93

I LED THE two-car convoy carefully through Manhattan, me in the maroon Cadillac sedan the Mole had welded back together, Michelle following in the Plymouth. The Prof was crouched down under the dash on the passenger side of the Cadillac, keeping up a steady stream of chatter. He didn't look uncomfortable-for a guy who spent half his life pretending to have no legs, hiding under the dash was no big thing. The Mole rode next to Michelle in the front of the Plymouth. Max was in the trunk.

The City Planning map showed the cul-de-sac at the end of Cheshire Drive, but I'd gone over the ground in person a couple of times to be sure of the layout. The back of the house was separated from a little park by the same wall that went around to the front. I brought the Cadillac to a stop, checking the mirrors. Michelle pulled in behind me, getting out to pop open the Plymouth 's hood as if she was having engine trouble. I took out the jumper cables, preparing to hook them up in case anyone watching got to wondering what we were all doing.

All clear. I opened the trunk of the Plymouth and Max flowed out.

He was a black blot against the white wall for a second; then he was gone.

"You remember where the phone booth is?" I asked Michelle.

Her disgusted look was all the answer I was going to get.

A black rope flew over the wall. The Mole shouldered the strap of his satchel, got a grip, and heaved himself up. The Prof and I each grabbed a leg and shoved too-the Mole isn't exactly agile. Max would probably throw him over the wall on the way out.

"You make the call-you hang up-you cruise slowly back here and wait for Max and the Mole to come over the wall, okay? If there's trouble, it'll be at the front of the house."

"I'll be here," Michelle said.

The Prof and I got back in the Cadillac and motored quietly away, Michelle right on our tail. I drove her past the phone booth just to be sure, waiting until I saw her brake lights flash. I checked my watch-eleven-twenty-five.

The Cadillac turned into Cheshire Drive, cruising past a black Ford with two men inside. Wolfe's people were real subtle. I thought how easy it would be for anyone to block off the street on our way back, checking the manicured front lawns of the expensive houses on each side. Plenty of room.

I used the short driveway in front of the big house to turn around, leaving the Cadillac's nose pointing back out.

"It's time," I whispered to the Prof.

I closed the door of the Cadillac quietly. The front gate was locked. I jumped up and grabbed the top, pulled myself up in a second, dropped down on the other side. I covered the path to the front door quickly, my ears hurting from listening for sirens.

The door was black-a dramatic counterpoint to the fieldstone front of the house. I couldn't see a knocker or a bell. Soft light flowed from a large bay window, but the house was quiet. I eased away from the door, peering into the front window. It was a living room that nobody ever lived in-plastic covering the furniture, every piece sharply aligned, not a cigarette butt or an old newspaper in sight. Ringing the front-door bell would be a mistake. Maybe they were all asleep, maybe even sleeping right through Michelle's phone call.

I slipped off the front step and around to the side of the house, checking through each window for humans. Nothing. The joint was as quiet as a Russian civil-rights meeting.

A double-wide driveway continued from the front around the side, sweeping in a gentle curve to someplace behind the house. I followed it along, feeling the smooth pavement under my feet, checking the string of floodlights angling from the house. They were dark now, but there had to be a switch somewhere inside. The driveway ended in a teardrop-shaped slab of concrete behind the house-a schoolbus-yellow van sat next to a dark, anonymous sedan. A sloping extension had been built off the house. It looked like a garage, but it had to be the entrance to the basement.

I did another slow circuit before I returned to the most likely prospect-the window at the back corner of the house where it was pitch-dark. There was no alarm tape around the border-I couldn't see any wires either. I put on a pair of gloves before I tried to raise the window. The wood looked pretty old-I didn't want to get splinters. It was latched. I took a roll of heavy masking tape from my coat and carefully covered the pane nearest the latch. I used three layers of tape, leaving the ends free, smoothing it down from corner to corner. Then the little rubber mallet, softly tapping, working from the corners toward the middle of the pane. My heart was beating hard, like it always does when I work, but I breathed slowly through my nose, keeping it under control. You get too impatient doing one of these jobs, you get a lot of time to think about it in a place where the windows don't have glass.

I put my hand flat against the windowpane, working the cracked glass carefully, easing it away from the frame. It made a tiny crackle, like when you crumple the cellophane wrapper from a pack of smokes. I slipped my hand inside and pushed against the tape; the broken glass clung to its other side. I found the latch. Gently withdrew my hand and started to work the window up. Every couple of inches or so I sprayed some liquid silicon into the channel to smooth the way.

When the window got to the top, I took a couple of deep breaths to steady myself. Then I put my head inside and risked a quick spray from the flashlight. It looked like a man's den, the kind you see in magazines.

Big leather easy chair, television set in one corner, some kind of plaques on the walls. The room felt musty and dead, like it was never used.

I climbed over the sill and dropped into the room, pulling the window closed behind me, adding up the crimes in my head. Breaking and entering. Burglary of an occupied dwelling. So far, not so bad. I pulled the dark nylon stocking mask over my head, adjusting it so the slits matched up with my eyes. When it felt right, I took the pistol from an inside pocket. From now on, it was going to be Felony City.

I stepped out into a long hallway running down one side of the house. To my right was an eat-in kitchen, windows on two sides. To my left was the foyer, with that plastic-covered living room off to one side. Still quiet. The whole place was covered with thick wall-to-wall carpet the same color as dirt. I think they call it "earth tones." I padded down the hall toward the front door, looking for the staircase. The stairs were carpet-covered too, but I eased my weight onto each one just the same.

Halfway up the stairs I heard the music. Some kind of orchestra stuff, but real light-all strings and flutes. I reached the top, waited, listening hard now. The music was coming from a room at the rear of the house, the only room with a light on-I couldn't see inside. I slipped around the newel post at the top of the stairs, heading in the opposite direction. The second floor wasn't anywhere near as big as the first-just two rooms that looked like bedrooms, windows looking out toward the street. Each had its own bathroom attached. I didn't risk the flash to look closely, just checked to make sure nobody was sleeping there. The rooms were all dark. Empty.

I walked toward the open door at the other end, toward the music and I didn't know what else. When I got close, I could see the door was at the far corner of the room; everything else was off to the left. I took the pistol in both hands, holding it high above my head over my right shoulder; my back was against the wall. Then I stepped inside with my left foot, pivoting and bringing the pistol down and across my chest, sweeping the room.

A short, stocky woman was sitting on a stool at a white drafting table, peering at something under an architect's lamp. The light came from behind her-I couldn't make out her face. She was wearing a pink quilted bathrobe, orthopedic shoes on her feet. She didn't even look up, concentrating on something. I was almost on top of her before she looked up.