“McCall said, taking the old man’s arm. Burell jerked away. “I can’t. I got to call the cops.” “I’m a cop,” McCall said. “I don’t know—” “Let’s go.” He took the man’s arm again, firmly. Burell seemed to recognize the touch of authority. He stopped balking and hurried along, muttering. “Where did you find her?” “Jesus Christ, wait till you see her.” “Where?” “She’s dead as a doornail. Wait till you see.” It was an old, old building smelling of creosote, damp, and floor polish. McCall thought he d...etected the mortuary odor of dead flowers, too. Old Burell trotted down a hall to a flight of dark oiled stairs, and up to the top floor. “In here,” he said. He led the way across a very large room lined with chairs; there was an ancient grand piano on a dais at one end. Sun struggled through windows that looked as if the dust had been fused to the glass. “Here,” the man said. He pointed a trembling finger. McCall looked through an open doorway into the Bell Tower itself.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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