CATCH ME: KILL ME by William H. Hallahan

Author:William H. Hallahan [Hallahan, William H.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 0380379864
Publisher: AVON BOOKS, a Division of The Hearst Corporation
Published: 1978-10-25T22:00:00+00:00

The day was darker; the breeze stronger; rain imminent. As he walked toward the East River and Number Eleven, Brewer figured he’d be lucky to get in one more interview before the rain started. He considered going back to his apartment for his rain gear. There were still thirteen to go, and he had no idea how much time he had; maybe none. Maybe Kotlikoff... Brewer changed the subject.

Although he told himself not to get his hopes up with this Number Eleven, he sensed that he had. He’d been unconsciously saving this one as a kind of dessert for slogging through the first ten. Number Eleven had, first of all, a very interesting name: Aleksandr Butenko. The missing e in Aleksandr was definitive. It pointed to at least the possibility that Mr. Butenko was Russian born. Butenko was a well-known Russian family name. Secondly—the item that had Brewer’s greatest interest—the date of Butenko’s prescription for Insulin 147 was April first, two days ago, the day that Kotlikoff had been kidnapped.

Papers and debris were sailing across the island and soaring up the sides of buildings. The day had stepped back from spring into winter, and Brewer wished for his coat.

Butenko’s house surprised him. He was watching the house numbers ascend as he walked, estimating how much farther he had to go. He could read the number on the awning of an office building a block away. Butenko’s house would be the next number. From a distance, he saw a slate roof and the upper floor of what appeared to be an old mansion.

As he crossed the intersection, he could see that the building was all brick and sandstone, with a sandstone step. A high, spiked wrought-iron fence built into marble-capped posts fronted on the sidewalk. The building was five stories high. Along the curb were a half dozen limousines, and several chauffeurs talking. As Brewer got closer, his estimate of Butenko’s private wealth soared. When he reached the building he saw a man standing behind the closed wrought-iron gate, partly turned away from the breeze. He might as well have had a sign on him: guard.

At the gate, Brewer paused and looked up. Fitted to the wrought iron like a metal claw was an enamelized symbol: a hammer crossed with a sickle. Above it the letters: U.S.S.R.

It had begun to rain.

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