Except it wasn’t the pickup that emerged, it was McWhitney himself, from his bar’s front door. He paused in the open doorway to call one last instruction to his bartender inside, then set off on foot, down the sidewalk away from Oscar Sidd.
That was all right. Oscar could still follow. He put the forgettable car in gear, waited till McWhitney was a full block ahead, then slowly eased forward.
McWhitney walked three blocks, hands in pockets, shoulders bunched, as though daring anyone or anything to try to slow him down. Then, taking his hands out of his pockets, he turned right and crossed the tarmac to a corner gas station that was also a body repair and detailing shop. He went into the office there, so Oscar stopped at the pumps and filled the tank, using a credit card. He expected to make a long drive today.
McWhitney was still in the office. When he came out, surely, he would be getting into one of the vehicles parked around the periphery here; but then which way would he travel?
The Belt Parkway was down that way, several blocks to the south; Oscar was going to guess that’s where McWhitney would head, if his final goal was Massachusetts. Therefore, when Oscar left the station, he drove half a block north and made a U-turn into a no-parking spot beside a fire hydrant. He sat there and tuned his radio to a classical music station: Schumann.
Oscar Sidd was not as important in the international world of finance as he liked to suggest, but the reputation itself sometimes brought useful opportunities his way. This cash of McWhitney’s now; that could be useful. In fact, he did have ways to launder hot money overseas, mostly in Russia, though the people you had to do business with were among the worst in the world. You were lucky to come away from them without losing everything you possessed, including your life. Still, McWhitney’s money might be worth the risk. Oscar would trail along and see what opportunities might arise.
It was nearly ten minutes before McWhitney emerged, and then Oscar nearly missed him, it was so unexpected. A small battered old Ford Econoline van, a very dark green, with holy redeemer choir in fairly rough white block letters on the door, came easing out of the gas station and paused before joining the moderate traffic flow.
It took Oscar a few seconds to realize the driver of the van, hunched forward to look both ways, was McWhitney, then the van bumped out to the roadway and turned right, just as Oscar had expected. He let one other car go by, to intervene between himself and the van, then followed.
The van up there was old, its bumper and the lower parts of its body pockmarked with rust, but the New York State license plate it sported was new, shiny, and undented. That name he’d seen on the door, Holy Redeemer Choir, that was also new, and must be the reason McWhitney had left the van at that shop.
Why would McWhitney use a name like that? What would it mean?
He wasn’t surprised, several blocks later, when the van signaled for a right and took the on-ramp to the Belt Parkway, heading east and then north. We’re going to New England, he thought, pleased, and the radio switched to Prokofiev.
6
The police meeting in the bank building was breaking up, and Gwen walked out to the main bank lobby with Captain Modale from New York State, saying, “I want you to know, Bob, I’m glad you made the trip over here.”
“Somewhat to my surprise,” the captain told her, with a little grin, “I am as well. All the way over here yesterday, I’ll have to tell you the truth, I was in quite a sour mood.”
They’d stopped in the lobby to continue their conversation as the others left. Gwen said, “You thought it was going to be a big waste of time.”
“I did. Mostly, because I was convinced my Ed Smith was likely to be anywhere on earth except this neighborhood right here.”
“I’m almost as surprised as you are,” Gwen told him. “When I talked with my John B. Allen, he just didn’t seem like somebody who’d take unnecessary risks.”
“I imagine,” the captain said, “two million dollars could be quite a temptation.”
“Enough for him to make a mistake.”
“We can only hope.”
“But now we’ve got a better likeness,” Gwen said, “we maybe have more than hope. Which is the main reason I’m so glad you came over. We’ll have the new poster up this afternoon, and if he’s still in this general area we’ll definitely scoop him in.”
“I almost wish I could stay for it,” the captain said. “But I’m sure you’ll let us know.”
“You’ll be the first to know,” Gwen promised him, and laughed. “I’ll e-mail you his mug shot.”
“Do.” The captain stuck his hand out. “Nice to meet you, Gwen.”
“And you, Bob,” she said, as they shook hands. “Safe trip back.”
“Thank you.” The captain turned. “Trooper Oskott?”
The trooper had been seated at a loan officer’s desk, reading a hunting magazine, but he now stood, pocketed the magazine, and said, “Yes, sir.”
The two men left, and Gwen paused to get out her cell phone and call her current boyfriend, Barry Ridgely, a defense lawyer who spent his weekdays in court and his Saturdays on the golf course. When he answered now, in an outdoor setting from the sound of it, she said, “How many more holes?”
“I can do lunch in forty minutes, if that’s what you want to know.”
“It is. You pick the place.”
“How about Steuber’s?” he said, naming a country place that had originally been very Germanic but was now much more ordinary, the Wiener schnitzel and saurbraten long departed.
“Done. See you there.”
Leaving the bank building, putting her cell phone away, Gwen turned toward her pool car when someone called, “Detective Reversa?”
She turned and it was Terry Mulcany, and it seemed to her he’d been waiting on the sidewalk specifically for her to come out. “Yes?”
“I’ve been waiting for you to come out,” he said. “I have two questions, if you don’t mind.”
“Not at all. Go ahead.”
“Well, the first is,” he said, “I know my publisher, when the book comes out they’re going to want pictures, and particularly the detectives who worked on the case. So what I was wondering is, if you’ve got a picture of yourself you especially like.”
And have you, she wondered, asked the same question of the other detectives on the case? Of course not. Smiling, she said, “When the time comes, your editor can call me or someone else at my barracks. I’m sure there won’t be any problem.”
“That’s fine,” he said, with a hint of disappointment. What had he been hoping for? That she would suddenly hand him her Playboy playmate photo?
Wanting to get to Steuber’s, she said, “Was there something else?”
“Yes. The other thing,” he said, “is, I’ve been trying to remember where I saw that guy.”
“My John B. Allen.”
“Yeah.” He twisted his face into a Kabuki mask, to demonstrate the effort he was putting in. “I don’t know why,” he said, “but there’s something about a pear it reminds me of. The place where I saw them.”
She did her own Kabuki mask. “A pear?”
“You know this area,” he said, “a lot better than I do. Is there someplace around here called like the Pear Orchard, or Pear House, or something like that?”
“Not that I’ve ever heard of.”
“Oh, well,” he said, and elaborately shrugged. “If I figure it out, I’ll give you a call.”
“You do that,” she said.