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He didn’t like the feel of the animal, but he kept a good grip.
    Boomerang thought something like What the hell? Before he could react, all four of his feet were off the ground.
    The big human had him by the back of the neck. Boomerang hated to be lifted like that. He snarled, spat, windmilled with his legs, claws extended, tried to bite, to tear.
    â€œLittle prick is pissed off,” Arthur said. “I’ll throw him in the Caddie’s trunk and we’ll take him with us so he won’t come back here and hang around the Dumpster.”
    Otto kept a strong grip on Boomerang and held him extended well out from his body so the cat couldn’t inflict injury. The animal suddenly became still, but that didn’t fool Otto.
    They started back toward where their black Cadillac was parked.
    Otto abruptly stopped and pointed.
    â€œWhat?” Arthur asked.
    â€œThe finger,” Otto said. “What we came for. Get it Arthur.”
    â€œJesus!” Arthur said. “We almost forgot.”
    â€œ You almost forgot.”
    â€œOh, no! Don’t try to hang that one on me.”
    While Otto and Boomerang watched, Arthur soon found where the cat had dropped the newly severed forefinger. He stooped and gingerly inserted the finger into a plastic baggie of the sort that held sandwiches.
    â€œIt doesn’t matter who almost forgot what, Arthur. Just so we give the finger to Willard.”
    â€œYou know, I always wanted to give Willard the—”
    â€œDon’t say it, Arthur. Don’t even think it.”
    They walked on toward the street. Mission accomplished. Confident now in attitude and stride.
    Boomerang dangled limply in Otto’s iron grip, eyes narrowed, almost shut, biding his time.
    May 7, 4:48 p.m.
    It hadn’t occurred to Ida and Craig that Alexis Hoffermuth not only regarded the police as public protectors; she saw them as her personal servants. Through taxes and contributions, she paid a large portion of their salaries, and she wanted a return on that investment.
    Her call to the police had been prompt, distraught, and demanding. When Alexis Hoffermuth spoke, people listened. When she was upset, they listened extra hard.
    The bracelet in the imitation Gucci purse had itself been an imitation. Even though it wasn’t the real Cardell bracelet, it was a pretty good paste facsimile. Some smartass crooks were playing with Alexis Hoffermuth’s mind to keep her off balance and buy time, toying with her, toying with the police, making a fool of her and the police commissioner—Harley Renz.
    Renz wouldn’t have that. Absolutely wouldn’t.
    Neither would Alexis Hoffermuth.
    So here Quinn was with Pearl to see Alexis in her apartment in the exclusive Gladden Tower, an impressive edifice her late husband had constructed.
    Rather, paid to have constructed.
    An unctuous doorman met them in the marble lobby and interrogated them as if they really didn’t belong in the building, but maybe, just maybe, he would permit their temporary presence. Quinn made a mental note of the fact that the marble desk where the doorman usually sat had a brass plaque on it identifying him as Melman. No first name, unless it was Melman.
    Quinn would remember Melman.
    After they’d passed inspection in the lobby, they were given the privilege of riding the private, walnut-paneled elevator to the fifty-ninth-floor penthouse. They stood side by side, their bodies touching, as they rocketed up the core of the building. The back wall of the narrow elevator was lined with tufted taupe silk. There was no sound.
    â€œZoom,” Quinn said.
    â€œReminds me of a vertical coffin.”
    â€œYou can take it with you.”
    Quinn had been expecting a butler, but when the elevator finally settled down, rather than enter near space, its paneled door opened, and Alexis Hoffermuth herself met them.
    The widow had the immediate commanding presence that sometimes accompanies great wealth.