“Be easier to take her to Miami,” Romero said, “if we kill Crow first.”
“Sure,” Romero said, and turned left onto Breaker Avenue.
The men in the Escalade had no expectation of being followed, so it was easy enough for Crow to keep them in sight. When they took the turn onto Breaker Avenue, Crow smiled. He knew where they were going. When the Escalade parked in front of his condo, Crow drove on past them and turned left, away from the water, onto a side street a hundred yards up the road, and parked.
It was a condo neighborhood. No kids. Everyone working. The stillness was palpable. Crow got out of the car, walked to the corner of the street, leaned on a tall blue mail-deposit box, and looked back down toward his condo. The five men from the Escalade had gotten out and were standing on the small lawn in front of the four-unit building. Crow’s unit was first floor left. The men spread out as they walked toward the door. Each had a handgun out, holding it inconspicuously down. Pros, Crow thought. Not scared of much. Don’t care if somebody sees them. Nobody home in the neighborhood anyway.
The squat man with the bald head rang Crow’s doorbell. The men waited. The bald man rang again. Then he looked at the tall man with the graying hair. The tall man said something and the bald man stepped back and kicked the door. It gave but not enough. He kicked it again and they were in.
Crow went back to his car, opened the trunk, selected a bolt-action Ruger rifle, and left the trunk ajar. He didn’t check the load. He knew it was loaded. His weapons were always loaded. Crow saw no point to empty guns. Carrying the Ruger, Crow went back to the mailbox and rested the rifle on top of it. There were a couple of late-summer butterflies drifting about. And a dragonfly. Nothing else moved. In perhaps three minutes, the men filed out of Crow’s broken front door. Their handguns were no longer visible. They headed for the Escalade.
Carefully, Crow rested his front elbow on the mailbox and sighted the Ruger in on the bald man. One’s as good as another, Crow thought. Except Romero. Romero was the stud. If he killed Romero the rest of them would go home. He took a breath, let it out, took up the trigger slack, and shot the bald man in the center of his chest. Then he went to his car, put the rifle into the trunk, latched the trunk, got in the front seat, and drove away. Besides, Crow said to himself, he had the ugliest shirt.
In front of the condo the men were crouched behind the Escalade. They had their guns out.
“Anyone see where it came from?” Romero said.
No one had. After a moment, Romero stood and walked to where Larson lay. He squatted and put his hand on Larson’s neck. Then he stood and walked back to the Escalade.
“Let’s go,” he said.
They got in and drove away, leaving Larson quiet on the front lawn.
48.
They were all in the squad room, except Molly, who was with Amber, and Arthur, who was on the desk. There was coffee, and an open box of donuts. Jesse sat at the far end of the conference table.
“We’re all on call now, all the time, until this thing shakes out,” Jesse said. “I’ll try to get you enough sleep. But if I can’t, I can’t.”
No one spoke.
“Here’s what we know,” Jesse said. “The vic is a guy named Rico Larson. His driver’s license says he lives in Miami. He was carrying a Glock nine when he was killed by one bullet from a .350 rifle. The shot probably came from about a hundred yards down the road and across the street. He was shot in front of a condominium town house rented by Wilson Cromartie.”
Suitcase Simpson reached across the table for a donut.
