Stevie handed the man on the bench the envelope with the thousand dollars knowing that every serial number on every bill was accounted for. ‘‘Okay,’’ she said, ‘‘we’ve got a deal.’’
Stevie took her time walking to the ATM assuming that the police would need every minute to regroup and follow her. She recognized a few of the detectives-though the introductions had been fast and furious during her briefing and she didn’t remember a single name.
She strolled casually up the slight rise of Fourth Avenue, approaching the ATM where she thought she recognized one of the detectives. The man met eyes with her and quickly indicated his wristwatch. The signal was obvious: They wanted more time.
The detective stepped away from the ATM. She suddenly appreciated the police in a way she never had before. The surveillance team was keeping up with her despite the change in plans. Their presence lent her a feeling of safety. Nonetheless, she stepped up to the ATM with adrenaline charging her system.
She inserted her card and punched in her PIN. Twenty seconds later her money was delivered, followed by her card. She turned in time to see two punk kids coming directly at her, their intentions forecast in their determined eyes. She’d been set up. Tape or no tape, they were going to mug her for the five hundred in broad daylight. Stevie stepped back toward the ATM machine.
At that same moment, a blur of activity erupted to her right. A homeless man collided with a woman and stole her two shopping bags, violently shoving her to the sidewalk. He sprinted away from her heading directly toward the two youths approaching Stevie.
The downed woman shouted for help. Two uniformed police charged around the corner of the building shouting at the homeless man, and finally tackling him. At the sight of cops, the two punks scattered, one heading down Fourth Avenue, the other east on Olive.
Stevie stepped away from the ATM and collected herself. They were all cops, she realized-the street person, the assaulted woman- the event staged to scare off the punks. Guardian angels took on the strangest forms.
Halfway back down the street a hand gripped her elbow firmly. ‘‘Walk’’. . the man said.
‘‘Let go of my arm,’’ Stevie demanded.
Still holding her, the man placed a claim check in her hand. ‘‘The art museum,’’ he said. She glanced down at the claim check.
‘‘A woman was mugged,’’ she said.
‘‘It’s a dangerous city.’’
‘‘You think I’ll give you five hundred dollars for a worthless claim check?’’
He answered, ‘‘If you don’t, you’ll never know what was on that tape.’’
‘‘You’re not getting the money until I have the tape in hand.’’
‘‘That’s not how this works.’’
‘‘That’s exactly how it works,’’ Stevie said.
‘‘If you don’t want to play,’’ the man declared, ‘‘then we got nothing to discuss.’’ He pulled her to the side out of the flow of pedestrians.
‘‘Just to remind you: I have five hundred dollars here that has your name on it.’’
‘‘Gimme the five,’’ the man said anxiously.
‘‘Let’s take a walk,’’ she suggested. ‘‘Ten minutes and you’re five hundred dollars richer.’’
‘‘That ain’t the way it’s gonna work,’’ he said.
‘‘Then it’s not going to work,’’ she declared. She reached into the bag and offered the claim check, wondering if he noticed her trembling fingers.
‘‘Keep it. Just give me the money,’’ he pleaded.
‘‘Let’s take a walk,’’ she said cheerily. Retaining the claim check, she walked away from him, realizing he had no choice but to follow. She counted to herself-one thousand one, one thousand two-her anticipation mounting as she reached the pedestrian crossing where the light changed instantly. She crossed with the light.
‘‘I ain’t got no time for this,’’ the man’s voice complained over her left shoulder.
‘‘Sure you do,’’ she replied, looking straight ahead. ‘‘This is the easiest five hundred you’ve ever made.’’ She kept walking, not knowing if he was following or not, but never so much as checking her stride.
‘‘The woman has got nerve,’’ LaMoia remarked in back of the van, his cellphone clutched to his ear. ‘‘What-do-ya say we pop the lid on this thing? You farting in here or what?’’ he asked the dispatcher.
‘‘No sir.’’ The dispatcher got up and slowly cranked open the van’s skylight.
‘‘Smells like a dog let loose in here,’’ LaMoia commented, fanning the air.
‘‘I’m going on foot,’’ Boldt announced into the phone.
‘‘We got her covered,’’ LaMoia said somewhat arrogantly.
‘‘Just the same, I’m going on foot.’’
LaMoia said, ‘‘We’ll relocate the team to the museum. We got four on foot. They’re your back-up.’’
Boldt said, ‘‘If he puts another hand on her, John, if he gets an idea to liberate that five hundred, we’re all over him.’’
‘‘Understood.’’ He added, ‘‘We screw this up, hell, it’ll make Brokaw.’’
Outside the art museum there stood on enormously tall steel plate sculpture of a man pounding an equally huge hammer. To Stevie, it looked Russian, a holdover of Stalinism, a dedication to the might of the worker. Her escort grew increasingly nervous with their approach, perhaps sensing the trap that was laid for him. Her own anxiety increased with each step, and she worried that the police didn’t have anyone in place yet.
A group of Japanese tourists had collected in the courtyard awaiting their tour guide. She felt several of the men staring. Others shot pictures of the Russian worker.
‘‘You don’t need me for this,’’ the man complained to her.
‘‘I don’t trust you,’’ she said, spinning and confronting.
‘‘You take picture us?’’ a Japanese man asked Stevie, extending his camera toward her and indicating his smiling friends. Stevie hesitantly accepted the camera.
‘‘I don’t have time for this,’’ her escort objected again.
‘‘Settle down,’’ she whispered. Focusing the camera she spun the zoom by mistake. Behind the group of grinning tourists, she saw the steam-cleaning van turn left, cross traffic and pull to the side of the street. She clicked the shutter, capturing only the tourists’ heads. The Cavalry had arrived.
Boldt approached the museum’s sunken courtyard wishing McNeal would lower the camera and get a look at him. He slowed but did not stop, passing within a yard or two of the man at her side. Detective Mulgrave appeared to his left and entered the museum ahead of him. It would all move quickly now even if it felt like slow motion.
He paused at the museum’s glass doors and studied the reflection as McNeal handed the camera back to the Japanese tourist. As she turned toward the entrance, he wondered if she would recognize him from the back, deciding that she probably would.
Stevie McNeal didn’t seem like she missed much.
In the back of the van, LaMoia spoke into the radio handset, ‘‘If this goes south, if our boy makes tracks, Mulgrave stays on him. MoCom will follow. Lynch, you put your body in front of McNeal if needed.’’
‘‘Roger that,’’ Lynch confirmed.
‘‘If we have to move on him, I want it down and dirty,’’ he ordered. ‘‘We got civilians in there. Copy?’’
The radio sparked with several distinct pops as undercover detectives tripped their radios. This told LaMoia plenty. His operatives were in place. No one could speak. It was going down.
Stevie stepped up to the coat check and handed the colored tag to the Asian behind the counter. She wondered if this woman had once been an illegal, and realized she had a stereotype to overcome. Her escort had stopped ten feet back in the midst of museum foot traffic coming and going, reminding her of a dog poised on a street curb considering crossing traffic. His face florid and feverish, he had broken into a sweat out in the courtyard.
She too was sweating. It seemed her chance to save Melissa-if there still was a chance-came down to these next few minutes and the tape promised. Boldt stepped up to the counter alongside of her and spoke clearly to one of the coat check attendants.