“That’s all I ever wanted, man. I waited my whole life to meet up with my pops. I dreamed on how that reunion was gonna be. Ricardo only reached out when he found out I was MPD. And that was just to plug me in to his scheme.”
“Do they have Ernest at the building in Edmonston?”
Holley nodded. “There’s an office, and another room behind it that leads to the back door. He’s in that room.”
“Tell me more about the interior.”
Holley went through it, room by room. The doors, the windows, the vehicles that would be parked in the bays. Lucas tried to see it in his head.
“What’re you gonna do?” said Holley.
“I’ve got to get him out of there.”
“They’ll kill you soon as you give them the money. The boy, too.”
“We’ll see.”
“You’re not gonna make it.”
“You’re forgetting something,”
“What’s that?”
“I’ve done this before.”
In the fading light of dusk, Lucas’s eyes were bright.
Lucas and Larry Holley spoke for a little while longer and exchanged cell numbers. Holley drove off in the black Crown Victoria, and Lucas went back up to his apartment. In his bedroom he pulled the throw rug and his shoes out of the closet. He freed the wood cutout in the floor and reached down into the hole and from the framed basket retrieved the steel Craftsman toolbox that had been his father’s. He opened the lid and removed the top tray. In the main compartment he found what he was looking for: a pistol, a holster and belt, and two fifteen-round magazines holding metal-jacketed rounds.
Lucas moved to his desk, where he had placed the. 38 Special, now loaded with hollow points and seated in its holster. He examined the gun he had taken from the toolbox. It was a double-action semiautomatic Beretta, an M-9 with a steel body and black checkered grip. It was similar to the sidearm Lucas had carried in Iraq. He had replaced the military-issue magazines with those manufactured in the Beretta factory because he felt they were more reliable. The previous owner had been left-handed, and Lucas had switched the safety for right-hand use. It was not a perfect weapon, but he was comfortable with it and in his grip it felt right.
Sitting at the desk, he picked up the Beretta and, with the gun pointed sideways, pulled back its slide several times. This would allow any rounds left in the chamber to fall free; none did. With the slide locked out, he looked through the chamber and determined that it was clear. He pointed the weapon at the floor and he dry-fired and heard a click. He then palmed one of the magazines into the gun and racked the slide. With the safety on, he fitted the gun into the holster and belt. He slipped the second magazine into one of the pouches of a black nylon mesh pistol vest that he had laid out on his bed. He put all of his gear and a couple of bottles of water into a medium- sized duffel and placed it by his front door.
He phoned Ricardo Holley. Their conversation was pointed and short.
Lucas changed into a black T-shirt. Without introspection he went to his door, picked up the duffel bag, took the stairs down to the exit, and walked to his Jeep. Full night was on the street.
TWENTY-FOUR
Larry Holley dropped the Crown Vic off in the lot behind the 4D station, switched over to his black Escalade, and drove through the northeast quadrant of the city and into Maryland. He pulled over to the shoulder on a side street in the industrial section of Edmonston and killed his engine. He had stopped several commercial buildings short of the Mobley Detailing lot. Larry got out of the SUV and left it unlocked.
He walked down the street. No one was out, and there seemed to be no activity in any of the properties he passed. It was dead as a graveyard back here at night.
He was in blue. Not a patrolman’s uniform but the uniform of his squad. On the back of his shirt “Police” was spelled out in big white letters. His Glock 17 was holstered on his side. In an ankle holster he had fitted an old Armscor six-shot. 38 revolver. He had found it under the seat of a suspect’s car and now it was his throwdown. Larry did not expect or want to use either of the guns. He had never even drawn his service weapon except in front of a mirror. Violence wasn’t in his nature, but in the event that it transpired, he was fully armed.
He walked across the Mobley lot. He reached into his pants pocket and took out his cell and called Beano Mobley on his.
“Mobley speaking.”
“It’s Larry. I’m on my way in.”
“Wasn’t expecting you, man.”
“I’m here, Beano, right out front. Let me in.”
Larry always phoned Beano, and Beano was always the one who opened the door. As he neared it, he heard the dead bolt turn, and Larry walked right through as the door swung open, Mobley behind it in his white guayabera shirt, the stub of an unlit cigar wedged in the corner of his mouth. Mobley looked around the edge of the door before closing it.
“Where your ’Lade at, Larry?”
“On the street. I don’t want anyone to know I’m here.”
“You ashamed?”
“Close the door, Beano. You’re gonna catch cold.”
Mobley laughed huskily. Of Ricardo’s associates, Larry disliked him the least. Beano was crooked but likeable in a drunken-uncle kind of way. Larry thought: too bad about him. Righteous fire burns all.
Mobley closed the door and threw the dead bolt. “The fellas is in the back.”
The Expedition, the DTS, and the Mark V were parked in the bays, with the big SUV taking up much of the space. Larry walked under a flashing fluorescent light, through the narrow opening between the Lincoln and the Ford, and when he came to the office he knocked on its door and turned the knob at the same time. He walked inside and Beano Mobley came with him.
Bernard White and Ricardo Holley were standing by the steel gun cabinet behind the desk. A couple of the pistol compartments were open, the red felt lining of their interior cavities visible. Bernard White wore an oversize T-shirt with cutoff sleeves and work pants. He held a Heckler amp; Koch 9mm auto-pistol loosely in his hand. Ricardo was in the process of slipping a Glock under his shirt. The 17 had been his sidearm when he was on the force, and he was fond of it. A large tumbler half-filled with whiskey sat atop the desk. Also on the desk, Ricardo’s keys.
“What you doin here?” said Ricardo, his eyes unfocused. His shirt was bright purple silk, buttoned to the neck and decorated with a bolo tie. He wore billowing black slacks; on his feet were black side-weaves. “Thought you were through.”
“I am,” said Larry. “But you still owe me money.”
“What I tell you, Beano?” said White. “Man acts all high and mighty, but he still wants to get paid.”
“I don’t have the cash,” said Ricardo. “You know this. Lucas took it.”
“When you’re gonna get it?”
“Lucas called me a little while ago. He’s comin here tomorrow morning, ten A.M. Says he’s bringin the money.”
“And you’re gonna do what?”
“Take it,” said Ricardo.
“I mean after.”
“That ain’t none of your business anymore,” said Ricardo.
“It is if it comes back on me,” said Larry. “You kidnapped a minor. I got a right to be concerned.”
“Oh, you concerned,” said Ricardo.
“The boy’s all right,” said Mobley. “He’s scared, is all.”
