"Federal Classics, as requested. Grain-wise I've got one-twenty-four and one-forty-seven."

"The one-twenty-fours should do."

He intended to be up close and very personal when he pulled the trigger, so he preferred a lower muzzle velocity. Jack slipped open the box and removed ten rounds. He rubbed each carefully with his gloved fingers before pressing it into the magazine.

"A CSI team you're expecting?"

"You betcha."

"And you won't tell me about it?"

"After I'm through, I'll fill you in on every last detail."

"The clothes too?"

"Everything."

"So till then I must hang?"

"But you won't be hanging alone," Jack said. "Trust me on that."

11

As he walked back toward his apartment Jack realized he had just enough time to pay a visit to the ersatz Mama Roselli. He dialed her on her cell.

A weak, raspy voice said, "Hello?"

"Mrs. Roselli? This is Jack. I stopped by last night but I heard you weren't feeling well. Are you okay?"

"I'm better, thank you."

"I was wondering if I could come over to give you an update. I found Johnny and—"

"Can this wait until tomorrow? 1 don't think I'm well enough yet for company."

Yes, it could wait till tomorrow, although Jack would have liked his questions answered tonight. But if she was feeling as bad as she sounded—if she was faking it she deserved an Oscar—then giving her more time to recover made sense.

"Tomorrow then. I'll see you about noon or so?"

"I'll be here."

Jack cut the connection. Her sudden frailty bothered him. He'd suspected her of being kin to Anya, a tough old bird who looked like she hadn't had a sick day in her life. The only time he'd seen her not in control was when she'd had that sudden sharp pain in her back. Took her a day or so to get over it. And the next day he'd seen an oozing sore on her scarred-up back… on what she'd called "the map of my pain"… the map of where Brady was burying his pillars.

Could it be…?

He'd find out tomorrow. Tonight he had to share a car with Cordova and somehow keep himself from strangling him.

12

They sat parked east of Lexington, where Jack had waited Friday night. Cordova had insisted on using his aging, smelly Jeep Laredo, saying he had all his equipment stowed in the back, plus they might need the four-wheel drive.

So Jack had parked his rental a couple of blocks from Cordova's Williamsbridge house and cabbed to Tremont Avenue. They'd met in front of Cordova's office and driven downtown together.

"What's with the gloves?" Cordova said. "It ain't that cold."

Jack looked down at his hands, tightly swathed in black leather driving gloves. "My fingers are very sensitive."

Cordova snickered. "Why am I not surprised?"

"Pardon?"

"Never mind."

Probably thought he was funny. A real comedian.

Jack eyed his suet body, his suet lace with its suet cheeks, his suet hands resting on the steering wheel, and wondered if this was the same car he'd used to snatch Sister Maggie.

Be so easy to reach over and grab his suet throat and squeeze… squeeze until he passed out. Let him wake up, then start squeezing again… and then do it again…

Jack wondered how many hours he could keep it up, how many times he could—

"Hell-o-o?" Cordova said. "Did you hear me?"

Jack shook his head, not trusting himself to speak at that moment.

"I said, What time's Brady usually head for the hills?"

Jack stared at the garage exit. Eight o'clock already and so far no sign of Brady. Jack remembered Jamie telling him about Brady's Sunday night trips, but had she said anything about time? He didn't think so. Had to improvise here.

"Varies. Sometimes early, sometimes late. But always after dark."

"Well, it's already after dark, so let's hope this is an early night. I hate stakeouts anyway. And to be frank, Lou, you ain't much of a conversationalist."

"I'll have plenty to say once I have Brady where I want him," he snapped. "I gave you your money. Don't expect chitchat too."

He noticed Cordova's quick, sidelong glance and reminded himself to remain in character.

He let out a long sigh. "Oh, I'm sorry, Mr. Cordova. I'm usually quite a talker. Sometimes I swear I just can't shut up. But tonight I'm a little tense. No, I'm a lot tense. I mean, this just might be the night I get something on him." He reached over and laid a gentle hand on the fat man's suety shoulder. "You simply have no idea how badly I want this."

Cordova shrugged off his hand. "Easy with the touching stuff. I ain't into touching."

Jack snatched his hand back and dropped it into his lap. "Sorry."

Cordova's laugh sounded forced. "Hey, relax about the rest. If there's something to get, I'll get it."

Jack hoped they got something—the bigger the better. He had three scenarios planned. Plan A was the one most fully worked out, and would kick in if they hit pay dirt scandal-wise. If not—if Brady was involved in nothing blackmail-worthy—then Jack would go with Plan B. Plan C was the simplest and the least appealing: If Brady didn't show up tonight, Jack and Cordova would return next Sunday.

The thought of allowing Richie Cordova to go on breathing for another week made him queasy. And to have to spend another night with him in this car… that might just be too much to bear. Might force Jack into doing something rash.

"Hey," Cordova said, pointing across the street to where a black Mercedes was pulling out from the garage. "Is that our boy?"

Jack squinted at the plates. "Yes! That's him! Go! Go!"

"Just take it easy," Cordova said, singsonging as if addressing a child. "A professional doesn't tip his hand like that. We'll wait a few seconds, let another car get between us, then start after him."

Jack wrung his hands. "But we'll lose him!"

"No we won't. I guarantee it."

13

Jack had to admit that Cordova was good at tailing. It didn't hurt that Jack knew the Thruway exit Brady would be taking. At least he hoped he knew. Blascoe had said Brady owned a place not far from his, so Jack assumed he'd use the same exit Jamie had when she took him to Blascoe's. He told Cordova that he'd followed Brady twice to that exit and lost him afterward. That allowed Cordova to pass Brady and wait for him near the off-ramp. If Brady was watching his rear, he'd see no one follow him off the Thruway.

Jack had a bad moment or two, sitting there with the pressure of the Beretta against the small of his back, wondering if he'd made the wrong choice. But then Brady's black Mercedes came down the ramp and stopped at the light.

After that it was a trip up the same twisty road Jack and Jamie had traveled just three nights ago. Was that all it had been? Just seventy-two hours?

Brady passed the driveway to Blascoe's place without even slowing. Two miles beyond he turned onto a dirt path and headed uphill. Cordova cruised farther on for a mile or so, then turned, killed the lights, and headed back.

After he'd backed the Jeep deep into the brush about a hundred yards away from the mini-road, Cordova turned to Jack.

"Sit tight and I'll go see what's up."

Jack popped open his door. "No way. I'm going with you."

"Lou, are you crazy? You don't have any experience—"

"I'm going."

Cordova cursed under his breath as he pulled his cameras and lenses from the back seat. He continued grumbling and muttering as they made their way up the hill through the brush. Jack was struck by a strong sense of deja vu: He and Jamie had made the same sort of trip on Thursday night just a few miles back down the road.

Cordova turned and said, "Hey, almost forgot: If you got a cell phone, turn the goddamn thing off."