Six hours later, in Richard Holt’s apartment, Ken and Sandy looked up at the sound of a key in the lock.
“It’s Dad!” Ken said. “Now we’ll get the rest of the story.”
Sandy eyed the tall paper bag that Ken’s father carried in each arm. “Now we’ll get some food,” he said.
Richard Holt smiled as he set the bags on a low table. “Help yourselves. There’s a hot roasted chicken in there, from the rotisserie, and half the contents of Max’s delicatessen. It occurred to me you might have an appetite by now.”
“We’ve been drinking hot coffee ever since we got here,” Ken told him, opening up one bag, “and we finally got warmed up. But coffee isn’t very filling.”
Sandy had already found the chicken, had dashed to the kitchen for a knife, and was hacking it up in sizable chunks.
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