The Autumn Dead
“She has an apartment building you can get into only if someone inside buzzes you in. I buzzed several times. Nothing.
I walked out to the parking lot and watched the moon and thought about Karen Lane, alternating between absolute certainty that what had happened to her had been coincidental—stroke, aneurysm, as Bill Lynott had suggested—and knowing with equal certainty that she'd somehow been murdered.
"Hello," said a couple walking past me from their car. They were both stockbrokers and both wore gray flannel suits, and both drove Datsun Zs and smoked Merits and belonged to health clubs and vacationed in Aspen and subscribed to the Book-of-the-Month Club. I knew all this because Donna had profiled them for Ad World as typical age-thirty-five consumers. The odd thing was, they even looked alike in a certain way, blond and blue-eyed, friendly in an almost ingenuous way. Their name was Burkett and I sort of liked them.
"Hello," I said.
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