"That's interesting."

"Not very. The other set of prints belongs to a Martin Block, who owns an electronics business in Queens. He is more interesting."

"Why?"

"Because there are questions about his background." Stone explained about Block's unusual discharge from the navy and the blank year in his history.

Lance was quiet for a moment. "How do you spell his last name?"

Stone spelled it.

"I'll get back to you."

"Lance, there's something else."

"What?"

"I've heard from Billy Bob again."

"The message about a meeting this afternoon? I heard it."

"Oh. Well, get back to me. I don't want to have to take that meeting, if I can possibly help it."

"Goodbye." Lance hung up.

"So?" Dino asked. "He's going to help?"

"If he can find a way to help himself without helping me, he'll do it."

"He's pissed at you, huh?"

"He's pissed."

Dino's phone rang. "Yeah? Well, keep him in sight." He hung up. "Block's on the move in the Lexus."

Stone looked at his watch. "Eight-thirty; he's going to work."

"Probably. They'll let us know."

Ten minutes later, Stone's cell phone rang. "Yes?"

"It's Lance. Block was recruited from the navy by the Agency and sent to the Farm for further technical training. After a year, he got drunk and told a girl who he worked for and how he was being trained; he told her about several devices that we used at the time."

"And you caught him?"

"The girl worked for us, too; it was a test, and he failed it. He was bounced within days."

"Anything else?"

"Yes. His roommate at the Farm was Jack Jeff Kight."

"Bingo."

"I'm going to put people on Block immediately," Lance said.

"No need to; Dino's got people on him now. He left home a few minutes ago in his car, and we think he's going to work."

"He has offices and a warehouse on Queens Boulevard," Lance said.

"Then that's where Billy Bob is holding Arrington," Stone said.

"That's a big leap, and if you're wrong and we go in there, we could get her killed."

"You have a point. We'll have to confirm that she's there, before we can go in."

"My man, Sandy, who did the work at your house, has bought equipment there in the past. I'll send him back and see if he can learn anything. You sit tight, wherever you are. I'll get back to you."

"Lance, if Billy Bob calls and gives me instructions, I'll have no choice but to follow them."

"Before you do, you'd better call me; you'll have a better chance of survival with my help. Whatever you do, don't let Dino's people handle your cover. They'll stand out like sore thumbs."

"Call me when you know something." Stone hung up and turned to Dino. "Lance has no faith in the ability of the NYPD to operate undercover."

"Fuck him."

"He has a point, Dino; his people have a lot more experience at blending into the woodwork, and they don't look like cops."

"Cops don't look like cops, sometimes."

"Everybody in your squad room wears black shoes and white socks."

"I put a stop to that," Dino said.

"Maybe, but I'll bet they still wear the same black shoes."

"Some of them," Dino admitted. "They got used to them when they were in uniform."

"And every umarked police car might as well have an NYPD paint job; you can spot them a block away."

"And Lance's people drive black Surburbans with the windows blacked," Dino pointed out.

"There is some truth to that," Stone admitted, "but they have other transportation resources. Lance is sending a man into Block's business, which is on Queens Boulevard."

Dino's phone rang, and he pressed the speaker button. "Yeah?"

"Block drove to his business on Queens Boulevard," a detective said.

"Well, I'm glad he got there ahead of Lance's man," Stone said.

"He used a garage-door opener and drove inside," the detective said. "The place covers a third of a city block."

"Okay," Dino said, "sit on him. One of you take a walk around the block and see if there are exits other than on Queens Boulevard."

"Right," the man said, and hung up.

"Life would be sweet, if Arrington is there," Dino said.

"It would be sweet, if we could prove she's there before raiding the joint. Lance pointed out that, if she's not, we could get her killed. He's got this tech named Sandy, who's done business there; he's sending him in now to case the place."

"I could have done that," Dino said.

"Dino, the guy has done business there before; you have anybody like that?"

"Maybe."

"Let's just sit back and let Lance do his thing for the moment, all right? I mean, you were happy to give him the Billy Bob problem only a short time ago, as I recall."

"That was before I found out Billy Bob wanted to kill me," Dino said.

46

SANDY PETERSON arrived at MB Electronics half an hour after Lance had dispatched him. He had been buying electronic components there for nearly a year, and the staff knew him, at least by sight. He always paid cash, and they liked that.

He parked across the street and looked at the building for a moment; it was a single-story building that covered a third of the block. On the corner was a retail electronics shop, which took up about a quarter of the building, and next to that was a corrugated steel door that could be operated with a remote control. He walked to the end of the block and a few steps farther. There was a wide alley behind the building, which had a loading dock. Across the street, he saw two men sitting in a car.

He walked back around the building, checking for windows- there were none on the side-and into the retail shop through the front door. He bought a hundred-foot reel of cat five wire and paid for it in cash, glancing at himself in the mirror behind the counter. "Is Marty in?" he asked the girl who was helping him. "I'd like to ask him about something."

"I'll check," she said. She went to a door, knocked and went inside, behind the mirror. A moment later she came out, followed by a stocky man in his midforties, balding, dressed in suit pants, shirtsleeves and a loosened tie.

"I'm Marty Block,'" he said and pointed a finger at Sandy. "And you are…?."

"Sandy Peterson; I've been doing business here for a while."

"Yeah, I've seen you in the shop, didn't know your name. You don't have an account, do you?"

Sandy shook his head. "I prefer dealing in cash."

Marty grinned. "That's okay; we take American dollars."

"Can I talk to you for a minute?" Sandy asked.

"Sure, what's up?"

"It's kind of confidential."

"Come into my office," Marty said. He lifted the counter barrier, let Sandy through, then led him through the door into a large, comfortably furnished office with a six-foot-tall safe against one wall. "Take a seat."

Sandy sat down. "I've got a particular job to do for a client, and I need something custom."

"Tell me about your business," Marty said.

"I got started putting in alarms for people, and I did good work, so my business grew, and once in a while, a client would ask me to do some special work-personal stuff, usually-guy suspected his wife of screwing around, suspected his business partner of stealing, stuff like that."

"I know the kind of thing," Marty said. He held up his hands. "Not that I'd ever do anything illegal."

"Yeah, of course. It's like this…"

Marty held up a hand and came around the desk. "Before we have this conversation, I'm going to have to frisk you."

"Yeah, sure," Sandy said, standing up and holding his arms away from his body.

Marty proceeded to not just frisk him, but to do a body search more thorough than any Sandy had seen since he had finished his training at the Farm. He started with a normal search, looking for a recorder, then he went over Sandy's clothing in a minute way that would have detected a hidden microphone. He took Sandy's cell phone and set it on his desk, then he unbuckled Sandy's belt, inspected it and handed it back to him.