Karen didn't say a word, she nodded and made the call to Hallandale PD.
After that she began looking around the apartment again for traces of Foley, something that would tell her he was staying here.
She looked at the shoes again, dark-brown loafers, size 10, so new they hadn't been worn. She believed they were Foley's because they were by the sofa with a pair of white Nikes, same size, also new but showing some signs of wear. The shoes in the bedroom closet, two pairs, well broken in, were no doubt Buddy's. There were magazines in the living room, Sports Illustrated, National Enquirer, and a stack of newspapers-the Miami Herald and Ft. Lauderdale Sun-Sentinel-for the entire week, Monday, the day of the prison break, through today, Friday. Karen found Foley's mug shot in the Herald and stared at it, trying to see in this face what she remembered of the guy on Collins Avenue dressed for the beach. If it was Foley he might Ve sat right here to take the Nikes off and strap on the sandals. Going to see Adele, a high-risk move. But so was busting out of prison. He had the nerve… And maybe the beach outfit showed a weird sense of humor: in his own mind a disguise because, ordinarily, he would never in the world dress like a tourist. Karen's feeling was that after a half hour alone with Foley in the dark, she could say he was pretty cool, and cool guys didn't wear orange and ocher beach outfits and socks with sandals…
Burdon said, "We have here Mr. Orren Bragg's phone bill.
Four long-distance calls last month to the same two-one-three area, that's Los Angeles. Who does he know out there, Karen?"
She shook her head.
"Well, we gonna find out. You been in the kitchen?"
"Not yet."
"There's a shoe box in the trash, looks like a receipt in it.
Must be for the new shoes. You can go by the store tomorrow, see if they remember who bought them. I mean if we don't do any good here."
"But you think they're coming back," Karen said.
"Yes, indeed, and we gonna have a surprise party. I want you to take a radio, go down to the lobby and hang out with the folks. You see Foley and this guy Bragg, what do you do?"
"Call and tell you."
"And you let them come up. You understand? You don't try to make the bust yourself."
Burdon slipping back into his official mode.
Karen said, "What if they see me?"
"You don't let that happen," Burdon said.
"I want them upstairs."
Buddy turned south off Hallandale Beach Boulevard onto A1A, three blocks from the Shalamar Apartments.
He said, "It's about, roughly, fifteen hundred miles. You can do it in two days. We leave tonight and drive straight through, we get there two three o'clock Sunday morning. The bars close at two in Detroit and Sunday you can't buy any booze till noon.
Give everybody a chance to go to their place of worship before they tie one on."
Foley said, "What're you trying to say?"
"You want to leave tonight or tomorrow? We leave tomorrow morning, say around seven and drive straight through, we'd get in early Sunday afternoon. The game starts at six, so we'd have plenty of time to find a place and get in some provisions. Unless you want to watch the game at a bar. You know, a sports bar, with a big screen."
"Who do you want?"
"The Steelers, and all the points I can get. Or, we could leave tonight, stop early in the morning someplace in Georgia, sleep a few hours, have a good breakfast… You like grits?"
"I love grits."
"Biscuits and redeye gravy?"
They were turning in at the Shalamar now, following the drive that went down to the building's underground parking area. Foley saying, "I don't care for the gravy. What I like to do is crumble up my bacon in the grits." He said, "It's up to you, whenever you want to get going."
Buddy said, "We don't want to be too leisurely about it, like we got all the time in the world." He nosed the Olds into a space near the elevator.
"What do you think, leave our new duds in the car? We may as well."
An old gent in a golf cap asked Karen if she wanted to play gin-Several ladies, stopping by on their way to the elevator, asked if she was a new resident.
Another, a frail little gray mouse of a woman in her eighties, leaning on a malacca cane, asked if she was visiting her mother.
Karen made the mistake of saying no, her mother had passed away. Then had to gather up the radio and copy of the National Enquirer she'd brought from Buddy's so the woman could sit down close to her on the sofa. She took Karen's hand and began to pat it saying something about God's will, then asking what her mother had died of. Karen said non-Hodgkin's lymphoma, twelve years ago. The mouse woman said oh, gave Karen's hand a few more pats, looked around in a vague sort of way and said it was time for her pills.
Karen watched her creep off toward the elevator, the little mouse woman with her big black cane, and thought again of her mother, who would be only fifty-seven, at home, not hobbling around in a place like this; she would be outside in her straw hat and gloves, trimming, weeding, and you'd be able to see the house from the street. She told friends that and remembered telling Ray Nicolet and thought of the task force again and the SWAT team upstairs waiting and Burdon saying, "You let them come up. You don't try to make the collar yourself."
Karen looked off to the left, past a lamp next to the sofa and a giant schefflera in a planter, to the lobby's street entrance. The elevator was directly in front of her, not much more than thirty feet away.
The little gray mouse woman was still waiting, leaning on her cane.
The elevator door opened and Karen was looking at two men inside, both about the same height, facing this way. One in a dark shirt and trousers, the other…
The other in an orange and ocher beach outfit holding a straw bag.
Now the mouse woman was entering, feeling with her cane, one step at a time.
The one in the dark shirt and trousers reached out to help her aboard.
The one in the orange and ocher outfit continued to look straight ahead at Karen on the sofa looking back at him in the elevator's fluorescent glow lighting him and the other one like two suspects standing in a lineup. He didn't move. Not until the elevator door began to close.
Then raised his hand.
He did-Karen positive now it was Foley-raised his hand to her as the door closed.
The elevator stopped at three. The old woman didn't move and Buddy said to her, "Is this your floor, Mother?"
She looked up at the panel of numbers, the light indicating the floor.
She said, "Yes, it is."
Foley said, "It's ours, too," and turned his head to Buddy looking at him.
"Karen Sisco's in the lobby. I imagine there some fellas upstairs."
They had to wait for the woman to get off, poking the floor with her cane, then eased past her, ran down the hall to the EXIT sign and took the stairs to the garage.
Once they were in the car Buddy said, "I guess we're going tonight, huh?"
Foley liked his tone. He didn't have to tell Buddy to take it easy, not be in so big a hurry to get out they'd bang into cars.
Buddy said, "She'll see the elevator's going up to seven-that ought to give us some time."
They were leaving the building now, turning out into traffic.
"She saw us," Foley said, "so she'll know we got off."
Buddy said, "Well, if they know where I live, I guess they know what I drive. Should we pick up another car? This one's still got California plates on it. Or take 'em off and pick us up a Florida plate. I got a screwdriver in the glove box. They only use one license plate in Florida. I guess other states too. Stop off and lift one before we get on 95. There's a Wal-Mart over on Hallandale Beach Boulevard, has a big lot always full of cars. What do you think?"