“Get out and walk,” Arturas said.
“What?”
“Pull over and park,” Arturas said. “You can walk here if you’re so close.”
Herkus gave an exasperated laugh. “No, I can’t. There’s nowhere to pull over. Even if there was, I couldn’t get across the traffic. It’s too—”
“I don’t care. Just get here.”
“Listen, boss, I—”
The knock at the driver’s window almost caused Herkus to drop the phone.
“Hold on,” he said to Arturas.
The traffic cop bent down and looked through the glass at him, his pudgy cheeks red and wet from the snow. He knocked again and made a winding motion with his gloved hand.
Herkus gave a polite smile and hit the down button.
“Afternoon, sir,” the cop said.
Herkus nodded.
“Any idea why I came over and knocked your window?” the cop asked, a tired flatness to his voice.
Herkus shook his head.
“I came over and knocked your window because I saw you using your phone,” the cop said. “As I’m sure you’re aware, it’s an offense to operate a mobile phone when in charge of a motor vehicle.”
“Is it?” Herkus asked. He hung up, ignoring the tinny sound of Arturas’s voice, and dropped the phone onto the dashboard. Watching the policeman, he placed his hands in plain view on the steering wheel. The sweat on his palms slicked the leather.
“Yes it is,” the cop said. “I’ll not ask you to step out of the car because of the traffic, but I’ll have a look at your documents, if you don’t mind.”
“Dock-ment?” Herkus asked.
“License and insurance certificate,” the cop said, his pleasant demeanor growing more forced.
“I English no good,” Herkus said.
“License and insurance,” the cop said. “Now.”
Herkus shook his head. “No English.”
The cop opened the door, reached in, and took the key from the ignition, letting the car’s engine die. “Out,” he said. He jerked his thumb in a gesture that couldn’t be misunderstood, whatever the language.
Herkus let his right hand drop between his legs, his fingertips almost touching the floor of the car. The Glock and ammunition lay tucked into a compartment cut into the underside of the seat. He only needed to reach down, pull back the fabric, and grab the pistol.
“Out,” the cop said again.
“No English,” Herkus said.
Possibilities raced through his mind, but he knew they were fueled by the cocaine. The packet was hidden along with the Glock. He breathed deep, felt the winter air tingle in his nasal passages.
Be calm, Herkus told himself. Be good. They can’t touch you. He lifted his hand from between his legs and got out of the car.
“Wasn’t so hard, was it?” the cop said.
Herkus shrugged. The other cop had stayed where he was, directing traffic, but kept an eye on his partner as he waved and signaled at the motorists.
“Documents,” the cop said to Herkus. “License. Insurance.”
“Okay,” Herkus said.
He reached inside the car, pulled down the sun visor, grabbed his Lithuanian license and company insurance certificate, and handed them over.
Herkus waited while the cop examined the plastic card and the sheet of paper. “European People Management?” he asked.
“My boss,” Herkus said. “He pay insurance.”
“Your English has improved,” the cop said. “Well, let’s see if you can understand this: We’re going to move your car to the side of the road so we can have a proper chat. Okay?”
“Okay,” Herkus said.
The cop whistled at his partner, a taller, thinner man, and beckoned him over. They huddled in conversation, agreed something, and the fat cop got into the Mercedes. He restarted the engine while the other began directing traffic around it.
“Why don’t you move over to the pavement, sir?” he asked.
Herkus did as he was told, but took his time about it. He ambled toward the footpath as if it were his own wish to do so. The cop resumed his directing, talking into a radio on his lapel at the same time. The Mercedes inched its way to the curb.
The phone in Herkus’s pocket rang. He pulled it out, looked at the display. Arturas, it said. He cursed and hit the reject button.
Let him wait, Herkus thought. Or he can come out here and talk to these cops.
They didn’t care about him using a phone while driving. That was just an excuse to stop him. Something was going on here. What did they really want?
Wait and see, Herkus thought. Wait and see.
35
LENNON CUT ACROSS the south of the city from Sandy Row, along the Lisburn Road, skirted around Queen’s University, then Botanic Avenue. He pulled up at the address on Rugby Road that Dan Hewitt had given him. A light burned in the window of the flat on the upper floor.
He locked the car and went to the door and rang the bell. Stepping back, he looked up to the window. The light went out. He rang the bell again.
“Coming,” a voice called from somewhere inside.
He heard footsteps on stairs, heels on a tiled floor coming closer.
The door opened and he saw a woman with an overnight bag. She stared at him for a moment, looked over his shoulder at his car, then back to him.
“Taxi?” she asked.
“No,” Lennon said. “Police.”
Her mouth and eyes widened, then her face hardened.
He held his identification out for her to see. She did not look at it.
“I sorry,” she said. “No English.”
“Rasa Kairyte.?” Lennon asked.
She shook her head. “No English.”
“Can we speak inside?”
“No,” she said.
“Here, then.”
She stepped back, tried to close the door, but Lennon blocked it.
“Tomas Strazdas,” he said. “Sam Mawhinney, Mark Mawhinney, Darius Banys.”
Her eyes brimmed. “No English,” she said once more, her voice breaking.
“You could be next,” Lennon said.
“No,” she said. “Not me. I did nothing.”
“I can help you,” Lennon said. “Talk to me and I can make you safe.”
She laughed. “Safe? With police? Arturas owns police.”
“Arturas Strazdas?”
A car pulled up, its tires spraying gray slush. It sounded its horn.
“I go now,” she said. She stepped out, closed the door behind her.
“What do you mean, Arturas owns the police?” Lennon asked as she pushed past him.
“I go,” she said. Snowflakes settled on her hair.
