A decision born of professional experience trailing suspects had made Diamond stop that split second before going up to them. The man might be some predator muscling in to "help" with the luggage for an exorbitant fee—easy bucks when the victims were women with children in tow. Yet his presence could be more significant So the right move was to go straight past them, veering off to the left, and stand close to the queue at an information desk and keep tabs on what happened next.
Mrs. Tanaka's body language suggested she was agreeing to whatever the man was proposing, yet not without some reluctance. After some head-shaking and spreading of the arms, she twice took a step away from him. Finally she allowed him to take over the cart and wheel it towards the nearest exit, so quickly that Naomi had to trot to keep up.
Diamond followed closely, secure in the knowledge that neither of the adults knew him and Naomi was unlikely to react. Allowing them to get this far without being challenged was something of a risk, yet he reckoned their movements were going to be limited by the cart, whatever they did next.
They were heading towards the taxi area. If necessary, Diamond decided, he would let them get into a cab and drive off, and he'd follow in the next vehicle. If the man in the leather jacket traveled with Mrs. Tanaka, one question would be answered: he'd be involved in this business.
Outside was the line of yellow cabs, superintended by a man with a whistle in his mouth. But Leather-jacket wheeled the cart straight past and across the road. The air-shuttle buses, then? Apparently not. They were going into the short-stay parking lot, which was a possibility Diamond hadn't considered, and he clapped his hand to his face in self-rebuke. He wasn't thinking sharply at all since arriving here; he put it down to the flying.
He had to cross the road quickly, zigzagging through traffic, following them into the ground floor of the parking lot, where his problems increased. Leather-jacket and Mrs. Tanaka weren't more than twenty-five yards ahead with Naomi when they turned right and entered the elevator. The doors had closed before he got to them.
What now?
There were stairs close by. He had no idea whether to go down to the basement or up to the decks above. There was no indicator to tell him which floor the elevator had reached.
He'd have to plump for one and hope they were still in sight when he got there. One direction was as likely as any other, so he went down, taking die stairs two at a time and bursting through the swinging doors at the bottom.
No one was in sight among the ranks of cars.
Behind him, the elevator doors opened. Nobody was inside. He was certain now that he should have tried one of the upper levels. He got in and pressed the second-floor button, cursing the delay before the doors slid across.
He'd be fortunate if he hadn't lost them completely. The cage moved upwards, the doors opened and he stepped out and started running. No point in stalking the quarry now. If they stepped into a car and drove away, he hadn't the slightest chance of pursuing them. There were no taxis up here. But he had spotted them. They were three or four aisles to his right, about eighty yards ahead. So he ran, shouting to them.
"I say! Mrs. Tanaka!"
She turned to look.
Leather-jacket also turned. He was in the act of unlocking a car door.
Diamond was still thirty yards from them.
Mrs. Tanaka said something Diamond couldn't pick up and opened a door herself and bundled Naomi into the car.
"I'd like a word," called Diamond.
But he didn't get a word. Instead, he got the cart slammed into him as he advanced. Leather-jacket used it like a battering ram, driving it at him viciously. It had the weight of the suitcase behind it, and the full force of a large, young man.
Diamond's ankles could have suffered ugly damage if he hadn't reacted a split second before the impact and jumped six inches off the ground—about as high as a man of his size could hope to achieve. He pitched forward, making the suitcase take the main impact. His head crunched against the metal basket mounted at the top of the cart. But for the cushioning caused by the suitcase, he might have ended with his head in the basket like a victim of the guillotine.
As it was, he rolled aside, tipping the cart over and denting the wing of a car with his left shoulder. He was in no condition to spring up and fight
Leather-jacket wasn't staying. He grabbed the suitcase (now split across the center) from under the cart, swung it into the back of the car, slammed the door, and got into the front with Mrs. Tanaka.
A faceful of exhaust fumes didn't help Diamond's condition one bit. The car—a large, white Buick with red strips along the side—roared. The tires shrieked and it powered away.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Extensive bruising, definitely. Some torn skin on the shoulder and left arm, which was smarting. A rapidly developing headache. Really, though, there was no serious injury, except to his confidence. He'd blundered. Blown it Gone down the tubes, as they would say in this city of fertile phrases. After flying thousands of bloody miles and actually catching up with Naomi, he'd allowed her to be snatched away again. She was being driven God knew where.
Hopeless
He hauled himself painfully upright, more stricken with self-reproach than pain. Damn it, he'd ignored even the most basic procedures. Hadn't even got the car's number.
He could imagine the reception he'd get from the New York cops if he asked mem to trace a white Buick with red trimmings and no number.
What now, then?
Was this really the end of the chase?
He glanced around, at the cart, still lying on its side in the space the car had occupied. He supposed he ought to look over the side of the car lot in the hope of seeing the Buick making its getaway, but he was damned sure his eyesight wasn't good enough to read a license plate from up here-even if he had the good fortune to spot the car.
And then it occurred to him that a vehicle making a getaway from here still had to conform to the procedures. The designers of car lots made sure everyone was obliged to check out in an orderly way. There would be a barrier downstairs and a place where you paid. Maybe, in a busy car lot like this, where you lined up to pay. Even if this place had automatic gates, you could only get out as fast as the machinery and die cars in front allowed you. Actually, he was quite sure Leather-jacket hadn't stopped at a prepayment facility. So they couldn't race out without paying. A car, however fast, took a little time to get out to the street He hobbled across to the lift at the best pace he could manage. The only point of exit from the car lot was on the basement level, and this was the quickest way down. By good fortune—and he was overdue for some—the lift door had remained open, so he stepped in and pressed the control. Each delay was mental agony—the pause before the door operated, the slow progress down—saying a silent prayer that the cage wouldn't stop at the floors between—and the hesitation before it opened. Then he was out and looking for the exit signs, trying to see the shortest way across the floor, because he didn't need to go by the same roundabout route as the cars.
He decided on a line to his left, through the ranks of cars, which meant some tight squeezes and several wing mirrors being knocked out of alignment, but it proved the quickest route.
Ahead five or six cars were curving out of sight up a ramp. He ran past four and was in time to see the barrier descend and the Buick—or at least a red-and-white car—on its way out.
He wasted no more time. The car now at the head of the queue was a pink Chevrolet He dragged open the passenger door. The woman driver was in the act of paying her charge. She swung around. "What is mis?"
"Police." With no credentials to show except a passport, he tugged it from his pocket and held it up like a warrant "Do you mind? Would you kindly follow the car in front?"
"Would you say that again?" She was young, in her twenties probably, with dark hair in a mass of loose curls that stirred as she spoke.
"I'm asking you to follow the Buick."
"Are you from England?" she asked.
He groaned inwardly. "This is an emergency."
"You'd better jump in, then. I can take you into Manhattan, if that's what you want"
He didn't prolong the conversation.
She moved off at a promising rate and soon got them out of the airport complex and on to the Van Wyck Expressway to Manhattan. There was no sign of the Buick.
"Can we go faster?"
"You said you're police?"
"I did."
"You don't happen to have one of those portable sirens with you?"
He supposed she was being sarcastic.
"No."
"Do I have police permission to break the limit?"
"It's a kid at risk, a small girl," Diamond stressed.
She moved into the fast lane.
Two miles along, Diamond asked her to ease off a little. He could see the white Buick.
It was in the center lane doing about seventy-five. He could see the outline of Mrs. Tanaka's head above the front passenger seat.
"Not too close."
"So you don't want me to force them off the road?"
"Not at this juncture. I'd prefer to stay inconspicuous."
"I just love the way you say things." She steered smoothly into a space three cars back from the Buick and they cruised in convoy. "This kid—is she from England too?"
"Er, yes. What's your name?" he said to change the subject Telling her the little he knew about Naomi would just confuse her. He was confused.
"Ken."
"You said Ken?"
"Mm."
"That's a girl's name here?"
"Short for Kennedy. I was born the week the president was killed. I get tired of explaining."
"It's nice to have an unusual name. Mine is common enough. Peter."
"Peter the Great"
"Unfair."
"What's wrong with that?" Ken asked.
He slapped the curve of his belly and she grinned. "I didn't mean it that way."
The line of cars was still cruising steadily in the same formation. The New York skyline was in view now. "We're on Long Island here, am I right?" Diamond asked.
"This is the Long Island Expressway we just moved onto," she confirmed. "We're heading for the toll tunnel under the East River."
"Is this the route you would have taken anyway?"
She shook her head. "I live in the Bronx. It doesn't matter." After a pause she added, "You appeal to my curiosity. You're not really a policeman at all. I may look dumb, but I can tell the difference between a police ID and a passport. On the other hand, you don't have the look of a hitchhiker. Or a rapist. Is it, like, a fight with your wife over custody of the child?"
He told her that Naomi wasn't his own child. He was almost persuaded, after all, to explain how the little Japanese girl had taken over his life. Then they entered the tunnel and he concentrated instead on the uncertainty of what would happen at the other end. "Where exactly does this come out?" he asked, as if he had a map of Manhattan imprinted on his brain.
"East 34th," Ken told him. "It won't be so simple tailing them from now on."
"Could you try and get closer, then?"
After they were out of the tunnel, she succeeded in passing one of the cars ahead and another turned off at the first traffic lights, leaving them with just a blue Volvo between their car and the Buick. But the tension grew as they crossed the city, negotiating lights, willing the Volvo not to hesitate. They passed the Empire State and Macy's before turning right, onto 8th Avenue, heading north.
The Buick picked up some speed.
"Can you pass the car in front?" Diamond asked.
When she moved into the next lane the driver of the Volvo took it as a challenge and blocked their way through. At the next lights he braked hard, forcing them to stop, while the Buick cruised on.
Diamond swore and turned to see if there was room to move out, but it was impossible.
"They won't get far," Ken said in reassurance. "The lights will hold them up."
He wasn't so confident. He'd already watched them go through on the red at the next intersection. "We've got to pass this clever dick."
She did, on the next block, in front of the Port Authority Bus Terminal, to a crescendo of car horns. They had lost position badly. A glimpse of white some way ahead might just have been the Buick. They had to assume it was. Diamond strained forward with his face to the windshield. "Keep going straight ahead. If they turn I'll tell you."
She overtook cars at each opportunity and sometimes when the opportunity scarcely existed. He couldn't fault her commitment to the chase. Occasionally he caught sight of the white car through the traffic about a block ahead and he just hoped to God it was still the Buick they were following. Central Park came up on their right.
"We keep going far enough, we'll get to the Bronx and I'll be home," Ken told him.
But they didn't get that far. They had almost reached the northern limit of the Park when the white car ahead moved into the left lane and turned.
"Can you move over?"
"Sure."
"That must be 109th."
She handled the Chevrolet with confidence, accelerating into a space and taking the turn at a speed that made the wheels screech. But there was no white car ahead of them on West 109th Street.
"He could have doubled back down Manhattan Avenue," Ken suggested.
"Try it, then."
She turned left again. Mistakenly, for two blocks ahead there were only yellow taxis.
"Sorry. I'm really sorry," she said, and her voice was desolate. "Want me to turn?"
"Where do you think they were heading before we lost Ihem?"
"Hard to say. We're not far from Columbia."
"You mean the University?"
"Yes."
"Can you work your way back in that direction? If we're lucky the car may be parked on the street somewhere."
They turned right, onto Amsterdam Avenue. No sign of a white car. A vast church loomed up on their right. "It's really popular with the students," Ken remarked.
"The Cathedral of St. John the Divine?" Diamond read from the board in a disbelieving voice.
"I mean the Hungarian Pastry Shop on this side."
"Ah." Neither of them felt like smiling. The confusion was indicative of their helplessness. Nothing is so hard to accept as the knowledge that you have failed. They were floundering, trying to buoy each other up with words, but the words gave no real support.
"The Columbia campus comes up on this side in a block or two," she informed him.
"We ought to be checking these. Can you turn up the next one?"
It was 113th Street, and they drove as far as Broadway, then made two lefts onto 112th. Three white cars were parked there, not one a Buick. Almost ten minutes had passed since they had lost sight of the car, and ten grew to twenty while they continued to tour the streets without result
"I can transfer to a taxi," Diamond offered.
"I won't allow it," Ken said. "I'm as eager to find the damned car as you are."
"It could have left the area by now."
"We owe it to that little girl to keep looking."
He didn't need telling.
It took them just under an hour to find the Buick. It was parked near the Broadway end of 114th Street. They would have found it sooner if they hadn't chosen to start at 113th and work back as far as 108th, but the enormous relief at picking up the trail wiped out any regrets.
"What now?" Ken asked.
"I'm more grateful than I can say."
She frowned, not understanding his English avoidance of the direct statement.
"I can manage," he said.
"Hey, you don't think I'm quitting now? I want to see the kid for myself." Her eyes dispelled any doubt that she meant what she said.
"In that case, I'll tell you what we do next. We go door-stepping."
This section of the street was lined with apartment blocks and small hotels. They tried the hotels first. "I'm hoping to find a couple with
a small girl who may have registered here an hour ago," was the disarming way he phrased his inquiry. "The lady is Japanese and so is the child." He was trying to project himself as the caring English gent, as if friends of his had left behind some lost property that he was anxious to reclaim for them.
After trying three hotels and getting suspicious looks and shakes of the head, but no verbal response, he changed his approach at the Firbank, a shabby brownstone with a sign in the window saying Vacancies. The window needed cleaning.
The door stood open and a man in a black singlet and jeans was behind a hinged table that passed for a reception desk.
"Is Mrs. Tanaka staying here?"
"Who the fuck are you?"
It was, by certain lights, an improvement on silence. Diamond said that he'd been sent by Immigration. "And who the fuck are you?" he added.
"George De Wint."
"Manager?"
"I have no illegals in my hotel," De Wint said defensively. For a beefy, tattooed man with a Cagney profile, he suddenly sounded pathetic.
"But you have Mrs. Tanaka, in this afternoon from England?" "From England?"
"Japanese, with a male partner, and a small girl."
"So what exactly is the problem?"
"Is she here, or not?"
"Sure, she's here. You want me to phone the room?"
Mentally, Diamond turned a back flip of triumph. "Could I see the register?"
George De Wint leaned to his left, placed a hand on a dog-eared exercise book, and slid it along the counter.
Diamond opened it at the latest entry, which was M. Tanaka. "There's only the one name here."
"So what? Kids don't have to register."
"How about the man?"
"The guy isn't staying here. He carried the suitcase."
"Has he left yet?"
"Not to my knowledge. What exactly is this about, mister? I don't want trouble."
"Which room?"
"Twelve."
"Upstairs?"
"Third floor. She wanted a twin with bathroom, so I gave her my biggest"
"Show us up."
Diamond Solitaire Page 17
