Free Dirty Harry 05 - Family Skeletons by Dane Hartman Page B

to wait.
    “Yes,” he answered quickly. “Christine?”
    “Yes,” it was her turn to answer.
    “How did you get this number?” was his immediate question.
    “Tom gave it to me,” was her immediate answer.
    “Tom?” Harry said in surprise. He felt a breeze at the back of his neck. Or it could have been a chill, he wasn’t sure. “Christine, where are you?”
    “I’m at school.”
    “Emerson?”
    “Yes, at the building down the street where Shanna’s apartment is. Harry, you must come right away. I have to talk to you.”
    “Is Tom there with you now?” Harry asked hastily.
    Christine sounded surprised. “No. Of course not.”
    “When did you last see him?”
    “Last night. After you chased him away. He only called me later to apologize for overreacting. He said that you told him to give me this number in case I wanted to get in touch with you.”
    “All right,” said Harry quickly, already sitting up and pulling on his pants. “Stay there. If you’re in a class, stay with the group. If you’re alone, go outside. Wait for me outside where some other people can see you. If you see Tom, be careful. Find some other people and stay with them. Don’t let him get you alone and watch out for any sudden moves.”
    “Talk about overreacting!” Christine laughed in astonishment. “Tom just went away for a while because he hadn’t eaten in a couple of days. Now he’s back. It’s all right, Harry.”
    Harry pulled on his shirt. “I’m sure it is, Christine,” he soothed. “Just do me a favor. No big deal. Keep your eyes open.”
    “Sure, Harry,” agreed the girl. “Hurry up, will you? All this talk of sudden moves is giving me the creeps.”
    “I’ll be right there. And Christine . . . ?”
    “Yes?”
    “What’s your last name?”
    “Sherman,” she said without question or hesitation.
    They both said good-bye and hung up. Harry slipped on his shoes, pulled on his jacket, went to the hotel-room door, turned completely around, and went back to the phone. He called up the Boston Police. When a sergeant answered, he identified himself and asked for Collins.
    “I’m sorry, Inspector, but he left a couple of hours ago to get some sleep,” the officer responded.
    “I brought a man in last night. Tom Morrisson. Do you know what happened to him?”
    “Hold on,” said the sergeant, then put Harry on hold. And with no music, either. Harry waited three minutes, then he hung up and left the room.
    A taxi was no problem. A few were lining up in front of the hotel. The way his sense of déjà vu was going Harry promised himself not to be surprised if his driver was the same one who had tried to bilk the foreigners at the airport. Thankfully for his sense of equilibrium, it wasn’t. The ride was mercifully quick; just having to shoot down Charles, take a left at Mount Vernon, then another left. The cabbie dropped Harry off at number 96 without a single traffic light getting in the way. Callahan gave him a handsome tip. Think of it, he mused, an honest taxi driver. The cab drove off, and Harry was alone.
    He didn’t like it. He was on another narrow Back Bay street at the base of Beacon Hill. He was facing a four-storied rectangular building with thick opaque windows only on the second and fourth floors. There were two doors in the front. Across the street was a brick wall. He looked to the right. A block down was Shanna’s building. He looked to the left. A block down was Beacon Street. He could see a section of the Gardens across it.
    Christine was not outside. In fact, the area seemed deserted. No, he didn’t like it at all. But like it or not, he still approached the left-hand door. He gave it a tug. It opened. He slipped inside, desperately wishing that he still had his Magnum.
    The thin, hallway-like foyer was slightly calming. It had all the accoutrements of a college facility. There were flyers about upcoming dances, concerts, and other social events taped to the window of the inside door.