Page 67 of Dead Fall

“Of course. Because what’s breaking and entering at this point?”

Carolan pointed to the stairs. “After you. Third floor.”

The stairwell smelled like a dirty, wet dog, which, unless there wasone in residence, usually meant a building had a rodent problem. Carolan tried not to breathe too deeply. He hated rodents, especially rats.

At the third floor, they stepped into the dingy hallway and walked three doors down to Taylor’s. Pausing, Carolan and Fields listened.

There was a TV on inside. The high-pitched whine suggested some sort of motor sport. In addition, there was a faint odor of weed. Carolan knocked.

It took a second to get a response. “Who is it?”

“FBI,” Carolan responded. “Open up, Mr. Taylor.”

“Hold on a moment,” the voice responded, a bit shaken.

Fields looked at her boss and, imitating what she figured Taylor was doing inside, pantomimed spraying a ton of air freshener.

A good two minutes later, the chain was unlatched, the dead bolt was unlocked, and a rumpled Taylor opened the door.

He was wearing tattered sweatpants and a vintage Doobie Brothers T-shirt. The living room windows were open wide, the ceiling fan was on full blast, and a big hit of air freshener had just been dispersed. Nevertheless, it still smelled like marijuana.

The TV, though now muted, was tuned to the São Paolo Grand Prix from Brazil. Above a faux-leather couch hung a pair of mismatched duck hunting prints. On the opposite wall was a neon beer sign. There was an empty pizza box on the coffee table and an oversized aluminum water bottle with a rainbow-colored unicorn proclaiming,I Hate People.

If not for the odor, and a bit of redness to his eyes, you wouldn’t have known that Taylor had been smoking pot. “What do you want?” the redheaded man asked.

“We’d like to have a chat,” Carolan replied. “May we come in?”

“A chat about what?”

“I think you know what.”

“If this is about publishing photos of you,” said Taylor, “I was completely within my rights. Public place. Freedom of the press. You’re not going to intimidate me.”

“That’s not why we’re here. We just want to talk.”

“You keep saying that, but you refuse to identify what you want to talk about. I’m not interested. Have a nice day.”

When Taylor went to close the door, Carolan leaned in and put his considerable bulk against it, preventing it from budging.

“What’s your interest in Dimitri Burman?” the FBI man asked.

“Same as yours,” Taylor replied. “Now, would you mind moving away from my door?”

“What were you doing outside Burman’s building two nights ago?”

“You know what I was doing. You saw me. I was taking photos.”

“How’d you know something worth photographing was going on?”

“I got a tip.”

“A tip from who?” Fields asked.

“None of your business.”

“And at the Commodore Yacht Club?” Carolan asked.

“I got another tip.”

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