Pain, so intense, struck her chest like lightning. She felt a strange rush bubbling inside her. Her eyes rolled back in her head. Her heart monitor went haywire.
Nurses and doctors rushed into the room, shoving him out of the way.
“What’s happening?” Carl Grace yelled.
“She’s coding. Sir, please, you must move out of the way.”
29
BISHOP TO C4
Brooklyn
Rather than going immediately into Vida Antonio’s Laundromat, they stopped to study the burned-out auto repair shop. It took up most of the opposite block. The second story had collapsed into the first, and wouldn’t you know it, the broken-down cars in the lot right next to the burned-out building weren’t damaged. The brick was scorched black; the glassless windows gaped onto the street. The smell of soggy insulation and burned wood still filled the air. Bits of ash were still being churned up by passing cars. A yellow strip of crime scene tape was strung across the drive to keep vehicles out of the lot.
“Nothing to do here,” Nicholas said. “Let’s go see Mrs. Antonio.”
Vida Antonio was waiting for them behind a spotless counter in her Laundromat. She was small and round and gray and sharp-eyed, somewhere in her late sixties. She had a seen-it-all air about her, and the barest hint of an Italian accent, almost smothered by all-out Brooklynese. They were barely through the door when she said, “You the FBI?”
Nicholas nodded. Mike said, “Hello, Mrs. Antonio. I’m Agent Caine, and this is Agent Drummond. I understand you saw something of interest last night?”
Mrs. Antonio immediately held a finger to her lips and gestured for them to follow her into the back, past a dozen churning washing machines and dryers, ten or so patrons sitting in chairs reading or cruising the Internet on their tablets, or staring blank-eyed at the tumbling windows in the machines. Two young guys were folding sheets and talking. No one paid them any attention.
Once inside a small office, Mrs. Antonio breathed out a sigh of relief.
“Before I tell you anything, I need to see some ID.” She held out her hand.
They gave her their creds, and Mrs. Antonio examined them closely before saying, “Anyone can see me talking to you from the street. I don’t need to upset anyone, you know what I mean? Certain folk could get the wrong idea. Now, don’t think I’m talking about the Mob and them seeing you and coming in to cut my throat. It’s the young people, they get nervous around cops and I don’t want to lose business.
“I’m pleased you took me seriously. Of course I knew you had to be FBI; the two of you are as spiffy and clean as a sunrise. Except for the bruises. What did you do, get into a catfight?”
“Yes, ma’am, and I won,” Mike said. “I’m glad you called the tip line. Can you tell us what you saw across the street last night?”
“Okay, okay. Let me see, a week ago, Georgie—Georgio Panatone, he owns the repair shop—he took off for Europe. Lord knows where he got the money, business hasn’t been too good this year for either of us. Before he left, he told me some friends were going to stay in his place, water his plants, keep an eye on things, so not to be worried if I saw people come and go. He gave me a spare key in case there was trouble, and took off.”
She sniffed. “I don’t know why he didn’t ask me to care for his things, we’ve known each other for decades. Anyway, I’m nosy, so I watched over things, in case something happened. Friends can’t always be trusted. The day he left, I saw a big black van drive up and five people got out and they had all kinds of boxes, and what looked like small TV screens. They dropped black curtains over the windows in Georgie’s apartment—it’s above the shop—and isn’t that strange? Black curtains? Like they didn’t want anyone to see what they were up to. What sort of plant-watering friends do that?”
Mike said, “I agree, ma’am, it’s very strange behavior. Can you tell us what the people looked like?”
Mrs. Antonio’s brows shot up. “Well, of course I can and I was going to. I didn’t bring you out here to tell you about some black curtains. You some kind of dummy?”
Nicholas and Mike both grinned. Mike said, “Ah, no, ma’am. Forgive me for interrupting. Please continue.”
“Okay, then. So they didn’t leave for two days, until last night. I saw them clear on the steps—four men: one was an Arab; three were white. I’d say the Arab guy was well into his forties, two were in their thirties, and a younger guy, probably late twenties, like my oldest grandchild, Nelson. And there was a pretty young woman with red hair stuffed under a ball cap. They were carrying duffel bags and backpacks.
“Last night, three of the men and the young woman piled into a beat-up Corolla Georgie had sitting on his lot. They had a lot of stuff with them in duffel bags. I don’t see them come back, but every half-hour or so, the curtains twitched, so I knew for certain the young guy had stayed behind.” Nicholas saw that Mike was ready to shout to the heavens.
Bless Zachery’s gut.
Nicholas said, “Mrs. Antonio, I think you’ve missed your calling. You should have been a private investigator.”
She nodded. “Not a bad idea. After five boys and thirty-two grandchildren, you bet I know how to keep my eyes on things.”
“Are you certain of their races, ma’am?” Mike asked. “Could you describe these people to a sketch artist for us?”
“I have eyes in my head, Agent Caine. Yes. I am absolutely sure, and yes, I’ll work with your people. Now I’m getting to the meat of the story, so hang on. I heard them drive back about two in the morning and looked out my window. There were only three of them, two white men and the redheaded woman. They were careful, quickly made sure there wasn’t anybody around. The Arab man was nowhere to be seen. It wasn’t more than thirty minutes later when I heard the shots.”
Mike could feel Nicholas vibrate. “Tell us about the gunshots. You’re sure they were gunshots? Sure there were two?”
Mrs. Antonio said, her voice patient, as if she were speaking to an idiot, “Agent Caine, I haven’t lived in this swanky part of town all my life. I came from a worse area, up north. Trust me, I know what a gunshot sounds like. Yes, I’m sure. I heard two shots, but I didn’t know from where, so I didn’t call the police, I waited to see if there’d be anything more. Two of the men came out of the building and loaded stuff in the van. Three trips they made, then they left, fast.
“Right after I smelled smoke, I went to the window and saw Georgie’s building was on fire. I called nine-one-one, told them to get someone out here right away. There wasn’t anyone moving around, and I was worried, you know? I mean, what happened to the other man and the redheaded woman? Of course, I thought it had to be Georgie’s where the gunshots came from. And though whoever they were and whatever they’d been doing in Georgie’s apartment wasn’t my business, I still didn’t want someone to die.
“While I waited for the fire trucks to show, I saw a shadow moving on the roof. It moved real slow, then it was crawling along the edge of the roof. I realized it was the woman, the one with the red hair. I saw her pull herself to the fire escape and she climbed down like she was hurt, careful and jerky, and I thought—she was the one who got shot. She was almost down when she simply fell off and dropped like a rock into the parking lot. I was about to run out when this big black Suburban drove up and two men jumped out. One of them pointed and they ran over and grabbed her up. One shoved some sort of towel in her chest, then wrapped this big white pad around her. They picked her up and carried her together. I saw them put her real gently in the back of the Suburban and one of the men got in with her, and the other one drove away. I don’t think she was dead, not the way they were taking care of her. That’s it, that’s all I saw.”
She nodded once; she was now open for questions.
Mike said, “The men who helped, the two who took the redheaded woman away, it wasn’t two of the same men who moved in?”
She looked over at Nicholas, who’d been taking notes. “You’re a lovely big boy. You got good genes.”
Nicholas gave her a blazing smile. “I agree with the good-gene part, Mrs. Antonio. Now, I’ll bet you took down the license plate of the Suburban.”
“Of course,” she said with a grin that took years off her face. She gave Nicholas the plate number, watched him send a text to Gray. “I could never figure out how someone with big hands and fingers like yours can type on those tiny letters. You’re loaded with talent, aren’t you?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Nicholas said, sending another text, this one to Zachery.
“Who’d they drag out of the building? There was a body bag.”
“We don’t know yet, ma’am,” Mike said, half her attention on Nicholas’s flying fingers.
“I’m hoping it wasn’t Georgie. He’s too nice a man to die like that. Course, I’d have known if he was back home.”
Mrs. Antonio must have decided they were worthy, because she brought out a teapot and three battered mugs, poured tea before they could escape. “You’re not from around here,” she said, handing Nicholas a mug of tea. Now that she’d made their day, she was ready to flirt.
He took a grateful slurp. “No, ma’am. That’s very good. Thank you. I’m from outside of London, in the countryside, a small town you’ve never heard of.”
Mike accepted her own cup, nudged him on the shoulder. “Go on, Nicholas. Tell her who your mom is.”
“No, no, I mean—”
“Well, come on, boy, who is your mama? I’m getting older by the minute. Who knows if I even have all day?”
“My mother is Mitzie Manders. She was a comedian, starred in A Fish Out of Water, a TV show back in the early eighties.”
Mrs. Antonio’s face lit up. “A Fish Out of Water—oh, my, it was one of my favorite shows. Probably my husband’s very favorite, since he thought she was the cutest girl he’d ever seen, a funny Grace Kelly, that’s what he called her. And she’s the one responsible for making you tall and strong? How to speak such spiffy English? Did she teach you how to dress, too? Would you look at those lovely French cuffs. Very sharp. Well, I am impressed. You tell her she has a fan in Brooklyn the next time you talk to her.”
When they finished their tea, both Mike and Nicholas rose. He said, “We must be going, but we may be in touch again.” He handed her a card. “If you remember anything else, Mrs. Antonio, please call me straightaway.”
“You’ll come back and tell me what happened, won’t you?”
“We’ll circle back, absolutely.” And to himself, he made a mental note to call his mother first chance he had. They shook Mrs. Antonio’s hand, thanked her for the information and tea, and stepped out of the Laundromat in time to see a man poking around the ashes across the street. He saw them looking his way, turned on his heel, and took off running.
30
KNIGHT TAKES C3
Go, go, go,” Nicholas shouted.
Mike started after the man, her Glock in her hand. She was fast, so Nicholas knew she’d have a good chance of running him down.
Nicholas angled off at the corner even though they had no comms, no way to communicate, but he’d seen an alley across from the Chinese place when they drove up, knew he could intercept the man if he kept running straight.
He pulled out his Glock as he made a hard left on Flushing and came back out on the street in time to see their runner was trapped between them, and he knew it. Without hesitation, the guy’s arm came up and he started shooting at Nicholas.
“What the bloody hell!” Nicholas shouted, and ducked back against the building. He heard Mike returning fire, yelling at the man to stop. Nicholas looked out to see the man had whirled around toward Mike, who was nearly on him. He was fast, he was going to shoot her. Nicholas took the shot, aimed for his leg.
The man stumbled, grabbed his left knee, and went down. Got you, mate. Now at last maybe they’d get some answers, find out who this yahoo was.
To Nicholas’s surprise, the wounded knee didn’t stop him, the guy was up and going again, stumbling toward a brown Honda that was screeching around a corner and coming fast. The man grabbed his knee and jumped in the passenger side and the driver gunned the engine. Nicholas got a fleeting glance—dark hair, baseball cap, probably older than Mr. Wounded Knee.
“Get the car!” Nicholas shouted, running after the Honda, trying to make out the license plate. Moments later the Crown Vic roared up to him. Nicholas jumped in. “They turned right up there.”
“They’re going for the bridge. We have to cut them off. Call it in.” She slapped the siren on the dash and floored the gas.
Nicholas braced himself with one hand and radioed in to headquarters to get them some backup.
Mike was good, weaving in and out of traffic, ignoring curses and middle fingers and stoplights, never taking her eyes from the car in front of them, navigating to a dime.
He hung on as the Crown Vic’s wheels screeched around a corner. He saw Mike was excited, focused; no doubt she was having fun. Was she giddy? Oh, yeah. God in all his goodness had blessed him with this woman as his partner.
Nicholas was shouting into the radio for some air support. Then two NYPD cruisers joined the chase, and their cavalcade didn’t slow, scattering people and other vehicles. Nicholas saw one taxi driver’s face when the Crown Vic spun out at the Division and Bedford intersection. He looked like death was coming at him. Mike jerked the wheel and up they went, the wrong way, on Ninth Avenue, then she sped off to the right, toward Broadway.
“Cut them off, go back, go back. Up Bedford!”
The back street here was narrow, carved with alleys. The Crown Vic rattled and shook as it sped down the uneven pavement. Nicholas was hanging on, Mike was about to take another corner, hard. He yelled at her when he saw a large lorry pulled in front of them. Mike screeched to a halt, buzzed down her window, and yelled, “Get out of the way, get out of the way!”
The cops behind them skidded to a stop as well.
The driver wasn’t a slouch. He slammed the truck into gear, shot forward, and Mike gunned the Crown Vic past him.
But the Honda was nowhere to be seen.
She said a very bad word, and Nicholas yelled into the radio, “We lost them, someone needs to pick them up.”
They pulled to a stop next to an HSBC bank branch on the corner of Bedford and Third Street, the cops fishtailing to crowd in next to them.
One got out of his vehicle and approached Mike like she was a bomb about to go off. Then she saw the officer’s nametag and laughed, couldn’t help it—P. Friendly.
Nicholas shouted, “Officer Friendly, is NYPD on the car?”
“We were calling in air support when he slipped away, Agent, sir. I’m sorry. We’ve got a BOLO on the Honda, we’ll nail them unless they pull into a garage.”
Nicholas slammed his open palm on the top of the Crown Vic, then called Gray. “We lost them. NYPD has a BOLO out. Okay, okay, let me change gears. Tell me you got something off the license plate of the Suburban Mrs. Antonio told us about.”
“I did indeed. It’s registered to a Meyers Enterprises, in Chelsea. Here’s the address.”
Nicholas punched it into his mobile. “Good. Now back to the Honda. They dirtied up the Honda’s plate so I couldn’t see any numbers or letters, but the background was white and it looked like there were some sort of flowers on a branch—”
Mike knocked on the top of the car
to get his attention. “Virginia. Tell him the Honda plates were from Virginia.”
Gray heard her. “Brown Honda Accord, Virginia plates. Doesn’t narrow it down much.”
“It’s all we have, Gray.”
“I’ll see what I can do. We’re pulling CCTV footage from the area as we speak. Give me two minutes, I’ll find them.”
Two minutes. A lifetime.
Mike said, “We’re going to need a crime scene unit sent to Brooklyn. The guy Nicholas shot in the knee was looking for something in the burned debris.” She gave Gray the address, which he already knew.
“So now what?” Nicholas said. “We stand around with our thumbs in our mouths until Gray calls back, waiting for Zachery to come take our guns and put us in front of the review board again?” He watched Mike pull her hair back into a proper ponytail. She was bruised and flushed and out of breath and looked ready to spit nails. Nicholas thought she looked pretty as a picture. He couldn’t wait to meet her mom, the beauty queen.
Then she straightened, her eyes sparkled, and she gave him a sly grin. “Nicholas, we’re not needed in Brooklyn. There’s no way the two men are going back there, not with one of them wounded. This is a legitimate pursuit, and we think they may be headed to Chelsea to meet up with the black Suburban. So let’s get ourselves to the address in Chelsea Gray gave us. We can handle the fallout later.”
“Your mind is an astonishing instrument, Agent Caine. I believe you’re absolutely right. I’ll text Louisa, tell her about the man poking around. She and the team can check everything out, better for us to continue pursuit of the suspects. Chelsea it is.”
Mike turned back onto Sixth Avenue, thinking aloud. “Those two men who loaded up the redheaded woman into that Suburban. Mrs. Antonio said they were all in black? Not COE, no, they sound like professionals of some sort. We need to find her, Nicholas. I wish Gray would call and tell us they’ve identified her from the video at Bayway.”
The End Game Page 12