hoping you knew,” she says.
As near as he can determine, the security system at the Nantz residence is state-of-the-art. There are no cheesy stickers guaranteeing quick response, because pros know that the logos are a dead giveaway as to what kind of system is in place, and therefore how to defeat it. The installation has been subtle, but Kidder knows what to look for. Every window, door and lock has been equipped with pressure-sensitive alarm devices. There are at least a dozen mini surveillance cameras mounted on various corners, and those are only the ones he can see. No doubt they’d been installed by professionals and cover every conceivable angle. Bust out a single pane, an alarm starts blaring, either at a security service, or the local cops, or both. Plus you’ll be starring on the video cameras. Hi there, world, this is me on my way to prison.
Too bad Nantz hasn’t contracted with Gama Guards. The very thought makes him want to giggle. That would be too easy, and not all that much fun. Bottom line, it doesn’t matter what kind of system she has, or how foolproof they think it is, there’s one surefire, never-fail way around it.
All he has to do is determine who the first responders are.
Kidder finds a nice, comfortable spot behind a Dumpster in the so-called public alley. He’s good at waiting. Back in the day when he’d been in the military, an elite warrior trained to kill with his bare hands, he’d once had to hold position for fifteen hours until the target, a terrified gray-haired hajji with a comically hooked nose and a rap star’s gold tooth, finally crawled out of the wreckage of what had been his home. Thought he’d made it, too, until he felt the cold muzzle against the base of his skull. Kidder put him down like Old Yeller-his own personal joke, because of the tooth. Of course he kept the tooth as a souvenir, who wouldn’t? Had it drilled and put on a matching gold chain which he wears around his neck as a reminder of the fun times over there in the sandbox.
Old Yeller, yuk, yuk.
With infinite patience Kidder begins to assemble his custom-made weapon. The twelve-inch rifled barrel from where it has been strapped to his leg. The plastic hand-stock from his right trouser pocket. The spring-loaded trigger mechanism from his left trouser pocket. And from beneath the carefully buttoned flap of his shirt pocket, a single fifty-caliber, five-hundred-and-seventy grain, center-fire, round-tipped, soft-nose bullet.
Just the one bullet. Because all he needs is one shot.
Chapter Forty-Two
I’m dreaming about prison when the alarm begins to whoop. In my dream the prison cells are a kind of concrete maze, with some cells branching off into dead ends, others leading to the next cell and the next. There are no prisoners, none that I can find. The prison/maze seems to be empty. Except I keep hearing something on the other side of the concrete walls, just around the next corner. Something furtive but alive. Something, or someone, that I have to find, and which keeps me hunting from cell to cell, heart pounding.
The alarm isn’t particularly loud, but is accompanied by flashing lights throughout the residence. And if that isn’t enough to wake me, Teddy pounds on my door. “Alice! Get up! Someone’s trying to break in!”
The nightmare about the prison hasn’t cleared from my mind, and at first I think that it’s
“Come on,” he says, grabbing my arm. “We have to get to the safe room!”
That’s the drill. If the security alarm goes off, indicating a possible break-in, we’re all supposed to pile into the safe room-a windowless vault not far from the library-and wait until the first responders from Beacon Hill Security clear the premises. Mrs. Beasley, clad in a very handsome pair of men’s pajamas, has beat us to the safe room and sits there with her arms crossed, looking somewhere between bored and resolute. Naomi, fully, if hastily, dressed, arrives a moment later with Milton Bean in tow. Mr. Bean has wrapped himself in a sheet and looks like he escaped from a toga party, and isn’t sure if he should be amused or terrified.
“What’s going on?” he wants to know.
“Probably just a false alarm, but we need to take precautions.”
Naomi helps Teddy secure the door to the safe room. The vault is appointed like a small airport executive lounge, with low-level lighting, comfortable seating, a small refrigerator stocked with food and beverages and a video console wirelessly connected to all the security cameras in and around the residence. We watch as first one Beacon Hill Security patrol car rolls up in the public alley, then another, and finally a Boston Police patrol car arrives street-side. The Boston cops will secure the exterior of the building, which means they’ll walk the perimeter and check for signs of break-in. The Beacon Hill Security guards will, by previous arrangement, enter the residence and conduct a room-by-room search.
Fifteen minutes after the alarm first sounds, the Beacon Hill boss punches into the safe-room intercom, enters the code and informs us that the premises are clear and the situation is, his word, “contained.” And so we emerge unscathed if bleary-eyed to the news that a bullet has been fired through the third-floor window of Jack’s bedroom. That’s what triggered the alarm. No one has actually attempted to enter the premises.
“That glass is supposed to be bullet-resistant,” Naomi says, shocked by the news.
“Under normal circumstances it would be,” the security chief tells her.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Whoever did this was firing something like an elephant gun. We found a large hunk of lead in the bedroom ceiling. Had to be a fifty caliber, and to get through the glass-it punched a hole as big as a grapefruit. The angle indicates it was fired from ground level, from the vicinity of the alley.”
“An elephant gun, you say?”
He shrugs. “Something powerful enough to stop an elephant. Your window barriers will stop penetration from small-arms fire, up to and including an Uzi on full auto. So this had to have been a high-powered rifle with special ammunition. We’re going to turn the slug over to the police, see what they make of it. With your permission.”
Naomi nods her permission and turns to me. “My God, what if Jack had been there?”
“Saved by his wife, you might say. I’ll be sure to tell him that.”
“This is serious.”
“I am serious. Jack should know that in his case there’s an advantage to staying married.” When she frowns her disapproval at my jocularity, I add, “Come on, this was a drive-by shooting, not a serious assassination attempt.”
“With an elephant gun.”
“Don’t get hung up on the size of the gun. Whoever did this obviously knew they needed a powerful weapon to make a statement. Had they wanted to kill one of us, they’d have fired into a room that was occupied. The lights never came on in Jack’s room because he never came back from happy hour with his state cop buddy. It can’t be a coincidence that the shot was fired into an unoccupied room. And into the ceiling at that.”
Naomi stares at me, her brain buzzing through the possibilities, and in the end she agrees with my assessment. “The odds favor your theory,” she admits. “This was likely a warning shot, intended to discourage our investigation.”
“No chance of that.”
“None whatsoever,” Naomi says, resolute. “As a precaution I’ll keep the Beacon Hill security guards stationed outside the residence, at least for now.”
“So we can all go back to bed?”
“That’s advisable. We’re all going to need as much rest as we can get. That goes for you, young man,” she says to Teddy, who has lingered nearby, awaiting instructions. “By my estimation you haven’t had a full sleep cycle in at least three days. I want your mind clear for the next assignment, which is going to be difficult.”
“What’s the next assignment?” he asks instantly, beating me to it.
“I’ll know more tomorrow,” Naomi says enigmatically, and marches off to her room, as if on a mission.
Teddy waits until she’s gone before touching me on the arm to get my attention. “She’ll know more
