A Matter Of Taste by Fred Saberhagen (best reads .TXT) 📗

around noon, where she stood tapping rather timidly on the doorbell, though the doorway at the moment was empty of any barrier. The workmen Maule had summoned to do repairs were already on the job.

      She looked around the ruined room in wonder. She had had the strangest dreams, she told him when he appeared, and she just had to make sure that he was all right.

      Her host, looking badly in need of rest, asked her forgiveness and wondered whether she could come back in the evening.

* * *

      Around midnight John and Angie had gone to a nearby hotel, at Mr. Maule’s expense, of course.

* * *

      The TV and newspapers, Joe Keogh noted, on the afternoon following the discovery of a pair of bodies on the low roof, were already starting to talk about the affair as the Helicopter Murders. The battered corpses gave the appearance of having been dropped from a spot in the air eighty or a hundred stories above the new construction on the plaza. Or else they might have been thrown, catapulted outward from somewhere high on the central building; but it was difficult to see how that could have been accomplished.

      Joe had just been called in by Captain Charley Snider for an informal talk. He hadn’t been back to visit the Homicide Bureau for a considerable time, and it was interesting to see the changes.

      Charley, large and black, was not as paunchy as he had begun to be a couple of years ago; dieting, Joe thought, was taking over everywhere. But the captain had a little more gray hair every time Joe ran into him.

      As far as Joe knew, Liz Wiswell, the waitress, had not yet been reported missing, but of course it was necessary to anticipate that she would be. Well, he’d worry about that when the time came.

      Charley was saying: “Neither member of this pair is anybody we really worried about losin’. Fact is, someone clean up a lot of old paperwork for us here.” As usual, Charley’s black dialect came and went, perhaps at will, perhaps randomly. Joe had frequently wondered about it, but he’d never asked.

      Joe grunted something. Behind his desk Charley was making no effort to hide his satisfaction at having a couple of violent offenders taken off the streets.

      “Know what this remind me of, Joe?”

      “Should I try to guess?”

      “I think you know damn well what it reminds me of. About eleven years ago, when you were just a poor-ass city cop on the pawnshop detail. At that time we in this department observed a cluster of rather bizarre events.”

      “We did indeed. But they were not too much like these events.”

      “Well, yes and no. I seem to detect something of the same—artistic touch?—in this affair today. Nobody report any helicopters flyin’ around north Michigan last night. Anyway, I would like to consult with you today on just a couple things.”

      “Shoot.”

      “What about this Valentine Kaiser?”

      Joe shook his head no. “I’m guessing again—only guessing—”

      Charley was nodding. “I know you only guessing. Shoot.”

      “You’re not going to find him.”

      “If we ever do find ’im, I s’pose he’s dead?”

      “Highly probable. Yes.”

      “We ever gonna find who killed him?”

      “I doubt it.”

      “Uh huh. Well, that bring me to the second query. Concernin’ these folk on whom the speculation is maybe they were dropped from a helicopter. Given your experience in similar matters, you think our chance of busting the dropper is very high?”

      “My speculation is, no. I know you’ve got to at least make it look like a big effort, Charley, but my advice is that you’ll get more out of your manpower working on some other case entirely.”

      “You offerin’ me not much to hope for, man.”

* * *

      “Honey?”

      “What?”

      “We are still getting married, aren’t we?”

      Angie looked at John. He looked a great deal better now than he had about twenty hours ago, when they’d checked into the fancy hotel. She supposed her own appearance had improved also. She certainly felt much more human.

      She said: “You’re not trying to get out of it, are you? Have I scared you, more than the vampires?”

      “Me? No!” He was properly outraged “It’s just that I didn’t know whether—after everything you had to go through—”

      “After I’ve gone through being attacked by vampires and all the rest—after I’ve done—what I had to do—well, I’m not going to let them win after all. They’re not going to keep me from running the rest of my life the way I want to run it.”

      They were both thinking about that when the knock sounded on the door.

      John looked, and then relaxed. “It’s Uncle Matthew.”

      Dapper, well dressed, looking young, well rested, and healthy, he came in for once with the manner of one uncertain of his welcome.

      “Uncle Matthew,” said Angie immediately.

      “Yes.”

      “Are you coming to our wedding? I know you said there was a problem about the date. But I really hope you can.”

      He came to her. Eyes sparkling, he bowed and kissed her hand. “I shall be there. Somehow.”

About The Author

      Fred Saberhagen is widely published in many areas of speculative fiction. He is best known for his Berserker, Swords, and Dracula series. Less known are the myth based fantasies: Books of the Gods. Fred also authored a number of non-series fantasy and science fiction novels and a great number of short stories. For more information on Fred visit his website: www.fredsaberhagen.com