Harriman thought of his father as his ears continued to listen for intrusion. Sometimes, he doubted his own sanity. He was glad he didn’t leave Decker a message. God only knew what the lieutenant really thought about him, but Harriman must have been believable enough for the lieutenant to send out a black-and-white to watch the front door.
Finally, he was sufficiently calm to get comfortable in bed. He took off his pajamas and felt the cool air of the fan wash over his body. He had to go to work tomorrow-a carjacking/murder case-so he’d better get some shut-eye because he needed to be alert in the morning.
He turned his iPod to his classical mix of symphonies. The grandiose nature of the music was usually enough to lull him to sleep. He positioned himself on his right side…his favorite side. Closing his eyes.
No need to turn out the light.
THE NEWS CAME into the station house just as the clock struck the witching hour.
Cheers soon followed.
After comparing the fingerprints from the cards located inside the high school files of Martin Cruces, José Pinon, Alejandro Brand, and Esteban Cruz against the unknowns taken from the murder scene, Oldham found a number of hits. Next came the painstaking process of evaluating whorls, swirls, and lines and he was magically rewarded when Cruces’s index finger and Pinon’s thumbprint proved to be a five-point match to two previously unidentified images lifted from a cabinet and a table.
An eyewitness plus physical evidence: Decker was in seventh heaven.
“Who’s picking Cruces up?”
“We’ve got a group from CRASH on its way to Cruces’s apartment. Messing and Pratt are going to the scene as well. Oliver and I are sticking close to home. As soon as they nab him, we’ll go in for the kill. I’m doing the interview. You want to talk strategy?”
“Sure. Get a confession.”
“Thanks, boss, I wouldn’t have thought of that.”
“Find out who ordered the hits.”
Marge said, “You know, Pete, I figured out that one as well.”
“Find out where Joe Pine is.”
“We’re three for three, Rabbi. Mi strategy es tu strategy.”
Decker smiled. “It would also help if Cruces implicated Alejandro Brand and Esteban Cruz in something bad. I’d love to get those psychos off the streets. How’re my wife and kid doing?”
“Haven’t heard of any problems. Anything else?”
“Actually, yes there is. How much time do you think you’ll have between now and the Cruces interview?”
“How much time?”
“Yeah…like supposing all goes smoothly and they pick him up. How much time between now and before he’s ready to be interviewed?”
“They have to pick him up and process him…” She did mental calculations. “He should be ready for interviewing in about an hour.”
“Then do me a favor, Margie. I got a missed call the last time I spoke to you. It was from a restricted number and no one left a message. It could be a number of people, but I know Harriman has a restricted number. Could you swing by his place?”
“Isn’t there a cruiser outside his unit?”
“So swing by and talk to the officers on watch.”
“Why don’t you call up the officers? Better yet, why don’t you call up Harriman?”
“I don’t have his number on me, and besides it’s close to midnight.”
“I can swing by, no problem.” She paused. “Are you worried about something?”
“Not worried. I just want to make sure everything’s okay.” Decker switched ears. “Even if we nail Cruces tonight, I don’t know where Joe Pine or Esteban Cruz is. Harriman is vulnerable. Just drive by, okay?”
Marge stood up and slung her sweater over her shoulder. “Okay, I’m on my way. I’ll call you if anything’s up. Will I be able to reach you?”
“Call the hospital because my cell won’t be working. While Brubeck’s babysitting Rondo Martin, I’m going to try to grab some shut-eye. I’m sure there’s an empty bed somewhere in these corridors. If not, there’s always a slab in the morgue.”
IF THE COPS out in front of the place weren’t bad enough, the gringo had three locks on the door.
But that was rich dudes for you. Thinking that a single piece of metal could prevent a pro from coming in and stealing the gold. The facts were that anything you owned could be taken if the stakes were high enough.
The first barrier was a piece of shit that could be flipped with a flick of a credit card. The second was a dead bolt, a little more challenging but nothing that couldn’t be taken care of with a good set of lock picks. The last obstacle was a chain-a snap once he finished off the dead bolt. He could have cracked the locks sooner except that the policia had nothing better to do than to search the rear area, shining their flashlights over the backyard. On a brick patio was a barbecue and a set of patio furniture-table and stackable chairs. If he had more time and a bigger truck, he would have helped himself to the set, but he had a job to do.
The first time the policia had come in the back, he’d been caught off guard. Didn’t even hear them until they were almost on top of him. He’d been one kissed cholo because he’d been kneeling, rifling through his bags to get his tools. He was dressed in black, too, making him hard to see. And he’d been extra lucky because he had just taken out the lightbulb over the back door. Even the cops said something about it, that the light must have gone out. But the two fat asses had been too lazy to investigate. They looked around for a minute and then went back to their cruiser, sitting on their butts, probably stuffing their ugly faces with coffee and doughnuts.
He had to work quickly in case they returned a second time. His only illumination came from a penlight. Couldn’t see too well, but that was okay. Most of the work was done by feel. The scratching of the tools seemed to make more noise than usual, and he was a little worried about that because the neighborhood was quiet. Maybe the dude heard something. But now, the apartment seemed dark and still. All was right.
As he worked, he thought about how far he had come. He was a fucking pro now, not some shitty, dime-bag drug runner for some other little fuck who was a step higher on the ladder. No more of that shit: he was one of the big boys. And like all pros, he had done his homework, scoping the layout of the place and checking the mark. The gringo was protected and that was a pain in the ass, but he had taken down bigger marks. Being closer to the top meant he had to deliver. The fuck if he was gonna let a few dumb cops stop him.
So far, he hadn’t even broken a sweat.
When he was sure that all was clear, he tiptoed into his spot at the back door and pulled out his lock picks: a set of sixteen manufactured in the highest quality of stainless steel. He liked the feel of the sharp points and the heft of the handles.
He sandwiched the penlight between his chin and his chest, trying to aim the beam at the keyhole.
There was enough light for him to see the sweet spot and with a single swoop, he inserted two picks inside the keyhole. Jiggling them around, he tried to feel the click of the tumblers.
He jiggled and jiggled and jiggled. But nothing happened.
Huh!
Well, maybe it was going to be a little harder than he thought.
He let the picks dangle from the keyhole and shut off the penlight. Then he worked by his sense of touch only. It was smart to be in darkness anyway. With the sky being black with no moon out tonight, a penlight could give him away as easily as a spotlight. After a few minutes, he decided that he needed a different set of picks. He carefully chose another set of steel points and put the first two picks in the leather holder.
Scratching and scratching inside the keyhole, trying to feel the tumblers. Yeah, this time, things were working better. He heard the first click of a tumbler falling into place, then the second, and finally the third. As the dead bolt gave, he slowly opened the door.