What was he going to do?
They were between him and his bedroom--he couldn't get to it without being seen. He glanced at the window in this room. Then outside. He couldn't jump; it was concrete below. He couldn't fight them, either. No weapon.
But he could warn the Abbotts. There was no phone in this room but there had to be one in the big bedroom up the hall, the Abbotts'. The men with the guns moved slowly down the stairs and turned away, looking toward his room, where music from his computer game played. When they were focused on it, Javier slipped out and made his way on the carpeted floor of the hallway to the bedroom. His hands and heart shook, tears dotted his eyes.
He stepped inside fast.
And stopped. Blinking in shock. He wasn't alone. Mrs. Abbott was sitting on the bed, making a phone call.
She frowned. Filled with relief, Javier locked the door and then ran to her. "There're these men!" he whispered. "They're up the hall. They mustta come in through the roof! Call the police, you know nine one one!"
Rising, Mrs. Abbott touched her lips. "Shhh," she said. "Silencio! No se mueven."
Crying more tears, Javier nodded and stopped speaking. He gestured to the phone. She said nothing but walked to the door.
He gasped as she unlocked it. "No! They're out there."
Only then did he register that she'd been speaking to him in Spanish. Which she hadn't done before.
Something was wrong here. Real wrong.
The door swung open and he cried out, seeing the two men look their way. They turned and walked inside, putting their guns away. And behind them was Mr. Abbott.
Only it turned out he wasn't really Mr. Abbott. The skinny Latino man in a checkered jacket said to him. "What do we do now, Mr. Morales?"
"Bring him downstairs. We've wasted too much time."
The plan was working out.
Miguel Angel Morales himself had come up with the idea of having his lieutenant, Raphael Ortiz, conduct surveillance and infiltrate Child and Family Services and learn which foster family Echi Rinaldo's son was going to be temporarily placed with. If they'd had more time, he would have found a couple to pretend to be the Abbotts, the foster family for Javier. But the matter had moved too quickly and the only two people available for masquerade were Morales and his wife, Connie.
They'd gotten this address and hurried here. Morales himself had murdered the Abbotts and managed to clean the place of any pictures of the real couple just before that redheaded cop brought the boy here.
Morales at first intended to use the child as bait, in hopes that whoever had killed Rinaldo had possession of the shipment and would come for the child to eliminate him as a witness. But as his triggerman, Stan Coelho, had learned--and as Morales himself had guessed--it looked like Rinaldo's killing was random and had nothing to do with the guns.
But then he came up with another idea: using the boy to track down where the deliveryman might have hidden the shipment. He'd been amused when Connie had told him that the redheaded cop, Sachs, had actually suggested the kid do the same--drawing pictures of where he and his father had been.
Now, on the main floor, Connie said, "Javier, you don't have to be afraid. These men, they didn't kill your father. They were friends with him. We're all friends."
"True, kid. We were buddies, me and your dad." Coelho was smiling, though the expression looked somewhat sinister to Morales. "I want the assholes who killed him as much as you do. I find 'em, they're fucked."
Connie frowned and clicked her tongue.
The ATF agent said, "He's heard the word before, ain't you, kid?"
Javier swallowed and gazed from face to face. "He call you Mr. Morales." Confusion filled his small face.
"We're just pretending to be the Abbotts. We're borrowing their house here."
"Where are they?" He looked around the rooms.
In the basement in garbage bags, soon to be in the Jersey swamplands, according to the plans Ortiz had made.
"They're away for a while. They agreed to help us. We have to be careful. Because the men who killed your father are very dangerous. We have to stay undercover. You know undercover, right?"
"Men who killed him?" Javier shook his head. "I only saw one man. That's all."
"But we think he was working for others." Morales was adlibbing but he thought he sounded pretty reasonable, and even a little scared, and the boy seemed to buy it. He nodded and fiddled with his tablet. "Why you don't, you know, go to the police?"
Connie said, "We're working with them, Javier. That Detective Amelia. She knows who we are. She's just keeping up the cover when she called us the Abbotts."
Morales nodded. "Remember what she asked you? Where you and your father were yesterday? That's what we're trying to find out. How're you coming with the pictures?"
"I couldn't remember very much."
Morales had looked at the tablet earlier. The boy had done some cartoon sketches but none related to the redheaded cop's assignment.
Morales said, "My associate here, Mr. Ortiz, has found out almost everywhere he went. Except for an hour about three p.m. Three in the afternoon. Do you know what delivery he made then? If we can figure that out we can figure out who killed him. And catch him."
"Them," the boy said. "You said 'men.'"
"Them." Morales smiled.
But Javier was shaking his head. "I dunno. I was drawing. Just hanging in the truck, you know."
"Think back. At around two thirty he made a delivery at...?" He looked at Ortiz.
"Tony's Auto Supply. It's on Fourteenth and the river."
Morales smiled. "That's near the garbage scows. You remember that? There'd be seagulls. Thousands of seagulls. And the place stinks too."
His eyes narrowed. "Yeah. Birds. All those birds. There, yeah."
Morales's wife, Connie, pointed out, "And at three thirty he dropped off something in Chinatown. You know Chinatown."
"Yeah. I 'member that."
"What delivery did he make in between? Around three?"
"Nothing. Didn't drop nothing off."
Morales's face revealed no emotion. He studied the boy closely. He wondered if he was lying and if Coelho should go to work on him. "But it wouldn't take an hour to get from the river to Chinatown. We're sure he made a delivery."
"No." Then stridently: "He didn't."
Morales sighed. "So he didn't stop anywhere?"
"Sure, we stopped. But he didn't deliver anything. You asked me if he delivered something and he didn't."
Morales laughed. The kid was right. He'd been asking the wrong question. "Where did he stop?"
"The church."
"Church?"
"Yeah. After the place with all the birds we drove for a while and he went into this church and then we left and drove to Chinatown."
"Church? Was your dad religious?" Coelho asked.
"Huh?" The boy was frowning.
"Did he go to church Sundays, to mass?"
"No. That's why I thought it was, you know, weird."
"Can you show us where the church is?"
"I guess. Only, can I get my paper and pencils?"
"We don't have time to worry about that now," Coelho snapped.
"My daddy gave them to me," the boy said defiantly.
Morales smiled. "Sure, son." And Connie climbed the stairs to fetch the set.
Getting away from the building without being seen was the hardest part: Up to the roof, over three buildings then down again.
Morales was worried that the boy would freak out at the heights, and cry out in fear, even if they weren't near the edge. But, no, he was fine, though he was upset when they told him that Officer Lamont, the bodyguard, was actually working for the men who'd killed his father and they couldn't trust him.
Morales was feeling a little bad that he'd have to kill the kid as soon as they got their hands on the delivery. That was one hit he wouldn't do himself. Stan Coelho would. The ATF agent would ice anyone, any age, any sex. He suspected the man was psy
cho. Though that condition had come in helpful from time to time.
Once on the street, and nowhere near the surveilling cop, the five of them slipped into Connie's Lexis SUV and headed off, downtown.
Javier told them that he could not remember exactly where the church was, but once they arrived in the vicinity of Chinatown and started driving in lazy circles it took only ten minutes for the boy to sit up and cry out, "There!" He pointed excitedly to St. Timothy's, a grimy gothic Catholic church near the Bowery.
Ortiz and Connie smiled, but Morales shook his head as he eyed the place carefully. It was small and without a back entrance or loading dock. There was a service door but in the front; you reached it via the main sidewalk, which was crowded now and would have been just as congested when Rinaldo had been here, around three yesterday afternoon.
Morales muttered, "How could he get two tons of...product through the door and not be seen?"
It was then that Ortiz laughed. "What if he wasn't going to hide the shipment itself?"
"What do you mean?"
"You were nervous about a sting or surveillance. Maybe he was too. He meets the truck in the armory, tries out a product or two, makes sure they're all there. But he's worried and wants some escape plan. So he's arranged for the guy who picked up the shipment at the Jersey train depot to keep it and take it to, I don't know, a self-storage unit somewhere."
Morales was nodding. Smart. It was a smart plan.
Connie added, "He writes down the details, the address of the storage place and combination to the lock, in the church. That's what he hides here." A nod at the church.
Morales had to laugh. He looked at the boy. "Your papa knew what he was about."
"Unless," Stan Coelho was saying, "it's a red herring."
"How so?"
"Just trying to lead off anybody following him."
Morales noticed the agent's eyes were on the boy's pencil box.
Coelho asked, "Where'd you get that?"
"It's mine," he said defiantly.
"I didn't ask that. I want to know where you got it."
"My daddy gave it to me."
"When?"
"Yesterday."
"Shit, that's got the information in it. The storage space. Probably the key. He's had it all along." He reached for it.
"Mine!" Javier cried. "There's no key in it." The boy pulled away. "My daddy had one but he didn't give it to me."
Morales waved his hand and Coelho backed off. "Your daddy had one what?"
"A key."
"Where did he get it?"
"When we stopped here, he took it out of the glove compartment thing, you know. And he took it into the church."
"You know where he put it?"
"No. I stayed here and drawed. Came back just a minute later and we drove off, to Chinatown."
Morales said, "Let's go. We'll all go to look." They climbed out of the SUV and headed for the church. Coelho kept his hand on Javier's shoulder. If the key wasn't here, Morales would tell the agent to go to work and get the boy to talk. He couldn't afford to waste any more time.
Inside, the dark church was largely deserted, only a few worshipers were present, scattered around the space, lost in prayer or contemplation. Morales was wondering how to search for the key and not make anyone suspicious. But then he realized that Rinaldo would have thought of this; he'd hide the key in a place that was easy to get to naturally.
Not the holy water font. Not the altar. Even under a pew or kneeler would have been too risky; an exploring child might find it, or a parishioner who dropped a wallet or coin.
Ah, but then he saw what might be the answer.
A votive candle rack.
No unsupervised children. And no one would think twice about someone reaching into the rack to light a candle to the Lord or the Virgin.
He told the others his theory, and he, Ortiz and his wife approached the three racks--one in front of a statue of Jesus, one before Mary, and one in front of a simple cross.
Coelho stayed with the child. Morales got the impression he was already anticipating, with some pleasure, killing the boy.
Morales found nothing under his rack. Ortiz too came up empty handed. But as he looked across the pews he noticed his wife nodding and smiling. Something small and silver disappeared into her pocket.
He inhaled deeply and, in thanks, lit a candle himself. And slipped a hundred dollar offering in the box chained to a radiator by the door.
As the entourage left the church, Connie whispered to him. "Saf-Storage in Queens. He even wrote the address."
Morales whispered, "We'll get somebody over there now. And I want to go back to the Abbotts and wait for that cop, the woman, Sachs. Take her out and the bodyguard too."
Connie said absently "She had such nice hair. Didn't you think?"
Morales said nothing. He was then vaguely aware of some people walking behind them, presumably the parishioners who'd left, though he hadn't seen any of them stand and head out the door.
They were just at the SUV when it happened.
From behind him came a woman's voice, sternly shouting: "Police! Hands where we can see them! Get down on your knees! Now, now, now!"
A dozen tactical police officers appeared from hiding places between parked cars in front of the church, and four squad cars and three unmarkeds skidded to a stop around them.
Connie screamed and flung her hands in the air. Ortiz, who'd been arrested several times, knew he'd end up on the ground eventually and simply flopped onto his belly, hands outstretched. Morales sighed and lifted his hands. He turned to see the woman whose death he'd just been planning--Detective Sachs--leading the tactical operation. He gave a faint laugh, observing that all of the cops wore two bullet-proof vests, and he realized that, since they knew about the special armor-piercing bullets, they probably knew everything.
His whole plan, so brilliant, in ruins.
"Now!" Detective Sachs shouted.
Morales turned to his wife. "Do what they say. Get on your knees."
"My stockings, my shoes!"
"Go ahead," he said kindly. "And don't do anything quickly. You'll be all right."
Then the redhead was shouting, "You, Coelho! Let go of the boy. On the ground. Now!"
Morales glanced back. And saw the ATF agent, angry resolve in his fat face, looking about. Suddenly he gripped the boy by the chest and lifted him, drawing his gun and aiming it toward the police, who scattered for cover. The redhead stayed where she was, but crouched, trying to find a target. But Javier was not a tiny boy and he proved to be a decent human shield, despite the agent's girth.
"Coelho," she said. "You know the drill. You'll never get out of here. Put the weapon down."
"Have the woman throw me the key to the Lexus. Now!"
"No," Detective Sachs said. "It won't happen."
"Then I'll kill the boy." He tapped Javier's forehead with the gun.
Morales said, "No, Stan. Let him go!" He in truth didn't care about the boy's safety, but if Coelho killed him, it would be another count of homicide--felony murder--against all of those present, even if not directly involved in Javier's death.
But the agent ignored him.
"Keys! I'm not asking again."
The policewoman: "You shoot him, you die one second later."
"Keys," he roared.
"No."
Suddenly a huge crack of gunshot and the pistol in Coelho's hand jumped.
Morales's wife cried out and even the redheaded cop, so cool a moment ago, gasped in horror.
Morales, not daring to move much, craned his neck further around so he could see Coelho and the boy. Javier was slipping through the big man's arms to the ground.
The pistol fell from Coelho's grip and he looked down at a blossoming red wound in his own chest.
"I...I..."
The gunshot, Morales noted, hadn't come from the agent's Glock. The gun had merely jerked as Coelho had reacted. No, it had been Javier who'd fired. He looked at the b
oy, who was holding a very small pistol in his hand. On the ground was his pencil box, unzipped. Pencils had fallen out, a pencil sharpener, too. And so had another magazine of ammunition for the weapon.
A present from his father...
The redheaded officer walked slowly to the boy and whispered something Morales could not hear. Javier nodded and handed her the gun, while a dozen other cops got to Coelho, pulled him down and secured his weapon. A medic appeared a moment later and began administering first aid.
Officers descended on Connie and Morales, cuffing and frisking. They began reading Miranda rights. Detective Sachs joined them a moment later and began reciting a laundry list of what they were being arrested for.
The litany went on for some time.
The answer to uncovering Morales's deception, fronting that he and his wife were the Abbotts, derived, Rhyme regretted admitting, not so much from finely parsed evidence but from a good old-fashioned street detective's deduction.
Rhyme was at his computer, writing up the report on the case for the NYPD, the FBI and the ATFE, who would be running the joint prosecution against Morales, his wife, Constance, Raphael Ortiz and the wounded, but very much alive, Stan Coelho, as well as assorted associates in the 128 Lords.
Rhyme's deduction had been this: When Sachs had called Javier to ask if he'd been with his father at the armory when the transfer took place yesterday morning, the woman purporting to be Sally Abbott, the temporary foster parent, had helped clarify the location of the armory; the boy wasn't sure what Sachs was referring to.
But in describing the armory to Javier, she referred to McDonald's--which was across the street from the back entrance of the armory, a small service portal, not the main doorways on the opposite side of the building a block away. Why would that entrance be first in her thoughts to describe the place?
The implication was that she'd known Echi Rinaldo used that door to get inside.
It wasn't conclusive proof that Sally Abbott knew about the delivery. But it raised in Rhyme's mind the possibility that he--and therefore his wife--were not who they seemed to be. Sachs got pictures of the Abbotts from the foster family licensing organization and confirmed that they were not the people she'd left the boy with.
They immediately sent a tactical and surveillance team to the town house--just in time to see the couple, along with several other men and the boy, fleeing over the roof.
Rhyme and Sachs reasoned that it was likely they were taking the boy to lead them to the arms stash and so the surveillance officers followed, while a tactical team secured the town house...and made the unfortunate but not unexpected discovery of the Abbotts' bodies, in the basement.
The Deliveryman Page 5
