with one
Brewer was surprised Omarr had lived this long. He’d been shotfour separate times. Started out as a juvie boosting cars; went inside and cameout a hardened banger, working his way up the drug-dealer food chain. Omarr thentook to a righteous cause with some “brotherhood,” which was tied tointernational smuggling networks that had fallen under Brewer’s investigationand the abduction.
Was Omarr a player in Sarah and Cole’s kidnapping?
Klaver eased their Ford to a stop before a marked unit.Cordelli and Ortiz were behind them. A few hours ago the brass had foldedCordelli’s case into Brewer’s operation. Cordelli and Ortiz, who was easy on theeyes, were now part of the task force, assigned to work with Brewer andKlaver.
What a treat, Brewer thought before his concentration wasbroken by the crackle of the radio clipped to the uniformed officer standingpoint by the patrol car.
“Ever think of using your earpiece, sport?” Brewer kept hisvoice low. “They’re not supposed to know we’re coming.”
Earlier, after Sheri Dalfini had given them Omarr, Brewer andKlaver worked the computers and the phones with their confidential informants.It didn’t take long for their C.I.s to point them to Morningside, where Omarrlived under the radar.
They’d alerted their supervisor, who got things moving on awarrant, identifying Omarr as a wanted suspect in the homicides of twounidentified males and the kidnapping.
Given the magnitude of the offenses, the NYPD’s EmergencyService Unit and scores of other police were dispatched to the marshaling pointtwo blocks from the location. Brewer saw all the u-cars but lost count.Uniformed patrols had set up the outer perimeter, deflecting traffic, while thetactical squad set up on the building.
Out of sight, down the block from the building, squad ChiefLieutenant Clint Gatlin locked onto Omarr’s apartment through hisbinoculars.
Third floor, unit 12.
His team of heavily armed officers had already studied thebuilding’s floor plan. They had, in near-silence, swiftly evacuated people fromthe line of fire in the surrounding residences and now waited inside.
Paint blistered along the walls where Gatlin’s squad had takenpositions on the stairs leading up to unit 12, on the landing above it, the fireescape behind it and on the roof.
Gatlin’s information showed that the subject possessedautomatic and semiautomatic guns and should be considered dangerous.
His team would make a forced rapid entry.
After a final round of radio checks, Gatlin gave the greenlight to his squad sergeant.
Within seconds, the team smashed through the apartment’s doorand rear window; their helmet lights raked the darkness as they swept the livingroom, kitchen, stormed down the hallway to the first bedroom where they found anelderly woman awake, alone and afraid in her small bed.
In the second bedroom they found a girl, about six or sevenyears old, alone in her bed, holding a stuffed teddy bear and crying at the biggun-toting men stampeding through her home.
The third bedroom was empty, but men’s boxers, shirts, pants,were strewn about the floor and the bed. Clothes spilled from the dresser.
The bathroom was checked, closets were checked; specialequipment was used to scan the walls and ceiling for body mass. The entire unitwas inspected three times before it was cleared and declared safe.
The squad leader radioed Gatlin, who alerted Brewer.
Brewer, Klaver, Cordelli and Ortiz donned body armor and headeddown the street. By the time they’d entered the apartment building, Louella MayBell, the unit’s rent-payer, was in her robe and seated at the kitchen tableunder guard by the ESU.
“Ma’am, are there any weapons in this home?” the officer askedher.
“I don’t have any guns. You’re the people with the guns.”
When Brewer arrived, he waved the ESU away. He and Cordelli satwith Louella at the kitchen table while Ortiz and Klaver stayed with the littlegirl in the living room. Ortiz looked around as Klaver tried to calm the childby showing her a game with butterflies on his BlackBerry.
“Don’t worry, everything’s okay,” Klaver said. “What’s yourname, sweetheart?”
The girl didn’t respond. She watched the game withoutsmiling.
In the kitchen, Brewer placed the warrant on the table next toLouella, snapped open his notebook and began jotting the date, time,address.
“Miss Bell, we understand you’re Omarr’s grandmother. We’d liketo talk to him. Could you tell us where we can find him?”
Her mournful eyes reflected a life of struggle, anuncomplaining endurance of police trouble concerning her grandson.
“I done told the other men and I’ll tell you the same, Omarr’snot here.”
“We’ve figured that out. Where is he?”
“Why you got to trouble him? He’s doing the best he can. He’shad a hard, hard life. He never knew who his father was. Did you know mydaughter was raped at fifteen when she had him? A year after he was born she wasmurdered. Omarr’s daughter Shereesa means the world to him.”
“That’s the little girl who lives here also?”
“Yes, sir, she’s seven, and Omarr loves her to death.”
Taking stock of the apartment, Ortiz thought it waswell-kept with modest dignity. The sofa, coffee table, area rugs, lamps, wereimmaculate. Framed photos of people and keepsakes were lovingly displayed on theshelves.
Ortiz inspected each of them.
Many were of older men and women, looked like they were onvacations, a few of younger people, including a good number of the littlegirl.
Ortiz stopped at one framed picture: a birthday picture.
The little girl was smiling before a huge cake with sevencandles and the words
The man standing behind her, smiling with his hands on hershoulder, was Omarr. Ortiz’s attention went to Omarr’s hand.
She concentrated on the ring he was wearing.
In the kitchen Brewer would not let up with his questions forLouella Bell.
“I told you I don’t know where Omarr is.” Louella’s eyesshifted to the doorway where Ortiz was standing.
When Brewer and Cordelli turned, Ortiz tilted her head and theyjoined her in the living room.
“Look at this one,” Ortiz pointed her BlackBerry at thebirthday photo. “Look at his ring.” Ortiz then turned her small screen to showBrewer and Cordelli the color picture she’d cued and enlarged.
It was the same ring.
The photo was among dozens provided by the crime scenepeople.
It was the ring found on one of the victims at the SUV fire inBrooklyn.
“Well, well, well,” Brewer said.
Ortiz glanced back toward the little girl, a gesture thatsuggested Brewer be careful. Then he took Ortiz’s BlackBerry and returned to thekitchen.
“Miss Bell.” Brewer showed Louella the enlarged picture of thering from the crime scene. “Omarr wears a ring just like that, doesn’t he?”
She stared at the ring in the picture for the longest time, notmoving, not saying anything until her tired eyes brimmed with tears.
“Miss Bell-” Brewer cleared his throat “-does Omarr have adentist?”
Louella closed her eyes.
She was not a stupid woman.
