Thirty seconds later, DeLeyon shambled into the kitchen ahead of Fred. He wore a baggy basketball jersey, cut off shorts that reached mid-calf and a huge pair of Nike Air Huaraches. He hung his head in a self-conscious slouch and put out his hand for the ghetto handshake he’d taught Brent when they first met.
In spite of his anger, Brent grabbed DeLeyon’s bent fingers, followed by a quick bang of fists one on top of the other. “What the hell are you doing?”
DeLeyon didn’t meet his eyes. He shrugged his immense shoulders. “Hey, you know, man,” he muttered.
“Your grandma know you’re here?” Brent demanded.
“I gonna call her tonight.”
“What about school?”
DeLeyon raised his eyes and smiled. “Almost out for the year. I still got straight A’s. Don’t matter if I ain’t there a couple days.”
Brent looked away. As angry as he was, he was touched. “DeLeyon,” he said after a long silence. “I’m in some really big trouble.”
“You didn’t do it,” the boy said. “I know you.”
“Yeah, but being around me is a bad idea. It could ruin your chances for college.”
“I let you go down without lifting my finger, I don’t deserve no college. You taught me that.”
Brent shook his head. “You actually listened?”
“Seem like I did.”
“Look, DeLeyon,” Brent said, “Your belief in me means everything, but I have to do this myself.”
DeLeyon screwed up his lips and shook his head. “You ain’t guilty, but they think you guilty and they ain’t gonna give you no chance to prove nothing different. A black man know more ‘bout this than you. Don’t be trying to send me home and telling me you gonna do it all by yourself, cause you ain’t.”
Brent looked over at Fred who’d already helped himself to a beer from the refrigerator and plopped in one of the kitchen chairs.
Fred shrugged. “I didn’t go to some fancy-ass college, but one thing’s pretty clear—you got no business turning down help. I’m with the kid.”
“Look,” Brent said, feeling his temper rise. “You haven’t got a clue what I’m dealing with here.”
“I’m sure you got a great plan to take care of it all by yourself.”
“You can’t help.”
Fred’s attempt at good humor dropped away. “Aren’t you even gonna wait for Maggie?” He returned Brent’s scowl.
“What the hell are you talking about?” Brent demanded.
“A little bit ago, her cousin from the deli rings my doorbell and hands me some bread with another note.” Fred got up from his chair, fished in his pocket, and held out a folded piece of paper inside a plastic baggie. “It says to keep you here, that she’s got help coming. She’ll be here soon.”
Brent felt a surge of hope, mixed with suspicion. “What do you mean she’s got help coming? Why hasn’t she called to tell me that herself?”
Fred shrugged. “I donno.” He pointed to the bag he’d put on the kitchen table when he first walked in. “But she gave me a shopping list.”
FIFTY-TWO
MORRISTOWN, NJ, JULY 1
MAGGIE RACED WESTWARD OUT OF Newark, chafing at the traffic but wondering at the same time why she was in such a hurry. After all, wasn’t she about to risk her career, maybe even her freedom, on a wild speculation? She glanced in her rearview mirror and picked out Kosinsky’s truck, and her anxiety notched higher. She wasn’t the only one rolling the dice. She’d tried to talk him out of coming, but probably not hard enough.
Everything had started to snowball around midday when Ann Jenkins came into her cubicle. She had the memo rolled in her fist and looked exhausted, like she’d had maybe two or three hours sleep in the past several days. “DeVito, if it was my call, I’d go after Biddle yesterday, but I can’t convince any of these other bastards to back us. I’m really sorry.”
Maggie bit her cheeks. “They’re making a huge mistake,” she said. “I’ve done even more work on this and I can—“
Jenkins waved a hand for silence. “I gave it my best shot. Bottom line—nothing’s happened since 9/11, and they all think I’m paranoid. I tried, but I lost. It’s finished, and I’m too goddam tired and pissed off to discuss it any further.” She tossed Maggie’s memo on her desk then turned and left.
A moment later, Kosinsky came into her cubicle. “I overheard.”
Maggie stared at the wall and shook her head. A single tear broke loose and trickled down her cheek.
“You gave it your best shot,” he said in a gentle voice.
She wiped the tear away with an angry swipe. “I’m right!” she said in a choked voice.
“Let’s think about it. Maybe there’s some way to run this by other people.”
Maggie turned and looked at him, her eyes narrow slits. “You don’t get it! Brent’s not going to wait!”
Kosinsky’s face wrinkled in disbelief. “He’d go after the terrorists alone?”
“He’ll go after Biddle, which may be the same thing.” She wiped her other eye.
“You could always arrest him.”
She nodded.
“But if you do arrest him, it does nothing to stop the bad guys.”
“Yeah.” Maggie put her elbows on the desk and covered her face with her hands. “Got any ideas?”
There was a long silence, and she finally took her hands away. Kosinsky was looking at her with a wry expression. “We’ll have to blame it on the boyfriend. We’ll say we were in hot pursuit. There’s really no other way.”
Now, as she finally exited the freeway at Morristown, Maggie’s thoughts switched to Fred Lucas. He was a poor choice for something like this—a loveable guy but a loose cannon. Still, when she’d talked it over with Kosinsky, they’d agreed they needed help, and the skills of a retired fireman were ideal.
She held her breath as she turned onto her street, afraid Brent might have departed even before Fred arrived. She’d seen it in his eyes that morning, and later she’d heard it in his voice when she’d called, his anger and desperation as he told her he wouldn’t wait any longer. His tone had suggested other things as well, but she couldn’t dwell on them until they got through the next twenty-four hours.
She let out a moan of relief when she reached her house and saw a rusted Chevrolet Cavalier with a dented bumper in the drive. Hopefully, that meant Fred had followed her orders and ditched his old Voyager minivan. She parked behind the Cavalier, took a long tube of rolled up paper from the seat beside her, and then waited for Kosinsky to pull in.
“Did the old guy do what you told him?” he asked as he climbed out.
“I think so,” she said. “But don’t call him old to his face. Fred’s prickly.”
They walked around to the back, but as soon as Maggie opened door, she froze. A hulking African American kid stood behind Fred and Brent. “Who the hell are you?” she demanded.
“Meet DeLeyon,” Fred said, as if it was no big deal. Maggie glared at him as she stepped into the kitchen then held the door for Kosinsky.
Once all five of them were inside and Maggie had closed the door, the small kitchen seemed crowded to the bursting point. Brent looked toward the door. “Who else is coming?” he demanded.
“I’m it,” Kosinsky said.
“This is Steve Kosinsky,” Maggie explained. “He’s a lieutenant in the New York State Police.”
Brent eyes flicked back and forth between them. “I assume his presence here isn’t official.”
Kosinsky gave a wry smile. “No.”
“Why are you doing this?”
“Your girlfriend is very persuasive.”
After a brief hesitation Brent shook his head. “It’s too big a risk.”
Kosinsky tipped his head toward Maggie. “I agree with her that it’s better than you doing it by yourself.”