Karen was aware of details she would tell her dad about later this evening.

The smell of sauerkraut in the manager's first-floor apartment His watery wide-open eyes as she assured him the residents wouldn't be disturbed. Telling him this as she imagined their reaction to the SWAT team invading the place.

The senior citizens in the lobby, mostly women, sweaters over their shoulders, bifocals shining, real fear in their eyes at the sight of black uniforms and jackboots, the helmets, the ballistic vests with FBI in yellow, big, on the backs of the vests, the automatic weapons at port arms, the SWAT team coming through the lobby like a troop of Darth Vaders.

She thought, No, these old people wouldn't think of Darth Vader, they'd see Nazi storm troopers coming in to haul them away, because it could have happened to some of them. She had seen old ladies in Miami with faded numbers on their arms.

Karen would tell her dad what she expected and then say she was surprised Burdon didn't make it a full-scale SWAT assault.

Very surprised.

He came with eight guys in jackets and wool shirts hanging out, running shoes, half of them carrying bags that could hold tennis racquets or different kinds of athletic gear. The residents did stop what they were doing, watching television, playing gin; they had to wonder what was going on, curious, but didn't seem alarmed.

Burdon posted two men outside, back and front, and sent two more up to seven to cover both ends of the hall. He said to Karen, "You ready?"

Then had to pause as a woman asked, "Are you delivering the oxygen?"

Burdon, Karen and the remaining four SWAT team agents got on the elevator. On the way up Burdon looked at them one at a time.

"You're primary, you're secondary, you're point man."

He said to the fourth, "You're gonna use a ram?"

He carried it in what looked like a navy seabag.

Karen said, "The manager's door is metal. You know what I mean? They might all be."

Burdon looked at her.

"Yeah, you've been through doors, haven't you?"

"A ram on a metal door," Karen said, "makes an awful lot of noise for what good it does."

She'd tell her dad how you grabbed the handle on top that was like a dorsal fin, and the handle at the back end and swing the ram hard against the door. If it was wood the ram would shatter it. Metal, you might only dent it. But the fourth man also had a shotgun with a "shock-lock" round in it and that would do the job.

They reached the seventh floor and the SWAT agents took off the jackets and wool shirts they'd worn over their ballistic vests, heavy ones with a ceramic plate covering the heart area. Karen handed the key to the agent with the canvas bag. He had his shotgun out now, a Remington with a three-inch strip of metal taped to the muzzle. They approached

The primary and secondary stood to the right of the door, Beretta nines held upright. The point man, who would be the third one in and would cover them, held an MP-5 submachine gun. The one with the shotgun eased the key into the lock and turned it. The door wouldn't budge, a dead bolt holding it shut.

He raised the shotgun and put the strip of metal against the seam, where the lock entered the frame, the muzzle of the shotgun exactly three inches now from the dead bolt, and looked over his shoulder at Burdon and Karen. Burdon nodded.

With the sound of the shotgun blast the primary hit the door going in, secondary and point went in right behind him and Karen, her ears ringing, pulled her Beretta, expecting in a moment to hear gunfire.

Foley said unless you wanted to go skiing or hunting they sure had a piss-poor selection of winter coats here. Buddy said they had some pretty nice jackets. Foley said he didn't even see any wool gloves.

Buddy said well, what did you expect, we're in Florida.

Foley said he expected to see some overcoats, why else did they come all the way up to this mall? Part of it was, he felt like a fool walking through stores in his orange and baby-shit yellow beach outfit, the socks and sandals. Driving back, Buddy said it looked like they'd have to wait till they got up north, say when they crossed the river from Kentucky and came to Cincinnati, Ohio.

And then said, "No, wait a minute. I know the place we should go."

They turned off 95 onto Hallandale Beach Boulevard and in a minute came to the Jewish Recycling Center. Buddy said, "It's like the Salvation Army or St. Vincent de Paul only Jewish. It's got everything we'll need."

OVER 3,000 NEW ITEMS DAILY, the sign said on the way in. They passed through a section of home furnishings, beds, bureaus, everything from TV sets to toasters and waffle irons. Hurried through kids' clothes and a big section of women's things, narrow aisles cramped with clothes and shoppers-Christ, mink coats for only eight hundred bucks-and the constant sound of hangers clicking against metal pipe racks. They came to the men's section, aisles packed with suits, jackets, even tuxedos, and overcoats-some in the exact style Foley was looking for.

The first one he pulled off the rack was dark navy blue, double-breasted. With the sandals and no pants on it looked funny in the mirror, but he knew this was his coat. A slim cut, not at all boxy, like the coat was wearing him.

He put on a navy-blue single-breasted lightweight suit that had a Brooks Brothers label in it and felt good on him, the sleeves a speck short but that was all right; he'd rather have them short than too long. The pants were a perfect fit and not too shiny in the seat. He wondered what the guy did who'd owned the suit. Foley hoped he was successful. He looked at himself in the mirror, at the suit over his cotton beach coat. It looked okay, but he wanted to get a true effect, so he picked out a white dress shirt with short sleeves and a necktie that was mostly dark blue, put them on with the suit and stepped in front of the full-length mirror again to study his new image, expecting to see himself as a businessman, some kind of serious executive.

What he looked like was a guy who'd just been released from prison in a movie made about twenty years ago. Steve McQueen as Doc McCoy. Yeaaah … He liked it. He half turned and cocked his hip in a pose: a photo of Jack Foley taken shortly after his daring prison escape. His mind flicked to a picture of Clyde Barrow, hat cocked down on one eye, and right away saw Karen Sisco coming out of the Chevy trunk in her short skirt, and then on the street in her jeans and pink shoes. He imagined her seeing him in this suit. A semi-dark cocktail lounge. They look at each other…

Buddy came over in an overcoat, a double-breasted gray herringbone, saying, "What do you think?"

Foley nodded, raising his eyebrows.

Buddy said, "I always wanted one like this. I think I need a hat to go with it. I like a hat."

Foley asked how he looked and Buddy took a few moments to say, "Like a stockbroker." After that, Foley tried on a tuxedo to see what it was like. Buddy told him now he looked like a waiter, one that drank and was always getting fired. They were having fun, two grown men playing dress-up.

There were clothes in the apartment, new shoes, food and drink in the refrigerator, orange juice, Diet Pepsi Cola in half gallon plastic bottles, six-packs of beer. Burdon said, "Don't anybody touch that leftover pizza, Buddy's coming back and we gonna be waiting for him.

Here in the apartment and somebody in the lobby with a radio till the people go to bed. Karen, I'd like you to call Hallandale PD, ask if they have a quiet, unassuming evidence tech they can send over to dust around, do the door knobs, glasses in the kitchen, empty bottles, the handle on the toilet.