 12:41. He fast-forwarded it so that the shoppers scuttled around like termites. After that the tape ran totally blank, only a few blips and passing meteorites on the screen, and an unintelligible blurt of noise. He shook his head in frustration. In twenty-nine minutes, a professional gang could have stripped the store of hundreds of thousands of dollarsâ worth of stock.
There was no sign that he had admitted the man and the woman into his office â and even if he had, nothing appeared to have been disturbed. His computer was still languidly displaying its screen-saver â a flock of white seagulls against a dark blue sky. His desk was still mathematically laid out with three Pilot pens, a letter-opener with the crest of the New York Police Department and a ceramic-framed photograph of Lacey in a red-and-white crop-top, taken at Wild Dunes golf resort in South Carolina.
He pulled out all of his desk drawers, starting at the bottom and leaving them open, in the way thatan experienced police officer would. Paperclips, stationery, notebooks â all undisturbed. In the corner, his green steel locker was still locked. He opened it and took out his Smith & Wesson .38. It was still in its holster, with the stud fastened, and no ammunition had been taken from his belt. Nothing else had been stolen, either.
Nothing except time. He had lost twenty-nine minutes from the moment he had walked into the store to the moment he had looked around and realized that the man and the woman were gone. And in those twenty-nine minutes, what had he done? And, more importantly, what had
they
done?
He was still searching his locker when Darrell Bussman came in, carrying a clipboard and a raspberry donut with sprinkles on it. Darrell was the storeâs operations manager, plump, crimson-cheeked, like the kid who nobody ever picked for their football team. He was only 23 and he had a catastrophic taste in neckties, but his uncle Newt Bussman owned 47 per cent of Spurrâs Fifth Avenue and had as much sense of humor as a hammerhead shark and those were all the vocational qualifications that Darrell had ever needed.
âHey, Conor, what kept you?â he wanted to know, in his high, clogged-up voice. âWe had to go through the delivery schedules without you. And nobody knew when UPS was supposed to drop off the Gucci collection.â
âAccept my apologies, Darrell. The custody hearing went on for ever.
âSo, what happened?â
âWhat do you think happened? Iâm a man who cheated on his wife. I got shafted.â
âYou still got visitation, though?â
âQualified, at Paulaâs discretion.â
âWell, better than nothing, hunh?â
âYou think so? You donât know Paula.â
âListen, how about getting UPS to pick up those Rolex watches the same time they deliver the necklaces?â
âOK. Good idea.â
Darrell stopped and looked around the office, at the open locker and the open drawers.
âHey, Conor, youâre not â ah â
clearing your desk
here,
Conor returned to his office. He stood by his desk for a moment, with his hand pressed over his mouth, completely disoriented. He couldnât think what hadhappened to him. He hadnât blacked out. He hadnât fainted.
He checked the television monitors. He scanned the entire eight-story department store floor by floor, camera angle by camera angle. He ranged through corridors, changing facilities, stairwells, restrooms. There was no sign of the man and the woman. But after twenty-nine minutes they could be anyplace at all.
âThe hell,â he breathed.
He rewound the videotape that had covered his movements outside the security door, when he had first talked to the man and the woman. There were three and a half hours of surveillance, up until 12:41. He fast-forwarded it so that the shoppers scuttled around like termites. After that the tape ran totally blank, only a few blips and passing meteorites on the screen, and an unintelligible blurt of noise. He shook his head in frustration. In twenty-nine minutes, a professional gang could have stripped the store of hundreds of thousands of dollarsâ worth of stock.
There was no sign that he had admitted the man and the woman into his office â and even if he had, nothing appeared to have been disturbed. His computer was still languidly displaying its screen-saver â a flock of white seagulls against a dark blue sky. His desk was still mathematically laid out with three Pilot pens, a letter-opener with the crest of the New York Police Department and a ceramic-framed photograph of Lacey in a red-and-white crop-top, taken at Wild Dunes golf resort in South Carolina.
He pulled out all of his desk drawers, starting at the bottom and leaving them open, in the way thatan experienced police officer would. Paperclips, stationery, notebooks â all undisturbed. In the corner, his green steel locker was still locked. He opened it and took out his Smith & Wesson .38. It was still in its holster, with the stud fastened, and no ammunition had been taken from his belt. Nothing else had been stolen, either.
Nothing except time. He had lost twenty-nine minutes from the moment he had walked into the store to the moment he had looked around and realized that the man and the woman were gone. And in those twenty-nine minutes, what had he done? And, more importantly, what had
they
done?
He was still searching his locker when Darrell Bussman came in, carrying a clipboard and a raspberry donut with sprinkles on it. Darrell was the storeâs operations manager, plump, crimson-cheeked, like the kid who nobody ever picked for their football team. He was only 23 and he had a catastrophic taste in neckties, but his uncle Newt Bussman owned 47 per cent of Spurrâs Fifth Avenue and had as much sense of humor as a hammerhead shark and those were all the vocational qualifications that Darrell had ever needed.
âHey, Conor, what kept you?â he wanted to know, in his high, clogged-up voice. âWe had to go through the delivery schedules without you. And nobody knew when UPS was supposed to drop off the Gucci collection.â
âAccept my apologies, Darrell. The custody hearing went on for ever.
âSo, what happened?â
âWhat do you think happened? Iâm a man who cheated on his wife. I got shafted.â
âYou still got visitation, though?â
âQualified, at Paulaâs discretion.â
âWell, better than nothing, hunh?â
âYou think so? You donât know Paula.â
âListen, how about getting UPS to pick up those Rolex watches the same time they deliver the necklaces?â
âOK. Good idea.â
Darrell stopped and looked around the office, at the open locker and the open drawers.
âHey, Conor, youâre not â ah â
clearing your desk
here,
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