“What should I say?”
Condon covered his heart like a school kid pledging allegiance. “Tell the whole truth and nothing but the truth.”
“Except for my pulling a gun on you,” I said.
“Right,” he said, and he was up and out.
“What about our friends Max and Milton?” Condon asked.
“They stay here,” I said. “And they’re not my fucking friends.”
The night was nobody’s friend. The sky was black and the city was gray. A cold wind blew leaves and rubbish and scraps of paper across the all-but-deserted streets of the most beautiful borough in the world.
As I got behind the wheel, and Condon slid his big frame into the rider’s seat, I said, “I’m a stranger to this part of the world, Professor—you’ll have to navigate.”
“I can do that ably,” he said cheerily. Then, turning suddenly somber, he said, “I trust, despite our differences, we can join forces in this just cause.”
“We’ll do fine, Professor. I’m just here to back you up.”
Placated, Condon folded his hands on his lap and I pulled away from the curb, heading west.
Eight solitary blocks later, he said, “Turn north on Jerome Avenue—just up ahead.”
I turned onto the all-but-deserted thoroughfare, gloomy and gray under the subdued glow of the street lights. Condon pointed out the last subway station on Jerome Avenue, and I slowed.
“There’s the hot-dog stand,” I said.
On the left side of the street was the sagging, deteriorating shack, a summertime operation that had missed a couple summers. The sad little booth was fronted by an equally sad, sagging porch. I pulled a U-turn and stopped before it.
“Allow me,” Condon said, and got out.
He climbed several steps to the porch, each step giving and groaning under his weight. In the middle of the porch was a big flat rock, which I could see Condon stoop to lift. He returned quickly, an envelope in hand.
We were almost directly under a street lamp. He tore the envelope open and read the note aloud to me: “‘Cross the street and follow the fence from the cemetery direction to Two Hundred Thirty-Third Street. I will meet you.’”
“How far is that, Professor?”
“About a mile. The fence mentioned is the one enclosing Woodlawn Cemetery to the north—Two Hundred Thirty-Third Street runs east-west and intersects Jerome Avenue about a mile north of this frankfurter stand. It forms the northern border of the cemetery.”
“Which means?”
“You’ll have to swing the car around again.”
I pulled another U-turn. We couldn’t have had less traffic if the world ended yesterday. On our one side was the rolling wooded acreage of a park, on the other a sprawling, iron-fenced cemetery.
“That’s Woodlawn,” Condon explained. “And that park is Van Cortlandt.”
“You’d be better off if that cab driver had driven you.”
“Perhaps, Detective Heller—but if pressed I’ll admit I like having you, and your gun, around.”
We kept going along Jerome, parallel to the cemetery, stopping about fifty feet short of the 233rd Street intersection. Ahead was a triangular plaza that was the entrance to Woodlawn Cemetery, with heavy iron gates, shut and undoubtedly locked.
I pulled over. “Go on up and stand by that gate.”
“You think that’s the location the kidnappers meant?”
“Yes. Go on. I’ll cover you.”
“I suppose that’s wise. They’ll not contact me unless I’m alone.”
“I’m here if you need me.”
He nodded and strode over to the plaza, looking around brazenly. Inconspicuous he was not.
But that was okay. We wanted the kidnappers to see him.
He paced. He dug the note out of his pocket and read and reread it—in an apparent attempt to signal any representative of the kidnap gang who might be watching. Nothing. He paced some more.
Ten minutes of this went by before he came marching back to the car. He got in.
“I don’t know what’s wrong,” he said. “There’s no one out there. Were we on time?”
“It’s nine-fifteen,” I said. “Maybe we’re early. It’s warmer in here. Sit for a few minutes.”
We sat. The wind out there did all the talking.
Then Condon said, “There’s someone!”
A short, swarthy man in a cap and with a handkerchief covering his face was walking toward us along Jerome Avenue.
