Desperate Measures [antikvár]

The pistol, a Colt .45 semiautomatic, was capable of holding seven rounds in its magazine. But at the moment, it held only one, which Pittman fed into the firing chamber by pulling back the slide on top of the weapon. The well-oiled metal made a smooth, snicking sound. Fourteen years earlier, when Pittman had written his first newspaper story, it had been about a retired policeman who had committed suicide. Pittman had never forgotten a conversation he had overheard, the respectful tones with which two patrolmen at a coffee machine in their precinct headquarters had referred to their former comrade's death.'Poor bastard, couldn't stand retirement.''Drinking problém.''Wife left him.''Went out with style. Used his back-up gun. A semiautomatic. Colt forty-five. Just one round in it.'The reference had puzzled Pittman until he did some research and learned that when fired, a semiautomatic pistol ejected the used, empty cartridge and chambered a new one. The hammer recocked itself. This feature made rapid firing possible during an emergency. But the