Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 44, No. 6, June 1999

“Mr. Hendrix?” Becker said. “Me again. You did say everybody on thirty-two had signed out already, right? And nobody’s signed back in?” Becker paused, rubbing a hand through his crewcut as he listened. “Well, somebody’s up there now, we just saw the lights come on.” Another wait, and a weary nod. “Right. Well, what it means is, we don’t have as much time as we’d hoped. And we’re still a ways away.”

Becker had a sudden thought and turned to ask the driver, “Who were those guys who called in a minute ago, from the East Side?”

Timmons frowned, most of his attention on the road. “Spellman, I think he said. Spellman and Rice.”

Becker turned back to the phone. “Two men from one of the other stations are close by,” he told the guard. “They should be there soon. Officers Spellman and Ri—” He stopped. “They are? Good, put one of ’em on.”

As he waited, Becker glanced again at Timmons, who was cursing softly as he weaved their cruiser through the late-night traffic. They had at least another twenty blocks to go. The building loomed ahead of them, a black monolith topped with a single row of lights.

Becker heard a new voice come on the phone.

“Rice?” he said. “My name’s Becker, from Metro. Here’s what I want you to—” Becker broke off then, and spent the next thirty seconds listening and nodding. Finally he said, “Sounds good to me. Well be there inside ten minutes.” He started to break the connection, then added, “One more thing. Are you both in uniform? Yeah, us too. We don’t need to be shooting each other.” With that, Becker clicked the phone off and sagged back in his seat. His head had begun to throb.

“I take it he outranks you,” Timmons said, swerving to pass a white limo.

“Don’t know and don’t care,” Becker answered. “The important thing is, he’s got a plan, which is more than I had.” He sighed and took his pistol from his holster. As he checked its load, he saw Timmons glance at him, and was reminded of the scene from Bullitt

when the driver of the car that Steve McQueen was chasing turned to watch his passenger stuff shells into a shotgun. It occurred to Becker that Timmons looked a lot more scared than the guy in the movie.

“Rice said he and Spellman were just down the street when they heard the call,” Becker explained. “He’s already studied the floor layout and talked with the guard. Apparently there are two elevators on the east end of the building and stairwells east and west. The top floor — the one that’s lit up — is thirty-two. He and Spellman want to take one of the elevators to thirty-one, send it back down, and go up the stairs to the top floor. They’ll lock the stairwell door there, then go back down to thirty-one, down the hallway to the west end of the building, back up to thirty-two, and wait outside that stairwell door until we call them. They don’t have a cell phone, but they’re taking one of the guard’s radios and a set of keys to the offices.”

Timmons seemed to think that over. “Four people,” he said, “from two different stations. We don’t know them, they don’t know us, and none of us know what we might find up there.” He shook his head. “You sure we can go in this way, without more backup?”

“The only thing we can’t do,” Becker answered, holstering his gun, “is let this jerk plant his bomb and get away again. Okay?”

Timmons said nothing. His face was grim, his eyes locked on the street ahead.

“It’s a smart plan, Eddie,” Becker said. “This’ll save time. Spellman and Rice’ll be in place outside the door on the other end of the hallway by the time we get there. We can go in from both sides.”

Though he still didn’t reply, the driver seemed to accept that, and Becker turned again to stare out the window. He found himself wondering why in the hell this had to happen now, on his last night of crossover duty. Becker’s normal job was at a desk at headquarters, where the only danger was getting poisoned by the coffee. To make matters worse, this was the night of the commissioner’s roast, which meant a big chunk of their workforce was ten miles away, fidgeting in their chairs in the Hilton ballroom. The backup Becker had requested might take awhile.

“I heard you ask dispatch about the tipoff,” Timmons said, interrupting his thoughts. “What’d they tell you?”

“Not much. Male caller, sounded young, sounded white, thumping noises in the background.”

“Thumping?”

“That’s what they said. We’ll listen to it afterward.”

“I hope so,” Timmons murmured, looking worried.

Becker was pondering that comment when the car screeched to a stop in front of the Remington Building. In the blink of an eye both he and Timmons were out of the cruiser and heading for the door, where they were met by an overweight guard in a rumpled tan uniform. His nametag said R. HENDRIX; his face said he was scared half to death. Smart man, Becker thought.

“The other two guys should be in place soon,” the guard told them as they crossed the echoing lobby. He sounded out of breath. “They sent the elevator back down two minutes ago.”