damaged chestnut cart he had landed upon.
Peter knelt down, just to make sure Wolfe was dead.
He was.
Beneath the damaged awning stood the security guard Peter had freed from the closet. The guard had a cell phone pressed to his ear, and a bewildered look on his face.
“I could use a little help,” Peter said.
With the guard’s help, Peter patted Wolfe down until the flames were extinguished. It was the perfect send- off for someone going straight to hell, he thought.
“No one’s going to believe this,” the guard said.
“What do you mean?” Peter asked.
“He was being held in the air by a bunch of birds.”
A siren pierced the air. No one had ever accused the New York police of being slow. He needed to plant the seed of doubt with the guard before the police arrived.
“What birds? What are you talking about?” Peter asked.
“You didn’t see them?” the guard asked.
“Afraid not.”
“Come on. Don’t tell me I’m seeing things.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Peter said. “I went into Milly Adams’ apartment, and found this guy attacking my friends. We fought, and I threw him out the window, and he fell to the sidewalk.”
“You threw him out the window? What about the flipping birds?”
“You must have imagined them.”
“No such luck. I stopped drinking twenty years ago. They were black and making this godawful racket. I think they were the crows that live in the oak trees across the street.”
“I didn’t see them.”
The guard looked confused, just as Peter intended. If the guard doubted himself, the police would question his story as well, and hopefully not believe him. A white Crown Vic with a flashing bubble on its dashboard came racing up Central Park West. The cavalry had arrived.
“What are you going to tell the police?” Peter asked.
“That’s a darn good question,” the guard said.
The guard waved the vehicle down. It braked with a rubbery squeal, and four men wearing dark suits jumped out. Each sported a short haircut and had a Bluetooth in his ear. Not cops, but agents of some other law enforcement agency, Peter decided.
Two of the agents checked Wolfe to make sure he was dead.
“No life in this one,” one of them said.
The man in charge nodded grimly. He was built like a linebacker, with broad shoulders and no visible neck. He confronted Peter and the guard.
“Which one of you called 911?” he asked.
“I did,” the guard said.
“Come over by the car. I need to speak with you.”
The guard stood by the Crown Vic and answered questions. Peter felt his cell phone vibrate, and slipped it from his pocket. It was Holly, sending him a text message.
U OK?
YES
I’M IN THE LOBBY WHO ARE THOSE GUYS?
Peter glanced over his shoulder. Holly looked at him through a window, her breath fogging the glass. He turned back around, and resumed texting.
GOVERNMENT THEY WILL PROBABLY QUESTION YOU
WHAT SHOULD WE DO?
LIE
I KNOW THAT! SOMETHING WRONG WITH MILLY
WHAT?!
NOT TALKING RIGHT
CALL AMBULANCE
DID THAT I’M SCARED
He again looked through the window. Holly looked very scared.
SHE’LL BE OKAY
HOPE SO
“Hey, I want to talk to you.”
Peter looked up. The agent in charge was motioning to him. The guard stood to one side with a sheepish look on his face. He’d told him about the birds.
Peter walked over to the car, prepared for the worst.
“Who were you talking to on your phone,” the agent in charge asked.
“A girl I know. Who are you?”
The agent flipped open his wallet. Chad Morningstar, CIA. The CIA had kidnaped Nemo, and Peter could not let the same thing happen to him, or Holly, or Max and Milly. None of them deserved to lose their freedom because of this.
“What’s your name,” Morningstar asked.
“Peter Warlock.”
“Do you mind answering some questions, Peter?”
“Not at all.”
“Good. Get in the car.”
“Why? Where are we going?”
“To a secure place.”
“What’s wrong with right here?”
“You got a problem getting in the car?”
“Come to mention it, yes.”
Morningstar grabbed his arm, and looked ready to get physical. A dark thought passed through Peter’s mind, and he saw himself pounding Morningstar into the ground as payback for what his bosses had done to Nemo. He took a deep breath, and the feeling passed.
“Whatever you say,” Peter told him.
Peter got into the back of the Crown Vic. As Morningstar shut the door, Peter gave the CIA agent a hard stare. The knowing look in his eye was all too familiar.
Peter fell back into the seat. The game was over.
As the car pulled away from the curb, Peter glanced at the front of the Dakota. Holly was watching, and had tears running down her cheeks. He wondered if he would ever see her again.
They hurtled downtown.
42
Morningstar took him to the 14th Precinct on West 35th Street, also known as Midtown South. It was here that the criminals of Times Square were brought to be booked. The precinct had a reputation for being a cesspool, and they passed an assortment of lowlifes on their way to the basement. Peter looked down as he walked, and tried to remain calm.
They entered a small room with a desk and two chairs. Peter sat in an uncomfortable wooden chair and put his elbows on the desk. There was another chair beside his, which he assumed was for a lawyer. Morningstar remained standing.
“Tell me about Wolfe,” the CIA agent said.
