He could hear darkroom noises over her voice.
“Hello, Reba,” he said.
“Hey, D. How’re you feeling?”
Traffic passing on both sides made it hard for him to hear. “Okay.”
“Sounds like you’re at a pay phone. I thought you were home sick.”
“I want to talk to you later.”
“Okay. Call me later, all right?”
“I need to . . . see you.”
“I want you to see me, but I can’t tonight. I have to work. Will you call me?”
“Yeah. If nothing . . .”
“Excuse me?”
“I’ll call.”
“I do want you to come soon, D.”
“Yeah. Good-bye . . . Reba.”
All right. Fear trickled from his breastbone to his belly. He squeezed it and crossed the street.
Entrance to the Brooklyn Museum on Tuesdays is through a single door on the extreme right. Dolarhyde went in behind four art students. The students piled their knapsacks and satchels against the wall and got out their passes. The guard behind the desk checked them.
He came to Dolarhyde.
“Do you have an appointment?”
Dolarhyde nodded. “Painting Study, Miss Harper.”
“Sign the register, please.” The guard offered a pen.
Dolarhyde had his own pen ready. He signed “Paul Crane.”
The guard dialed an upstairs extension. Dolarhyde turned his back to the desk and studied Robert Blum’s Vintage Festival over the entrance while the guard confirmed his appointment. From the corner of his eye he could see one more security guard in the lobby. Yes, that was the one with the gun.
“Back of the lobby by the shop there’s a bench next to the main elevators,” the desk officer said. “Wait there. Miss Harper’s coming down for you.” He handed Dolarhyde a pink-on-white plastic badge.
“Okay if I leave my guitar here?”
“I’ll keep an eye on it.”
The museum was different with the lights turned down. There was twilight among the great glass cases.
Dolarhyde waited on the bench for three minutes before Miss Harper got off the public elevator.
“Mr. Crane? I’m Paula Harper.”
She was younger than she had sounded on the telephone when he called from St. Louis; a sensible-looking woman, severely pretty. She wore her blouse and skirt like a uniform.
“You called about the Blake watercolor,” she said. “Let’s go upstairs and I’ll show it to you. We’ll take the staff elevator—this way.”