“Me, too,” Ollie said dubiously.
His hand was sticky with butter.
Which was okay because her hand was, too.
THE GRACE WAGNERSchool of Design had once been called William Howard Taft High School, after the twenty-seventh President of the United States. Back then, it was a so-called academic high school, which meant that its students took subjects to qualify them for college entrance. But that was the good old days.
Nowadays, it was a vocational high school for kids looking for easy entree to the world of high fashion. If you could maintain a C-average and draw a straight line, you were admitted to Grace Wagner, which incidentally had been named after a woman who’d served on the Board of Education and played flute.
A bronze statue that looked like a huge bolt of lightning striking an oversized soccer ball stood on the patchy front lawn of the school. By the time Loomis pulled the Lincoln up in front of the statue, Endicott and Lonigan had already driven twice around the school’s surrounding blocks. They had seen no one suspicious lurking about, but there was a light burning in one of the school’s top-floor windows, and they thought they’d seen shadows moving past.
Endicott reported this to Corcoran now.
“May be using the same M.O. they did in The Wasteland,” Corcoran suggested. “Take the high ground, cover the area through binocs.”
“I’ll wait for the second car to show,” Endicott said. “We’ll go in the back way, try to surprise them up there.”
“Don’t do anything to jeopardize the girl’s safety,” Corcoran warned.
Loomis figured this was for his benefit.
Besides, his phone was ringing.
“HELLO?” he said.
“We see you,” Avery said. “Get out of the car, both of you. Leave the money on the back seat. Leave the car unlocked with the keys in the ignition. Walk toward the school entrance. Now! Do it
“He wants us to leave the money and get out of the car. He wants us to walk toward the school. Wants it unlocked with the keys in it.”
Corcoran stabbed at his cell phone.
“Endicott.”
“They’re trying an end run,” he shouted. “Get around to the front of the school!
“What?” Endicott said.
The car phone rang again.
Loomis picked up.
“Yes?” he said.
“I said
“Let’s go!” Loomis said.
Both men got out of the car. Corcoran looked up the street, to where he could see a green SUV moving swiftly toward the parked Lincoln.
“Here they come!” he said, and reached under his jacket into his shoulder holster.
IT ALL HAPPENEDso fast that later none of the agents or detectives could reconstruct it in proper sequence. It was rather like one of those movies directed by someone fresh out of film school, with jump cuts and flash forwards and four or five stories unreeling at the same time.
The first story was Barney Loomis wetting his pants the moment all those guns opened fire. Actually, there was only one gun at first, and it was in the right hand of Detective-Lieutenant Charles Farley Corcoran and he opened fire the moment the two men got out of what he now could see was a green Montana, and climbed into the black town car waiting at the curb in front of Grace Wagner. The Lincoln’s engine roared into life an instant later, and the car pulled away from the curb just as its rear window slid down and a second gun opened up, a rifle this time spewing automatic fire, which is when Loomis wet his pants because he could actually hear bullets whizzing past his right ear.
The two Mercurys came around the corner at that very moment, Endicott and Lonigan in the lead car, Feingold and Jones in the second. Corcoran had sprinted to the curb by then, and was flagging down the blue Merc. Loomis had thrown himself flat to the ground the way he’d seen them do in better movies than this one, even though there were no bullets flying at the moment.
At the moment, in fact, and even before Corcoran jumped into the blue Merc like somebody about to yell “Follow that car!” the black Lincoln Town car had raced out of sight like the
Where it was zooming off to was a spot a mile away, where they had parked the very last of the stolen cars.
THEY HAD LEFT8412 Winston Road in Calm’s Point at seven-thirty, had encountered heavy traffic coming over the bridge, and did not get back to the squadroom till a minute past eight. A minute after that, Carella was calling the number he had for telephone company Special Assistance.
The Joint Task Force’s hi-tech triangulation had ended in something like strangulation, and their Trap-and- Trace routine had proved futile in the face of stolen and disposable cell phones. So it got down to a weary detective sitting behind a cigarette-scarred desk in a grimy squadroom making a good old-fashioned phone call. In many ways the good old telephone company was always reliable if not always courteous. Even dealing with a so- called Special Operator assigned to helping law enforcement agencies working so-called important cases, the civility level was barely acceptable.
“Here’s what we’re looking for,” Carella told a woman named Miss Young. She had no first name. Just Miss Young. “We’ve got an Avery Hanes living at 8412 Winston Road in Calm’s Point, for the year prior to this April first. And we’ve got…”
“Was that Winston as in Winston cigarettes?” Miss Young asked.
“As in Winston Churchill, yes,” Carella said. “And we’ve got a man named Calvin Wilkins, living at 379 Parrish Place in Calm’s Point, from just before Thanksgiving to around the same time, April first. That’s Parrish with a double-R.”
“And what is it you’re seeking, Detective?”
“List of phone calls made from each of those numbers in March. I want phone numbers, names and addresses.”
“You’ll need a court order for that.”
“That’s not my understanding. We’re not looking to put a pen register on those lines. In fact, the numbers are probably no longer in service. All I want is the numbers called and the names and addresses of the parties called. I’m sure you have those. If for billing purposes alone.”
“It’s my understanding that a court order…”
“Miss, we’re dealing with a kidnapping here. Any assistance you can give us…”
“One moment, please,” Miss Young said.
Carella waited.
“Miss Cole,” another voice said. “How may I help you, sir?”
Carella told her how she might help him.
“We’ll need a court order for that,” she said.
“There’s a certain urgency here,” Carella said.
“I’m sorry, sir.”
“I’ll get back to you,” he said, and hung up.
It was now five minutes past eight. It would take him forty minutes to get downtown and another forty
