Chapter Two

Mrs. Joyce Manning sashayed out of the elevator as soon as the doors slid open. With a hurried glance at her watch she dug into her purse, searching for her apartment key.

An open door out of the corner of her eye brought her attention elsewhere. Just across from her, another apartment was wide open—and empty.

She blinked in surprise. That was Perry Mason's apartment. And it was not like him to go away and leave a broad invitation to intruders. In fact, it was not like him to stay home and leave a broad invitation to intruders.

The time forgotten, she ventured closer. "Hello?" she called. "Mr. Mason?"

Ominous red stains on the floor caught her eye and she gasped in horror. Something was wrong, very wrong.

She dug into her purse again, this time for her phone. With shaking, manicured hands she drew it out and dialed. "Hello? Police?" she greeted, her voice trembling as well. "I think someone's been hurt, maybe even killed."

xxxx

Della sighed as she picked up her coat from the back of her couch. It had been another long day and night, this time working on the possible connections between the Travis and Carter cases. At last Perry had determined that nothing more could be done that night. He had brought her home some time ago and she had been relaxing with a bubble bath and then a guilty pleasure dessert from the freezer. Now, once she hung up her coat, she had every intention of going to bed.

The knock on her door froze her in her tracks. That was strange; who would be visiting at this hour? Still holding her coat, she hurried over. "I'm coming," she called.

Her eyes widened in shock when she opened the door. Lieutenant Tragg was standing there, looking grim. "Lieutenant," she gasped. "What is it?"

Tragg sighed. "I don't know exactly how to say this," he said. "Tonight we received a telephone call from a Mrs. Joyce Manning. Does that name ring a bell?"

Della blinked. "It sounds vaguely familiar, but I can't place it," she said.

"She lives in Perry's apartment building," Tragg told her.

"Now I remember!" Della exclaimed. "She lives down the hall." She froze, the horrible realization dawning. "Lieutenant, has something happened to Perry?"

Tragg gave a heavy sigh. "She called because she found Perry's door wide open and no one home. There was blood on the carpet."

Della stared at him in utter horror. "And you haven't been able to reach Perry?"

"No," Tragg said. "We tried his office and his cellphone. Sergeant Brice is calling on Paul in case he went there."

"And you came here," Della concluded. She hesitated, wanting to ask further but dreading the answer. "Lieutenant, for you to be involved, does that mean you think . . ."

"I don't know what to think," Tragg interrupted. "But someone was definitely injured in Perry's apartment. And there's one other detail. I'm sure you remember Perry's theory about the Travis and Carter murders."

Della nodded. "Of course. But what has that got to do with this?"

"Della . . ." Tragg looked at her in all seriousness. "Someone removed Perry's drinking glasses from his cupboard and spread them out on his coffee table." Della gaped, afraid that now she knew where this was going. "In the Travis and Carter cases, the glasses were arranged to only loosely spell 'Fin' if studied from a certain angle. This time they were placed in a far tighter position. There was no mistaking their message."

Della snatched her purse and was out the door in the next instant, pulling it shut behind her. "I want to go there," she said.

"I'll drive you," Tragg said. "Sergeant Brice and Paul may already be there when we arrive."

"I knew Trevor Bartlett had it in for Perry after the trial!" Della cried as they headed down the hall. "He is your suspect, isn't he?"

"Of course," Tragg said. "We've been trying to contact him too, with no results."

Della's fears only grew.

xxxx

The walk down to Tragg's car, and the drive to the apartment complex, was largely spent in tense silence. Tragg clutched the steering wheel perhaps tighter than necessary. Della gripped her purse, her heart racing frantically.

She had been so afraid for Perry's safety when he had been threatened during the incident where Burger had been believed dead. But he had come through that experience without a scratch. He had even deduced that the criminals had never wanted him; they had only used him to draw out Mr. Burger, who had been in hiding.

Now, this time, it looked obvious as to what the criminals had wanted. Perry had been going directly home after driving Della back. But he was not home. And there was blood on the floor and a horrible message on the table.

A message that, in the past, had only been left with dead bodies.

Della's heart and soul rose in a silent, desperate prayer for Perry's safety.

Tragg pulled up in front of the building and parked. As he and Della hastened inside moments later, a voice suddenly called from behind them.

"Lieutenant Tragg! Della!"

Both stopped and turned. Della stared in amazement; Hamilton Burger was hurrying towards them, visibly worried. "Has there been any news?" he asked as he caught up.

"No, there hasn't," Tragg answered. He, Della noted, did not seem surprised to see the district attorney.

"I came as soon as I got your message," Burger told him.

Tragg nodded. "Good." He resumed his pace towards the doors, Della and Mr. Burger walking hurriedly alongside.

Several minutes later they were finally arriving on Perry's floor. Police and spectators were everywhere. Officers questioned the other residents while more combed Perry's apartment. Yellow crime scene tape was stretched across the open doorway.

Tragg held it up in order for Della and Mr. Burger to pass under. He followed, casting a grim eye about the scene. Following his gaze, Della could not refrain from a horrified gasp at the sight of the bloodstains.

"Della!"

Again Della looked up. This time it was Paul coming over, weaving his way around furniture and police. Della met him halfway, her emotions crumbling under the strain. "Oh Paul . . ." She drew her arms around him in a helpless embrace. "What happened? What are we going to do?"

Paul held her, gazing over her shoulder at the blood. "I don't know," he said. "I've called all of my men to start looking for Perry and Trevor Bartlett."

Della nodded. "He must have taken him," she berated. "But why? If he wanted to . . . to . . ." Her unfinished sentence hung in the air. If he wanted to kill Perry, why didn't he just do it here? Or worse, had he done it here and then taken Perry's body for some unthinkable, sick reason?

Paul looked as helpless as she felt. "Maybe he wants Perry alive for now," he said. "We can't give up."

Della pulled away, trying to compose herself. "I'm not going to," she said. She refused to believe Perry was dead. They had to be able to save him.

"He must have had at least one accomplice. There's no way Bartlett could have dragged Perry out of here all by himself."

Both of them snapped to attention at Mr. Burger's words. That was true, they realized.

"Who could it have been?" Della wondered.

"Almost anyone," Burger said, looking to her. "A family member, a friend, even just a mercenary."

Tragg nodded. "My men are going the rounds, questioning everyone they can find whom he knew." He glanced over idly at the flash from a police photographer's camera and then back again.

"Do you have any idea who was hurt?" Paul asked. It was likely that it was Perry, he knew, but there was always the chance that the blood belonged to Trevor or his mysterious accomplice.

"No," Tragg admitted. "But there's a bullet in the wall right over here." He turned, indicating the wall near the door. "And there's a shell casing on the floor, near the blood."

Della watched, her heart sinking. "Perry doesn't carry a gun," she said. "It must have belonged to Bartlett or his helper."

"He could've been struggling with Trevor over it," Paul said. "It doesn't necessarily mean Perry's the one who got shot, if anyone did."

Della nodded. But in any case, Perry would have to be hurt to some extent. There was no other way he could have been taken out of his apartment without someone hearing a commotion.

"Lieutenant!"

Everyone turned to look at Sergeant Brice's voice. He was making his way over to them, balancing a gold chain and locket on the end of his pen.

"We found this under the couch," he announced.

"I see," Tragg frowned, peering at the object. It was open, revealing a mysterious photograph on one side—that of a dark-haired woman, her features blurred. The overall picture quality was grainy at best.

"Who is she?" Della wondered. "She certainly isn't Gladys Thorn."

"The locket might not even belong to Bartlett," Tragg said. "It might be our only clue to his accomplice." He held out an evidence bag and Brice slipped it off the pen and into the clear plastic satchel.

"We'll see if we can clear up the picture and learn the woman's identity," Brice said. "And if there's any fingerprints, hopefully we'll find out who's interested in her."

Della nodded. "What about some other place Bartlett owns where he might have taken Perry?" she wondered.

"His family owns a cabin nearby," Tragg said. "We're investigating that too." He sighed. "But if Bartlett really wants to stay concealed he won't go there or anywhere else that might be readily searched. He might rely on this unknown accomplice for a location instead."

Paul sighed. "In that case, there probably won't be any fingerprints in here," he said. "They wouldn't want to leave anything that could be traced back to them."

"Lucky for us, I doubt they were intending for this to be lost," Tragg smiled, holding up the evidence bag. "There might very well be prints on this locket. And in any case, the picture inside should help us out somewhat."

Della nodded, feeling horribly empty and blank. This was a nightmare, something she had feared for so long but that had never come true. Why had it happened now? Why couldn't it have stayed an unfounded horror?

"Della . . ."

She raised her eyes at Mr. Burger's voice. He was looking to her now, holding his hat in his hands and gripping the brim.

"I'm honestly sorry about what's happened," he said. "I'm going to have my men on the case too. And I'll be investigating personally." He shifted, looking awkward. "I hope you know that even though Perry and I have our differences, I . . . well, I don't have anything against him." By the last part he was almost mumbling, embarrassed to even be broaching the subject.

Della managed a fond smile. That was Hamilton Burger for you.

Louder, he continued, "And I don't want anything to happen to him. I'll do everything I can to help."

"Thank you," Della said.

"We'll find him," Paul tried to assure her.

"That's not what I'm worried about," she answered quietly. Though she did not elaborate, everyone knew what she meant.

Would they find him in time?

xxxx

It was the ticking of the clock that awakened Perry. A weak groan escaped his lips as the return to consciousness brought with it immense pain. His side was throbbing, but his head was outright pounding. Someone had left him propped on the floor against the wall, a highly uncomfortable position.

He forced his eyes open. He was in a small square room, its only furniture a rectangular table. The one window was covered by iron bars. The talkative clock was perched on the windowsill.

"You should find these quarters satisfactory."

He looked to the left at the voice. Trevor Bartlett was standing in front of a closed door, his arms crossed over his chest.

"I don't," said Perry, his tone both flat and tinged with pain. "Where is this place?"

"This, for all intents and purposes, Mr. Mason, is your prison cell," Trevor said. "It's just about the size of the cell Gladys was in while she waited for her execution."

Perry started to rise, but his side and his head both launched a protest. He sank back, his hand going to his injured side. It was still tender and stabbed him as he touched it. The wound had been dressed, but only enough to keep him from bleeding to death.

"Who treated my gunshot wound?" he asked. "You or your lackey?"

"He did," Trevor said.

"He did a very sloppy job," Perry retorted.

"He did exactly what I told him to." Trevor's tone was smooth and venomous. "After all, I don't want that wound to heal. I want you to stay here and suffer until you die."

"And when will that be?" Perry's voice darkened, his anger evident.

"Exactly when I decide to kill you," Trevor said. "See, with you it's not going to be like Gladys's execution in every way. I don't want you to know when you're going to die. I want you to watch that clock and wait and wonder. Will it be this day? This hour? This minute?"

"And what's going to stop me from ignoring the pain of my wound and getting up to go past you?" Perry asked, refusing to acknowledge the sadistic tirade.

"Oh, I expect you to try to escape, Mr. Mason," Trevor said. "I expect it and encourage it."

"Because you plan to stop me at every turn," Perry guessed.

"And you'll be hurt worse each and every time," Trevor vowed.

Perry leaned back. "That doesn't surprise me, after what you've already done," he said. "What are you trying to accomplish, Trevor? Get yourself executed as well?"

"I don't care what happens to me," Trevor returned, "just as long as you suffer and die, Mr. Mason." He reached into his jacket pocket. "You could have got Gladys off if you'd stayed her attorney. I know you could have."

"I wasn't going to help an admitted murderer," Perry said. "Especially not considering the reasons she gave for her cold-hearted actions."

Trevor gave a bitter laugh. "And you think all the clients you've gotten off are innocent?"

"They have been," Perry said. "At any rate, if any of them have killed, it's been only in self-defense."

"Oh yes, that precious, noble self-defense," Trevor mocked.

Perry's eyes narrowed. "You can't begin to think that Gladys's reasons were justified," he said. "She killed them because she wanted their money and they were in the way. She said so herself."

"So what?" Trevor snapped.

"So, that's murder in the first degree," Perry said.

"Do you know how many people sit around committing crimes and are never caught for them?" Trevor said. "Those big-name gangsters; the police don't do anything about most of them."

"They do what they can," Perry said. "When they have the proper evidence or proof, the 'big-name gangsters' are arrested, just like anyone else who breaks the law."

"Not if the gangsters have the police in their hip pockets," Trevor said. "Face it, Mr. Mason, there's corrupt law enforcement everywhere."

"I never said there wasn't," Perry said. "I don't understand where you're going with this discussion. Are you trying to say that the police should focus on the gangsters instead of people such as Gladys?"

"That's exactly what I'm saying," Trevor said.

"They're all criminals," Perry shot back. "Every one of them should be brought to justice."

"That's what I'm seeking too." Now Trevor's voice was only a hiss. "Justice." He drew his hand out of his pocket. He was gripping a Taser, deliberately aimed near the wound in Perry's side.

Before Perry could even try to make a move to either get it away from him or at least get out of the way, Trevor lunged. In one moment he had the weapon pressed against Perry's side and was squeezing the trigger.

A cruel and evil smirk spread across his face as Perry could not hold back the cry of agony.