“I never did ask what your fake name was. The one on your ID?”
“Oh.” He smiled. “Floyd Rayford.”
“Wasn’t he—?”
“Orioles third baseman, back in the eighties. Four errors in one game, but I liked him. Sugar Bear. Had some pop in his bat.”
“The Wally Pipp of the Orioles. Ripken replaced him at third in game two of a doubleheader. That’s when the Ironman streak started.”
“You’re shittin’ me. How did I not know that?”
“How’d I not know you’re an O’s fan?”
“Listened to ’em on the radio when I was a kid. Virginia Eastern Shore is O’s country. Or used to be. So when I was thinking up a name I figured why not?”
“Hey, what’s this?”
A black SUV was pulling up in front of the house, brake lights shining. It was shortly after eleven. Two men in dark warm-ups hopped out from either side and scanned the block in both directions while Cole and Steve slid down in their seats. The man on the right opened a rear passenger door and hauled out a much shorter fellow in light clothing. Cole was reminded of Bickell’s description of Mansur as a “little shit Pashtun.”
“Think it’s him?” he asked.
“If so, not exactly a happy homecoming.”
The two big fellows escorted the smaller one toward the house. If this was an FBI operation, activated by the alarms they’d tripped, Cole doubted they’d be delivering Mansur back so soon, if at all. These men were acting more like jailers than protectors, with hands clamped on either arm. Hardly the sort of arrangement you’d have expected Mansur to cook up for himself.
“He must have some freedom of movement if he’s got his own apartment,” Steve said. “I mean, if he’s hanging out at some bodega when that other guy saw him. Maybe they just keep him on a short leash.”
“Well, they’re yanking it tight now.”
The three men disappeared into the house while the SUV idled out front. Ten minutes later the big guys returned, doors slamming. The SUV made a U-turn back toward Fayette, Steve and Cole sinking below the dashboard as the headlights swept the Honda. They popped up just in time to see it flash past them toward downtown. A GMC Yukon Denali, Maryland tags. Steve wrote down the numbers and phoned Barb.
“Got a tag for you to run with your guy at DMV.” He read her the number. “We may be a while longer, but I’m shutting down the phone for now. We’re gonna do some poking around.”
“Be careful.”
“You bet.” He switched off the phone and turned to Cole. “Let’s go see Mansur. Only this time, not through the front door.”
They walked up the alley behind Pickard toward the back of the house, where a fire escape stairway was bolted to the bricks. To foil burglars, the iron ladder hanging from the bottom was folded up just out of reach, held in place by a counterweight on a steel cable. Steve and Cole jumped for the lower rung but came up short. Steve got an aluminum garbage can from next door and rolled it into position beneath the ladder. He climbed shakily atop it and steadied for a leap. A dog began barking from a fenced lot across the alley. If Steve missed, the racket would be even worse. Cole readied himself to act as spotter.
Steve’s first try was awkward, and if not for Cole he would have landed in a heap. The barking dog was in a frenzy now.
“Christ, what am I thinking,” Steve said. “You’re the fucking pole vaulter, right?”
“In high school, but yeah.”
They traded places. Cole crouched carefully and pushed off, achieving just enough lift to grab the lowest rung with both hands. It was rough with rust, and for a moment he dangled like a trapeze artist while the can rattled back into place. The dog was still going nuts, and a light flashed on in one of the opposite windows just as the ladder began easing lower from the weight of his body. As soon as his feet touched the ground he started climbing. Steve followed him up, and they quickly reached the latticed platform outside the second-floor windows.
No lights were on. They paused to wait for the dog to quiet down, which took another five minutes. By then the light had gone back out in the window of the house across the alley. There were no curtains in either second-floor window of Mansur’s house, and both were dark. A streetlamp at the end of the alley offered just enough light for them to see that the rooms were empty and unfurnished. They crept slowly up to the top floor, where a window spilled light between the crumpled slats of an aluminum blind. They heard a voice from inside, a woman speaking Spanish. Cole moved close enough to peek through a slit and saw her facing into a dingy room from an open doorway. Like Consuelo Reyes, she, too, was shouting angrily, gesturing emphatically with her right hand. Crouching lower, Cole now saw that she was speaking to a man seated on a narrow bed against the far wall. He was short and sallow, with a scanty beard and the weathered, old-before-his-time look of a tribal Pashtun, although instead of a billowy shalwar kameez he wore baggy jeans and a white T-shirt. It had to be Mansur. He looked cowed, submissive, and when he opened his mouth, his voice was so meek and muffled that Cole couldn’t even make out what language he was speaking.
The woman left, shutting the door behind her. A lock snapped with a click. Mansur rose to turn out the light. His footsteps approached the darkened window, so Cole shrank out of sight, bumping into Steve, who steadied them on the landing. Then, in a stroke of luck, Mansur shoved aside the blinds and unlocked the window. The lower sash groaned as it rose an inch or two. He slid a shoe into the opening to keep the window from shutting, its scuffed leather toe poking into the frigid night. The old blinds settled back into place with a noise like a Slinky, and they heard Mansur’s receding footsteps. There was a creak of bedsprings, then silence.
Steve checked his watch: 11:24. They whispered in consultation, and decided to wait another twenty minutes to give Mansur time to fall asleep. They settled their rumps onto the cold steel slats, hoping no one was looking out from the back of any houses across the alley. Even in the darkness they probably showed up like a pair of giant spiders.
When the twenty minutes were up, Cole stood quietly and tugged at the sash. It was stiff and swollen from years of repainting, so he pulled harder, knees bent. When the window finally came free it shrieked loudly.
They paused to listen for any signs they’d awakened Mansur. His breathing was slow, regular, so Cole pulled aside the blinds and slid feetfirst into the room while holding back the blinds for Steve, who also dropped quietly to the floor. No wonder Mansur had opened it. An old steam radiator hissed in a corner, and the heat was stifling.
As Cole lowered the blinds back into place they came free from their wobbly brackets and clattered loudly to the floor. Mansur sat up in alarm as Steve crossed the room in two big steps to clamp a hand on the small man’s mouth just as he was about to shout. Mansur thrashed and squirmed as Cole grabbed him from the other side. The little man felt brittle, his bones like sticks you could snap with your hands, and his eyes were wild with fear. Cole whispered into his ear.
“We are here to help you, Mansur.” Then he took a gamble. “We are here about your family.”
Mansur relaxed only slightly, but Cole was heartened enough to ease his grip. When Mansur didn’t try to break free he took it as a sign of progress and nodded to Steve, who gently let go.
Cole whispered again. “I am going to take my hand off your mouth, but do not cry out. Do not call for anyone. Do you understand?”
Mansur nodded, his eyes still wide.
Cole let go. Mansur sagged in apparent relief. When he finally spoke, his voice was a soft rasp.
“Who are you?”
Third time today for that question.
“We’re friends. But for security reasons we can’t give you our names.”