WALLY SINGER When Marion announced that she was going to Brooklyn to spend the day with her sister, Singer barely managed to hide his elation. It surprised him. She didn’t get along with her sister; hell, she didn’t get along with anybody, the fat cow. But she was upset about the shootings, she said, and she wanted to get out of the neighborhood for the day. She couldn’t talk to him; all he cared to do was argue and pick on her. Ellen, at least, was family and would offer a sympathetic ear. Singer told her he didn’t care what she did, and she was gone at 8:45. He waited fifteen minutes, spending the time in the bathroom trimming his sparse beard and daubing himself liberally with English Leather cologne. Then he locked the apartment, rode the elevator downstairs, and went out to the street. There was an unmarked police car parked at the curb. He’d seen it before, so he knew it belonged to the detectives from the Twenty-fourth Precinct. He didn’t like the police much, particularly the sandy-haired cop named Oxman; Oxman’s shrewd eyes and probing questions, boring at him as if he were guilty of something, had left him with a bad case of nerves yesterday.
What do You think about The Eye: A Novel Of Suspense?
