Desperate Measures by David R. Morrell Page B

assessing what Burt had told him. The clack-'clack-clack of the train on the rails became like a mantra and helped Pittman to focus his concentration. Important people.
    Maybe Burt had been telling the truth. A week from today, the Chronicle would close its doors. There had to be all kinds of complicated arrangements to make. It was possible that the owner and the publisher and God knew who all were in Burt's office discussing the direction the newspaper should take in its final days.
    But wouldn't people that important make Burt go to their office rather than want to meet in his?
    Pittman reversed the direction of his thoughts and again suspected that Burt was angry at him.
    In rush-hour traffic outside Grand Central Station, Pittman couldn't find an empty cab, so he decided to use the subway. His intention had been to go to the Chronicle, but his watch now showed eight minutes after five. The sun was low behind skyscrapers. The air had turned cold, and Pittman's damp clothes made him shiver again. Burt wouldn't be at the office now anyway, he thought. He'd be on his way to the bar where he always went after work.
    I'm not going to sit in that bar and have my teeth chatter all the time I'm trying to explain. What I need firstare dry clothes.
    Pittman got out of the subway at Union Square, still couldn't find an empty cab, and walked all the way to his apartment on West Twelfth Street. The air was colder, the light paler as he hurried along. He unlocked the door to the vestibule of his building. Then he unlocked the farther door. that allowed him past the mailboxes into the ground-floor corridor of the building itself.
    As usual, the smell of cooking assailed him. Also as usual, the elevator wheezed and creaked, taking him to the third floor. As usual, too, the television was blaring in the apartment next to esiea disscouragement, unlocked the door, stepped in, shut and locked the door, and turned to discover a man sitting in his living room, reading a magazine.
    Pittman hurriedly thought of an acceptable explanation. "Yeah, a waiter spilled water on my jacket and pants and .
    The detective nodded. "Same thing happened to me two weeks ago. Not water, though. Linguini. You'd better change. Leave the door to your bedroom open a bit. We can talk while you get dry clothes. Also, you look like you could use a shave."
    "I've been trying to grow a beard," Pittman lied. In the. bedroom, listening to the detective's voice through the slightly open door, he nervously took off his clothes, threw them in a hamper, then grabbed fresh underwear and socks Pittman's heartbeat faltered. "What the ... from his bureau drawer.
    The man set down the magazine. "Is your name Matthew Pittman?" "What the hell do you think you're ... ?"
    The man was in his late thirties. Thin, he had short brown hair, a slender face, a sharp chin. He wore a plain gray suit and shoes with thick soles. "I'm with the police department. " He opened a wallet to show his badge and ID. He stood, his expression sour, as if he'd much sooner be doing something else. "Detective Mullen. I'd like to ask you a few questions.
    "How did you get in here?"
    "I asked the super to let me in."
    Pittman felt pressure in his chest. "You can't just ... You don't have a right to ... Damn it, have you got a warrant or something?"
    "Why? Have you done something that makes you think I'd need a warrant?" "No. I .
    "Then why don't you save us both a lot of time. Sit down. Let's discuss a couple of things.
    "What things? I still don't . .
    "You look cold. Your clothes look like they've been wet.
    He had just put on a pair of brown slacks when he saw the detective standing at the door.
    "I wonder if you could tell me where you were last night."
    Feeling threatened, his nipples shrinking, Pittman reached for a shirt. "I was home for a while. Then I went for a walk. "
    The detective opened the door wider, making Pittman feel even more threatened. "What time did you go for the walk?"
    "Eleven. "
    "And