IF YOU WANT TO LEAVE ANOTHER MESSAGE, I’M IN THE BOOK AND MY SECRETARY WILL TAKE YOUR CALL. FAX THROUGH A PHOTOGRAPH OF THE NEXT ONE INSTEAD, OR I WON’T PLAY THIS OUT. I KNOW YOU NEED ME TO DO THAT.
Balthazar sighed, and resignedly packed every identifying document and file into a leather case, with the manner of a man who has done so once too often but knows this will not be the last time. He picked up his hat, left the office carrying the case and put in an anonymous call to the police from the box a couple of streets away. He wanted the insurance of knowing the call could be traced back to him without making his involvement too obvious – preserving the anonymity of his address was essential, but he had used that box to make that call a half-dozen times before.
He needed time to think – or rather to think again, as he had been confident that the Gemini killings were over. Like any private detective worth his retainer, Balthazar knew that the best place to think was at the bottom of a cup of murky coffee laced with bourbon. There was only one joint in the city that knowledge could take him to.