Again, Carter smiles. He’s gotten his anatomy confused. And, yes, Angel definitely has nerve, purchasing a gun big enough to knock down a grizzly bear being proof enough. Still, it seems more likely that the prize is hiding behind door number two. Carter’s too dangerous, too unpredictable, and once he gets his hands on the money, he’ll have no further need of her. In fact, he has no further need of her right now. So why not invest in a little protection, a little insurance? If things go wrong, at least she’ll have a fighting chance.
Carter walks through the apartment, to the window in the living room. He cranes his neck to stare over the building across the street at a gloomy sky. The weather’s important to him because he intends to pass the morning and early afternoon squatting on a warehouse roof three blocks from Janie’s apartment. Just two years ago, the warehouse was packed with furniture, a bustling enterprise that could only be approached after the doors were locked at night. Now it’s empty, another victim of the ongoing economic troubles. Bad news for the workers, good news for Carter. From the roof, he’ll have an excellent view of the surrounding blocks.
This morning, when Carter accessed his email account, he found a message from the super at Janie’s apartment building, Miguel Romero. The message was succinct: a man, an Asian, had come around asking if Carter lived in the building. Romero’s known Carter since Carter was a little boy and they’ve come to an understanding. If a snooper turns up, Miguel’s to cooperate, tell the truth, take any money offered. Then let Carter know.
Meanwhile, there’s still the cop. Carter and Solly Epstein are due to meet in an hour.
Carter takes a thin poncho from a closet shelf and slips it into a backpack. He adds two bananas and a thermos filled with coffee, then eases the backpack on to his shoulders. Briefly, he considers and rejects taking a weapon other than the knife strapped to his calf. Suppose the snoop is a cop? True, he identified himself as a private investigator when he braced Miguel, but there’s still the chance.
Cautious by nature, trained to caution by the military, Leonard Carter avoids making decisions on the fly. He wants to know who this man is, why he’s asking questions about Leonard Carter and who hired him, assuming he’s really a private investigator. And Carter wants to accomplish each of these objectives without confronting the man on the street. Not that Carter doesn’t have a handy suspect, a likely betrayer, a man he never trusted but always liked.
Carter closes and locks the door behind him. He takes the elevator down six flights and walks out into the damp spring morning. Tulips bloom in a pair of window boxes to his right and the air is faintly scented by a small lilac bush in a townhouse garden across the street. Carter looks up at a sky the color of a prison blanket. He’s thinking that he woke up healthy this morning and he’s going to spend the night with Angel Tamanaka. Given the life he’s lived, as boy and man, he can hardly expect more.
Louis Chin’s been sitting in his rented Camry for three hours, feeling more and more uneasy about the silenced Glock stashed under the seat. Louis’s always been a good salesman, but what he sold Bobby Ditto was a bill of goods, at least when it came to his own background. Louis Chin’s never walked in Carter’s shoes. He led a company, sure, and he was assigned to Intel for a year, which is where he made his contacts. But the military he served was a blunt instrument, whereas Carter’s military was finely tuned. No way could Louis Chin operate fifty miles into Pakistan. Or Yemen or Somalia or Syria, for that matter. No way could he execute his mission – which for Carter meant executing human beings – and make it out alive.
Chin taps the steering wheel. The business of being a civilian has turned out to be a constant challenge. As he understands it now, the top-down military model suited him far better than the anarchy of the civilian world, every day beginning with new decisions, new consequences. Following orders was a lot simpler.
Of course, as a front-line Marine in Afghanistan, his life was at risk every day. That was why he quit. And now here he is risking his life again. Nevertheless, he’s certain that he has the element of surprise on his side. Even if Carter’s a paranoid type, he’ll be looking for Italian gangsters, not a well-dressed Asian.
Chin steps out of the Camry and into a light drizzle. He retreats to the shelter of a storefront canopy where he stretches, leaning to his left, then his right, in a vain attempt to loosen the muscles of his lower back. As he does, he glances up at a three-story building, a warehouse of some sort, located on a neighboring block, Myrtle Avenue. If he can get up on the roof, he’ll have an unobstructed view, both of the windows fronting Carter’s apartment and the main entrance to the building itself. Chin estimates the distance between the warehouse and the apartment building to be a mere two hundred yards. Maybe he isn’t the greatest marksman ever to enlist in the Marines, but armed with a rangefinder and a decent rifle, he won’t have any problem hitting something as large as a man.
Chin enters the little grocery store to find an Arab running the show. Two Arabs, actually, one by the cash register, a second behind the deli counter. That’s another thing about civilian life. Half the little grocery stores in New York are owned by Arabs. When had that come about? Why hadn’t anyone told him the hajis were taking over?
When no ready answer to either question comes to mind, Chin picks up an orange soda and a small packet of ibuprofen tablets before heading back to the car. Seated again, he chases the tablets with the first two inches of his soda and settles down. Back when he signed his discharge papers, he’d imagined a warm welcome from the many private security agencies owned by ex-Marines. And he’d gotten a warm welcome – Semper Fi, BooYah – but they were laying people off, not hiring. Now ...
Chin stiffens when he picks up movement in the rear-view mirror. The man approaching the Camry on the street side of the vehicle is ten years older than Leonard Carter, with bull shoulders, a bald head and a cheap suit that has to belong to a cop. This is not good news, not with an illegal pistol under the seat. The silencer, all by itself, could put him in a federal prison for the next five years.
Sure enough, the man raises an open billfold as he comes up to the window, revealing a detective’s gold shield and an ID card. The billfold snaps shut before Chin can read a word.
‘Lieutenant Epstein,’ the cop says. ‘May I see your driver’s license and registration?’
‘Am I doing something wrong, detective?’
‘Yeah, you’re not complying with a lawful order. Show me your driver’s license and registration.’
With no real choice in the matter, Chin produces the documents. ‘The car’s a rental,’ he explains.
Epstein slides a pair of reading glasses on to his nose before scrutinizing Chin’s license and the rental agreement. He takes a spiral notebook from his pocket and writes down Chin’s name, address and driver’s license ID number.
‘Mr Chin, will you tell me what you’re doing here? You’ve been parked for the last two hours.’
Chin has the right to refuse and he knows it. He’s in a legal parking space and he’s not committing a criminal act. But then the cop smiles apologetically.
‘I’m not tryin’ to harass ya. I got a good reason.’
‘I’m a private investigator, detective. I’m on a case.’
Epstein’s eyes widen. ‘Yeah? A private eye?’
‘That’s right.’