brighter in absence than the surrounding soot-covered bricks. Carella was thinking he could have phoned in an address. 837 South 185th. Get the Feds to throw a net over the surrounding five blocks. Follow whoever picked up the cash. But no.
Loomis parked the limo behind the skeletal wreck. The black Lincoln basked in bright sunshine like a sleek black cat. In front of it, the rusted Whatever-It-Once-Had-Been crouched like a starving hyena, its ribs showing. The two men sat in silence, waiting. The caller had told them they’d be watched from this moment on. Carella scoped the area. Any one of five deserted tenements could be a sniper’s observation post. A rifleman could be kneeling behind any one of a hundred windows that looked down at the street.
“Why here, for God’s sake?” Loomis asked.
“Deserted area, number one,” Carella said. “Clear sight lines. From any one of these buildings, they can see for blocks around.”
The car phone rang.
He reached for it at once, but Loomis said, “I’ll take it,” and lifted the receiver.
“Hello?”
“Mr. Loomis?”
“Yes?”
“Put Steve on, could you please?”
“He wants you,” Loomis said, and handed him the phone.
“Carella,” he said.
“Are you armed, Steve?”
“I am.”
“What kind of weapon?”
“A Glock nine.”
“Do you have the money?”
“Yes.”
“Is it in a dispatch case?”
“Yes.”
“Step out of the car, Steve. Just you. Tell Mr. Loomis to stay in the car. Take the case with you. The phone, too. Don’t forget the phone, Steve. Wouldn’t want to lose touch, now would we? When you’re out of the car, talk to me, Steve. We’re not through here yet.”
Carella reached over for the dispatch case on the back seat. “He wants you to stay in the car,” he told Loomis.
“Why?”
Carella gave him a look, and then opened the door on his side, and stepped out onto the curb, the dispatch case in his left hand, the phone in his right. He closed the door behind him. He brought the phone to his mouth.
“I’m out,” he said.
“Go to the back of the car,” Avery said.
Carella went around to the back of the car.
“Look at the license plate.”
“I’m looking.”
“I want you to believe we’ve got binocs on you right this minute,” Avery said. “Is the license plate number BR-2100?”
“It is,” Carella said.
“Do something with your hands.”
“What do you mean?”
“Perform some sort of action.”
Carella put the dispatch case flat on the roof of the car, and then raised his left hand over his head.
“You put the dispatch case on the roof and raised your left hand, is that correct?” Avery asked.
“Yes,” Carella said.
“And the case is black, is that also correct?”
“Yes, it’s black.”
“I want you to believe that we can see you and that a rifle with a telescopic sight is trained on your head. Do you believe that?”
“I believe it.”
“Good. Ask Mr. Loomis to come out of the car, please.”
Carella went around to the driver’s side of the limo, rapped on the glass there. The window slid down.
“They want you to get out of the car,” Carella said.
“Why?” Loomis asked again.
Carella looked at him.
Loomis got out and slammed the door behind him.
“We see him,” Avery said. “Give him the dispatch case.”
Carella handed it to him.
“Tell him we’ve got rifles trained on both of you.”
“They’ve got us covered from somewhere around here,” Carella told Loomis, looking up at the surrounding buildings. “Rifles with telescopic sights.”
“Okay,” Loomis said, and looked up, too, and nodded.
“Steve?”
“Yes?”
“Here’s what I want you to do, Steve. Unholster your weapon. Remember, we’re watching you.”
Carella transferred the phone to his left hand. He reached down into his holster, yanked the Glock up and into his hand.
“It’s out,” he said.
“This is a bad neighborhood,” Avery said. “I guess you noticed that.”
“I noticed it.”
“We don’t want anything to happen to that money. Keep the piece in your hand, Steve. Make sure it’s visible in case any stray squatters get any brilliant ideas.”
“Okay.”
“Now I want you and Mr. Loomis to walk that money right into the red brick building there. Remember, we’re watching you.”
“He wants us to go inside that building,” Carella told Loomis.
“Why?” Loomis asked, and again Carella looked at him.
Together the men walked toward the building where the absent 8-3-7 numerals left stark reminders on the entrance wall. The barricade was gone from the front door, fragments of wood still clinging to the door frame where the boards had been torn free. Carella walked into the building first, gun hand leading him. He heard a frenzied scurrying and squealing up ahead, and stopped dead in his tracks.
He did not appreciate rats.
When he and Teddy had been living in their Riverhead house for just a week, he’d opened the basement door and was heading downstairs when he spotted a rat the size of an alley cat sitting on the steps, staring up at him with his beady little eyes and twitching whiskers. He’d slammed the door shut at once, whirled on Teddy, and frantically signed,
He definitely did not appreciate rats.
“What the hell is
Into the phone, Carella said, “The place is overrun with rats. Tell me what you want us to do, okay?”
“Go up to the first floor. Apartment 14. The numerals are still on the door.”
“Are you walking us into a trap?” Carella asked.
“You’ve got a gun in your hand,” Avery reminded him.
They started up the steps, Carella in the lead. The hand railing was gone. They braced themselves against
