The Face

leaning with both arms on the counter. “This afternoon a man came in here and bought a bouquet of Broadway roses.”
        The dazzling golden-red blooms on Hannah’s grave had been wrapped in a cone of stiff cellophane. Instead of Scotch tape or staples, a series of six peel-and-press stickers had been applied to seal cellophane to cellophane and thus ensure that the cone kept its shape. Each fancy foil sticker bore the name and address of Forever Roses.
        “We had just two dozen,” Rowena said, “and he took them all.”
        “You remember him then?”
        “Oh, yes. He was… quite memorable.”
        “Would you describe him for me?”
        “Tall, athletic but a bit on the thin side, wearing an exquisite gray suit.”
        [149] Duncan Whistler owned uncounted fine suits, all custom-tailored at great cost.
        “He was a handsome man,” Rowena continued, “but terribly pale, as though he hadn’t seen the sun in months.”
        Comatose for twelve weeks, Dunny had developed a hospital pallor subsequently seasoned by at least an hour of morgue time.
        “He had the most magnetic gray eyes,” Rowena said, “with flecks of green. Beautiful.”
        She had given a perfect description of Dunny’s eyes.
        “He said that he wanted the roses for a special woman.”
        At her funeral, Dunny had seen the Broadway roses.
        Rowena smiled. “He said an old friend would be around before long, asking what kind of roses he’d bought. I gather you’re in competition for the same girl.”
        Neither the winter day outside nor the cool air here in the flower shop was responsible for the chill that might have rattled Ethan’s teeth if he hadn’t clenched them.
        He suddenly realized that Rowena’s smile had a curious tilt, as though tempered by uncertainty or uneasiness.
        When she recognized how deeply her revelation troubled him, her tentative smile faltered, vanished.
        “He was a strange man,” she said.
        “Did he say anything else?”
        Rowena broke eye contact and looked toward the windows at the front of the shop, as though expecting to see someone familiar-and unwelcome-at the door.
        Ethan gave her an opportunity to consider her words, and at last she spoke: “He said you think he’s dead.”
        Images swelled to the foreground of memory: the empty gurney and the tangled shroud in the hospital morgue; the elusive phantom in the steam-blurred bathroom mirror; the lizard on the driveway, struggling to ascend in spite of its broken back, confronted by a cruel [150] degree of incline and by sluicing water as cold and insistent as the flow of time…
        “He said you think he’s dead,” Rowena repeated, shifting her gaze from the shop door to Ethan once more. “And he said I should tell you that you’re right.”

CHAPTER 22
        
        HAZARD IN THE HALLWAY, HAZARD ON THE stairs, acutely aware of what an easy target a big man made in a narrow space, threw himself nonetheless into the hot pursuit. When you took the job, you knew it wasn’t part of the deal that you could pick and choose the places where you would put your life on the line.
        Besides, like most cops, he operated on the superstitious conviction that the greatest risk came with hesitation, came in the moment when nerve was briefly lost. Survival depended on boldness seasoned with just enough fear to discourage outright recklessness.
        Or so it was easy to believe until a bit of boldness got you killed.
        In the movies, cops were always yelling “Halt! Police!” when they knew that the dirtbags running away from them weren’t going to obey, but also when a shout would reveal their presence before absolutely necessary and even before every bad guy on the game board realized that badges were in play.
        Hazard Yancy, who had recently escaped being shot at while in an armchair, didn’t bellow either a command or a threat at the gunman who had killed Rolf Reynerd. He just plunged down the stairs after the guy.
        By the time Hazard reached the midfloor landing, the shooter had [152] thundered to the bottom of the lower flight, losing his balance as he flew off the last step into the public foyer. He slipped on the Mexican-tile floor, windmilled his arms, but avoided a fall.
        Running, the perp never looked back, suggesting that he was oblivious of being pursued.
        As he gave chase, Hazard was in the