Jeffery Deaver - The Deliveryman

No entrance this way.

He circled around the building and finally noticed, on 50th Street, a small door whose lock just didn’t look right. He eased up to it and, again making certain that no one was watching, tested the knob. Yes, the lock and deadbolt had been jimmied — some time ago, to judge from the rust — and with effort he muscled the panel open. He was greeted with a smell of mold and mildew and urine that nearly took his breath away. He forced down the cough, and nausea, and slipped inside.

The door let into a storeroom of some kind, now empty, except for evidence that revealed why the door was still in use: needles and crack pipes and tubes that had once held rock. The den was empty now, thank God, so Coelho did not have to crack heads with his Glock.

He eased into a hallway and then made his way to what seemed to be an archway. The place was huge — the corridor disappeared a block away into darkness. No, Rinaldo wasn’t stupid at all. This was the perfect place to make the transfer. Coelho wondered: Did he hide it here ? Were there basements? Hidden rooms? It might take days to search and find it.

And if he’d merely taken delivery here in the armory what clues could he or anyone possibly find that might suggest where the shipment was now?

Hopeless. Well, here he was. So he’d have to—

A noise.

Freezing, Coelho realized he wasn’t alone.

It had been a tap or snap, coming from inside but some distance far away — on the other side of the archway, which opened presumably to the main arena of the armory. Drawing his pistol, he started forward, keeping close to the walls and watching carefully where he placed his feet to avoid both tripping and giving away his presence.

Heart pounding, the two hotdogs churning in his gut, he swapped his gun to his left hand, wiped his right palm on his slacks and then took the gun again in his other grip. Closer to the archway, he paused. Then: a quick look out. At the far end of the open area — it really was huge — he saw a figure, fifty yards away, standing with arms crossed. The man was looking around. Because a doorway was open behind him, the back light made it impossible to see any details.

But then the person stepped slightly to the side, and he decided this was probably a woman. Something about the stance, the size of the hips. Though her hair was up, or under some kind of cap.

Apparently satisfied with whatever she’d been doing, she picked up a large suitcase, it seemed, and turned, walking to the doorway.

Was this a coincidence? Was she a building inspector or real estate developer? Or was this about Rinaldo? And the delivery? And, if so, had she found something important?

Keeping the gun in his hand, finger near but not on the trigger, Coelho jogged as fast as he dared to the open doorway she’d just vanished through.

But just as he got close, the first side of the double door, then the second, slammed shut. And he heard it lock.

Goddamn it. He tried to push it open but the panels were sealed fast.

He sprinted back, his bulk ramping up his heart rate and breathing. Don’t let me die here, he thought. Christ, it might take months to find my body.

And don’t let me puke.

But, no coronaries, or regurgitation, today. He made it back to the jimmied door through which he’d entered and eased out, pushing it shut again. Once on the sidewalk, his gun still in hand but hidden under his jacket, he continued along the sidewalk fast, circling the building. As he turned the corner, he slowed and caught his breath.

The intruder was standing at the curbside, beside the large suitcase he’d seen. She was a tall redheaded woman. She looked around, with suspicious eyes, and he ducked behind one of the armory’s abutments, but she wasn’t gazing in his direction. She was focusing on the street near her. Her posture suggested that she was armed; as she studied the area her right hand was near her hip, fingers curled slightly, as if ready to draw. Coelho knew this because it was the pose he often adopted if a gunfight loomed.

Who the hell is she? Working for a rival gang? Working for the shipper? A cop?

He’d have to find out.

Get close, as soon as she got into her car he’d leap into the passenger seat and press a gun against her side. Then make sure she didn’t buckle up, though he would. And he’d force her to drive to some deserted spot. Then get answers.

Hand gripping his pistol, still hidden, he crossed the street and moved east, in her direction, using parked cars and trucks for cover. Ahead, at the intersection, was a large McDonald’s, under a big billboard advertising the place — a sign of the gentrification he’d been thinking of earlier.

The hour was lunchtime and the sidewalk here was crowded. He was lost in the throngs of people entering and leaving the restaurant.

As he approached he saw she was quite pretty. What the hell was she up to? Some hot babe in a muscle car, poking around the place where a half million dollars of very illegal shit had been transferred. She could be a skirt working for a gangbanger, who’d picked her to minimize suspicion, in his search for the mysterious delivery.

Hell, that was a sexist thought. The bitch might be an OG herself , some rival to Morales. The world was changing. It was only a matter of time until a woman rose up high in the organized crime scene of New York and was crowned an Original Gangster.

Gangsterette? Coelho allowed himself the humorous thought.

She set the suitcase into the trunk, slammed it and pulled out her phone to make a call.

As soon as she finished and got into the front seat, he’d make his move.

He now broke through the crowd and started across the street toward the Torino.

But she moved fast. Yanking open the door and tossing the phone onto the passenger seat. In seconds, the car fired up and she was skidding — actually laying a patch of rubber as she sped away.

Shit.

Well, at least he’d had some confirmation that the arsenal had a connection with Rinaldo and the infamous delivery. Why else would an armed woman, who drove like that, be interested?

A connection... What the hell was it?

He glanced at a Greek diner behind him, smelling the garlic and grilling fish.

Then he thought about his boss and told himself: No, get to work.

“What’s this discovery you’re so excited about?” Mel Cooper asked Amelia Sachs as she walked quickly into Rhyme’s parlor.

“Gloves.”

“Really?” Cooper asked, enthusiastic.

“I’ll give you the whole story,” she said. “In addition to the oil operation and the stable — that told you Rinaldo’d been to the armory — there’re two restaurants across from the back entrance to the place. A McDonalds and a Greek diner. I found two witnesses who’re pretty sure that—”

“Pretty sure—”

“Rhyme,” she warned.

He shrugged. “Pray continue.”

“Who’re pretty sure that two white trucks drove through back entrance about eleven thirty yesterday morning.”

“How’d they get in?”

“Locks were picked, I’m pretty sure. Scratch marks. The doors closed and nobody saw what happened then or when they left. The state owns the place and I called their real estate division and they had the maintenance service let me in. Creepy place. If you’re ever inclined to make a horror film, that’s the set for it. The place basically has a dirt floor, so I took soil samples. I found treads that even without comparison I recognized as Rinaldo’s. The other truck there? The treads were pretty bad. It’ll be impossible to get any ID’ing tread marks from them.”

“You were mentioning gloves.” Rhyme was growing impatient.

She held up a plastic bag. “Latex.”