Authors: Peter Spiegelman
“Stay with him,” Sikes said. The minutes passed slowly. It was nearly four-thirty, and night had all but fallen. The crowds were thicker on the sidewalks and the traffic heavier. It was going to be harder and harder to keep a tail. “Talk to me, Juan,” Sikes said.
“Turning up William Street, now. It’s getting crowded out here, Eddie,” Pritchard said. Neary checked his watch. Desai’s time was up. It was Mills’s turn. Neary gave Sikes the nod.
“Sanchez, where’s Mills?” Sikes asked.
“At his desk. I’m looking at him now.” I flicked on the voice box, but before Sikes could notify the units, Pressman broke in again, breathless.
“Shit, Eddie, I lost her. I lost Compton. Goddamn, her coat’s gone. Eddie, she’s off the floor. She may be headed out. Shit.” He was short of breath and sounded scared. Sikes’s face furrowed in dismay. Neary let out a huge, disgusted breath.
“Un-fucking-believable,” he said in a harsh whisper. He took the radio from Sikes. When he spoke, his voice was calm and level.
“Take it easy, Len. Check with the uniform at the desk. Lorna, you hearing this?”
The woman from the Chrysler answered. From the background noise, she was on the street. “Copy that. I’m headed toward the building now.” Then Pressman came back.
“She signed out five minutes ago, boss. Shit.” Lenny was not having a good day. I moved around the back of the van, peering out at the crowds streaming by. Neary stayed calm. He spoke into the radio.
“Lorna, keep your eyes open. She could be on the street, headed toward you. What’s she wearing, Len?”
“Gray pants, some kind of parka, light gray and blue,” Pressman answered. I looked out the rear windows. I caught a glimpse of a blue and gray jacket and a head of thick, brown hair.
“Got her!” I said. “On Water, headed toward Whitehall. Must’ve just passed us by.” Neary got on the radio again.
“Where are you, Lorna?”
“I’m at the bank, boss. You guys are closer,” she answered. Neary thought about it for a second, then reached into the back and came up with a tiny radio. He stuffed it in his pocket and plugged an earpiece in his ear. He handed Sikes the big radio.
“Eddie, you coordinate. Make sure everybody stays in touch. And keep that dork Pressman away from any sharp objects. I’ll take Cheryl,” Neary said. He looked at me. “You and Eddie do Mills. Fucking Murphy’s Law.” He smiled ironically, shook his head, and was gone. Sikes and I looked at each other.
“Call the ball, chief,” he said. I nodded. He called Sanchez.
“Mills just went to the can, Eddie. I’ll squawk you when he’s back,” Sanchez said. We waited and listened to the jumpy chatter on the radio. Pritchard and Victor were still on Vetter, in Hanover Square. Neary was on Compton, who’d turned up Whitehall. DiLillo was running up Broad Street, as best she could in the evening crush, trying to cut over to Whitehall and pick up Compton. Sanchez came on again, telling us Mills was back. I punched the number, and Mills picked up right away. I flicked on the voice box and spoke.
There was a sharp intake of breath on the other end of the line. Then silence. Then he hung up.
“What’s up, Sanchez?” Sikes asked.
“You freaked him out. The guy is sitting there, white as a sheet, running his fingers through his hair.” Sanchez paused. “He’s got his cell phone out. He’s getting up, now. Shit. He shut the office door, Eddie.”
“Keep on him, Sanchez.” We waited. Sikes checked status with the foot patrol. Pritchard and Victor were watching Vetter have coffee at a place off Hanover Square. They thought he might be waiting for someone. Neary was a block behind Compton, approaching Broadway. DiLillo was a block ahead of her. Sanchez cut in.
“He’s leaving, Eddie. Repeat, Mills is leaving. Wearing black pants and a dark gray overcoat. Got a black leather briefcase on a shoulder strap. Guy doesn’t look happy, Eddie.” Sikes looked at me.
“Give me a radio,” I said. Sikes reached around and grabbed one. I plugged the earpiece in and flicked the switch. Nothing. “Dead.” I tossed it in his lap.
He swore colorfully. “That’s the last one.”
“You’d think an outfit like Brill could afford batteries,” I said, laughing. “I’ll use my phone.” I climbed out of the van.
It was almost five, and the sidewalks were jammed. I nearly missed Mills as he came out of the building. He was walking quickly, but his gait was stiff. His long blond hair looked greasy, and his complexion was gray, though it could’ve been the streetlights. He was stabbing at his cell phone. He headed up Broad Street. I let him get a half block ahead of me before I followed. In these crowds, I was going to stay close. Mills turned on Water and passed the van without a glance. He took a right on Whitehall, headed toward Bowling Green. I followed, struggling through the crowd. So far, it was the same route Cheryl Compton had taken.
It was much colder now, and the air felt like snow. The clouds, lit from below by the city, were heavy with it. Mills was still fiddling with his phone. The crowds grew thicker as we approached Bowling Green. The stream of people became a river, with tributaries and crosscurrents. One branch flowed north, up Broadway, another to the west, into the Bowling Green subway station, and there was a heavy press southbound, to the ferry terminal. People were bundled against the cold, and lost in the automatic routines of commuting. We were at the bottom of Bowling Green, just opposite the Custom House. Mills crossed Whitehall and headed for the subway. I was right behind him.
Chapter Twenty-five
I managed a quick call to Sikes before I descended beneath the river. I was on the 4 train, to Brooklyn, wedged between a musty-smelling man and a large woman whose breasts were mashed against my broken rib. I was riding at the front of the car, near the connecting door to the car ahead. Through its scratched glass I could just see Mills’s arm and shoulder.
I knew from the sheet Neary had given me that Mills lived in Park Slope, and I figured we were headed there. That meant three stops to Atlantic Avenue, then a transfer, probably to the 1 train, and one more stop, maybe two. We rumbled along under the river, the lights in the car periodically winking out and fluttering back on. We slowed coming into the first stop in Brooklyn.
Borough Hall is a big transfer point, and lots of people got on and off the train. I got a momentary scare when I lost sight of Mills, but then he reappeared, having been hidden behind a man traveling with several large rugs. I shifted my position and saw him in profile. His narrow face was taut, and his lips had all but disappeared. So far he’d shown no signs of concern about being followed; no furtive glances, no sudden course changes. He seemed oblivious to what was going on around him, blinkered by tension and fear.
We went on, past Nevins Street, to Atlantic Avenue. Atlantic Avenue is a bigger transfer point than Borough Hall, linking more subway lines and connecting to the Long Island Rail Road’s Flatbush Avenue station. If Mills were headed for Park Slope, he’d change here. He stirred as we approached the station. I wormed my way toward the doors. There was a rush of people when they opened, and in it I lost Mills. I scanned up and down the platform and saw nothing but a mass of shuffling bodies. The station was a maze of narrow passages and stairways. I was following signs to the 1 train when I saw a tall, thin figure jabbing at a cell phone. It was Mills, but he wasn’t switching to another subway line. He was headed toward the LIRR station.
Flatbush Avenue is a small station, one end of a spur line that makes two other stops in Brooklyn and ends in Queens, at the LIRR’s big hub in Jamaica. It’s under perpetual renovation, but remains a ratty affair, with not much more to it than a couple of platforms, some ticket windows, an information booth, a decomposing newsstand, and a scabrous snack bar. At this hour it was packed. Up ahead, Mills moved with the crowd toward the platforms. I grabbed some schedules from the information booth and followed.
People were waiting four deep out there. It was easy to keep sight of Mills, but I was worried about losing him when the train came. I edged nearer, through a phalanx of heavy coats, and made no friends doing it. Mills was still working his cell phone, apparently without success. His face was waxen. The train came, and he pushed on. I did the same, at the opposite end of the car from Mills. It was standing room only and nearly as close as the subway. Something loud and garbled came from the PA system, and we lurched out of the station.
We rolled along at a good clip, first through tunnels, and then up on elevated tracks. I leaned near the door and looked out. There wasn’t much to see through the Plexiglas: darkness, the smear of city lights, and my own face, white and tense. The conductor came by for tickets, and I bought one for Jamaica. We slowed coming into the East New York station. I pulled out my cell phone. The signal was spotty, but I tried Neary anyway. I heard his voice on the line, but between the weak signal and the train noise, I couldn’t make out his words. I told him where I was and what I was doing, but I had no idea if he heard any of it. I looked down the car. Mills stood by the far doors, swaying as the car swayed.
I leafed through the schedules I’d grabbed and found the train we were on. The next stop would be Jamaica. It was the junction point for all the LIRR branch lines, and from there, Mills could go anyplace on a system that stretched from Manhattan to Montauk. After Jamaica, this particular train would go on to make the Hempstead branch run, stopping in several Queens neighborhoods on its way into Nassau County. One of those neighborhoods was Bellerose.
The platform was crowded when we pulled into Jamaica. There was a heavy flow of people on and off the train, but Mills didn’t move and neither did I. After a few minutes, the doors closed and we pulled out again. The conductor came around for tickets, and I bought one for Bellerose.
I tried my cell again. The signal was still flaky. I punched Neary’s number and this time heard him clearly. Unfortunately, I was hearing his voice mail greeting. I left a message, telling him where I thought I was headed. Then I tried Sikes. He answered right away. I could barely make out his words, but I heard urgency in his voice. I gave him my status quickly, and he started to tell me something about Compton when the signal cut out completely. I tried to get him back but couldn’t.
The Hollis station came and went, and so did Queens Village, and then we were in Bellerose. Mills was standing by the door, ready to go. Lots of people got off at Bellerose; Mills was the first. He walked briskly, like he knew where he was going. I stayed well back. I wasn’t worried about losing him now; I knew where he was going too. Mills walked out of the station onto Commonwealth Boulevard. I followed.
It was colder now, a wet, penetrating cold, and snow was coming down in big, ragged flakes that were too heavy to float. They melted on the pavement, and the streets around the station glistened under sodium lights. Mills walked north, toward Hillside Avenue. His stride was stiff and jerky, like he was fighting the urge to run. He never looked back.
He was two blocks ahead now. I remembered how the streets ran here, and I knew it wouldn’t be long before Mills turned east off Commonwealth. He didn’t disappoint me. When he turned, I did too, onto a parallel street. It was quieter back here, with little traffic and no pedestrians. Warm light spilled from the windows of the small houses, and it was easy to imagine dinner on the table and kids doing homework inside. A lot of the places were lit elaborately for Christmas, and the falling snow was painted in gaudy colors.
I could follow this street east for three blocks, then turn north again to get to Trautmann’s house. If I was fast enough, I might even get there before Mills did. I broke into a run. It wasn’t pleasant. There was a burst of pain with every footfall. It was work to get air into my lungs and work to get it out again, and each breath burned. After a block, the muscles in my side began to seize up. I slowed to a jog and then to a walk at Trautmann’s street.
I stopped behind a parked panel truck. Trautmann’s house was less than a block away, across the street. It was dark, and as shuttered and guarded looking as it had been the first time I’d seen it. My heart was pounding, and it wasn’t from the run. I took some slow, deep breaths, trying to dissipate the building adrenaline.
I hadn’t been there two minutes when Mills crossed the street and climbed the concrete steps to Trautmann’s front door. He rang the bell and waited. He rang again, and waited, and rang again. He stepped away from the door and looked up and down the street and looked at his watch. Then he walked down the steps and up Trautmann’s narrow driveway and disappeared around the side of the house. I stayed put. Nothing happened for a minute or two, and then I saw lights through the tall hedges at the back of the house.
I waited some more. The snow was falling faster now, in smaller flakes that stuck on the bushes and the tiny lawns. It was quiet, and the snow made it seem even quieter. I walked down the street at an even pace, past Trautmann’s house on the opposite side. No car in the driveway. I kept on walking for another block. A station wagon drove by but did not pause. I crossed the street and turned back.
The For Sale sign was still up at the house next door to Trautmann’s, and its windows were still dark and empty. I glanced around the street. No one. I walked quickly up the driveway and around to the back of the vacant house. The yard was a square of brown grass, now dusted in snow. It was bordered in the rear by a low cinderblock wall, and on the far side by a section of the fence that ran around Trautmann’s property. I crossed to the far corner of the yard, where it abutted Trautmann’s detached garage. There was a narrow strip of dirt between the rear of the garage and Trautmann’s tall hedge. I scaled the fence and dropped quietly into the gap.