Three Fates

think being listed as T. J. Marsh would be enough to protect a woman from rude, disgusting calls by sick people.
    She brooded over it and pulled out the white pages to look up the phone company’s business office when her doorbell chimed.
    Her first reaction was annoyance at the interruption, and on its heels rushed a paralyzing fear. It was the man on the phone. He would break into her apartment, attack her. Rape her. Then slit her throat from ear to ear with the large, jagged-edge knife he carried.
    “Don’t be stupid, don’t be stupid.” She rubbed a hand over her mouth as she got to her feet. “Obscene phone callers are idiots, nuisances who hide behind technology. It’s just your mother, or Mrs. Lockley from downstairs. It’s nothing.”
    But she inched her way out of the office, staring at the front door as she crossed the room. With her heart hammering, she eased up on her toes and looked through the peep.
    The sight of the big, tough-faced man in a black leather jacket had her gasping, spinning around with her hand to her throat, which she imagined was about to be cut. She looked around wildly and grabbed the closest weapon. Armed with a bronze figure of Circe, she squeezed her eyes tight.
    “Who are you? What do you want?”
    “Dr. Marsh? Dr. Tia Marsh?”
    “I’m calling the police.”
    “I am the police. Detective Burdett, ma’am, NYPD. I’m holding my shield up to the judas hole.”
    She’d read a book once in which the homicidal maniac had shot one of his victims through the peephole. A bullet in the eye and straight into the brain. Shaking now, she jerked toward the peep and away again, trying to get a look without risking a violent death.
    It looked like proper identification.
    “What’s this about, Detective Burdett?”
    “I’d just like to ask you a few questions, Dr. Marsh. If I could come in? You can leave the door open if you’d be more comfortable.”
    She bit her lip. If you couldn’t trust the police, she told herself, where were you? She set the bronze aside and unlocked the door. “Is there a problem, Detective?”
    He smiled now, a friendly, reassuring gesture. “That’s what I’d like to talk to you about.” He stepped inside, pleased that she felt safe enough to shut the door behind him.
    “Has there been some trouble in the building?”
    “No, ma’am. Could we sit down?”
    “Yes, of course.” She gestured to a chair, then perched on the edge of another when he sat.
    “Nice place.”
    “Thank you.”
    “I guess you get your taste for antiques and such from your father.”
    The blood drained out of her face. “Is something wrong with my father?”
    “No. But this has something to do with your father’s line of work, and yours. What do you know about a set of silver statues known as the Three Fates?”
    He saw her pupils dilate. That quick jolt of shock. And knew his instincts here were on target. “What is this about?” she demanded. “Is this about Malachi Sullivan?”
    “Does he have something to do with the Fates?”
    “I hope you’ve arrested him,” she said bitterly. “I hope you have him in jail this minute. And if he gave you my name thinking I’d help him wheedle out, you’re wasting your time.”
    “Dr. Marsh—”
    He saw the instant she made him, heard the quick gasp an instant before she tried to leap up. He was faster, and pinned her back in the chair.
    “Take it easy now.”
    “You’re the one who called on the phone. You’re not a cop at all. He sent you, didn’t he?”
    Jack had expected tears, screams, and was impressed when she stared holes through him instead.
    “I don’t know your Malachi Sullivan, Tia. My name’s Jack Burdett, Burdett Securities.”
    “You’re just another liar, and a pervert on top of it.” Fury was shrinking back, and she could feel her throat closing. “I need my inhaler.”
    “You need to stay calm,” he corrected when she started to wheeze. “I’ve done business with your father. You can check with him.”
    “My father doesn’t do business with perverts.”
    “Listen, I’m sorry about that. Your phone’s tapped; when I realized it, I said the first thing that came to mind.”
    “My phone is not tapped.”
    “Honey, I make my living knowing this stuff. Now, I want you to relax. I’m going to give you my phone; it’s secure. I want you to call the Sixty-first Precinct and ask for Detective Robbins, Bob Robbins. You ask him if he knows me, if he’ll vouch for me. If he