Jeffery Deaver - The Deliveryman

Bullets too. Special ones, engineered by the cartel man’s best gunsmiths.

But having such fine merchandise made this failing, this glitch, all the more embarrassing.

He debated once more the question of whether or not he should have trusted Rinaldo with this assignment. Well, that wasn’t quite the right inquiry. Echi Rinaldo had done many jobs for him and trust was not an issue. Where he questioned his judgment was the caution with which he’d approached the delivery. Morales had delegated to Rinaldo the job of collecting the half million dollars’ worth of machine guns solely in case the feds or someone else had tipped to the shipment. Rinaldo had been told of the risk and had willingly taken it on — for a substantial fee. They agreed he wouldn’t transfer the goods immediately, either. He would drive around all day and make his regular deliveries and, if no one appeared to be following or if he sensed no other threat, then he would meet Morales and tell him where the guns were stashed.

At the time, these precautions made sense.

But now they had, perhaps, been his undoing.

Miguel Ángel Morales was presently strolling through Central Park, making his way to a park bench where he regularly met his people. It was near the Sheep Meadow and therefore easy to spot anyone conducting surveillance.

He’d received a text from his lieutenant that the man had made some discoveries and wanted to relay them as soon as possible.

The gang overlord continued down the meandering path to the bench. He sat and scanned the area for any signs that he was being watched.

No, it was clear. Years of living a gang boss’s life had given him acute senses, and he trusted these.

A glance at his watch.

Fifteen minutes until his lieutenant appeared, with, Morales prayed, good news.

Amelia Sachs was back in the armory, once again dressed in her crime scene coveralls.

And, as again, glad for the face mask. This was meant to prevent her DNA from tainting the evidence she might collect but it also had the added benefit of filtering out the overwhelming scent of mildew and mold and pee... and, of course, protecting her from the accompanying spores, which would do no one’s lungs any good.

She paused and listened occasionally — the sounds of traffic. Other sounds too. Creaks and groans.

If you’re ever inclined to make a horror film, that’s the set for it...

What she was finding was helpful forensically but also troubling. Yes, it seemed that Echi Rinaldo had tried out an automatic weapon here. She was digging slugs out of the dirt about thirty yards from where his delivery truck had parked here. She might find fingerprints on them, which would lead to the seller of the ammunition — a perp in his own right, even if he had nothing to do with Rinaldo’s death.

And the troubling part? With a grimace, she gazed at the bullets she’d bagged. They were “cop killers” — and of a style she’d never seen. They could pierce body armor but, once through the Kevlar, would expand inside the victim’s flesh. A single shot, even to nonvital organs, would probably be fatal, thanks to massive hemorrhaging.

She collected more bullets, then, judging trajectory, looked for but did not find any shell casings. Rinaldo or the other truck driver would have taken those with them. She assembled the evidence and crouched to put the Baggies into a milk carton.

It was then that she heard a sound from the archway that led into the corridor circumnavigating the armory. And not a Friday the 13th soundtrack sound. A footfall. Somebody was there, moving closer, through the shadows.

Rising fast, she reached for her weapon.

Then from behind, a man’s voice. “Don’t bother.”

She froze and turned to see a heavyset man, with salt and pepper hair and a large moustache of the same shades. He was holding a gun pointed roughly in her direction. It was a small Glock, the .380. She judged angles. Her own pistol, a larger one, 9mm, was strapped outside her overalls — yes, there was a risk of contamination but she would never be zippered away from her weapon.

But no, she judged, she couldn’t draw in time to stop him from shooting. If he went for a chest shot, though, the vest beneath the overalls would give her time to drop and draw.

A double tap in her head — tactically wise but a harder shot — that would be the end.

But as it turned out there was no gunplay.

The man looked at the NYPD Crime Scene Unit logo on the overalls and slipped his weapon away. “I was saying: Don’t bother with him.” Nodding toward the archway where the sound had come from. “He’s just some meth-head. Harmless.”

Then he reached into his pocket and withdrew a shield case. He displayed the badge and the ID.

“Stan Coelho. ATF.” He gave a laugh. “Well, now ATFE , since they gave us explosives too. When I first saw you, I thought you might be working for some crews. But now—” He gestured toward her outfit. “—looks like one of the good guys. Well, gals.” He frowned. “Or shouldn’t I be using that word nowadays?”

Miguel Ángel Morales saw his lieutenant striding briskly along the walk toward the bench.

Raphael Ortiz sat down on the bench, though three feet away.

“No,” Morales said, “It’s clear. I’ve been watching.”

The skinny man, thirty to fifty, impossible to tell, moved closer. He pulled his gaudy yellow and brown checkered jacket closer. Morales paid the lieutenant good money. Why he dressed like this was always a mystery.

“We know Rinaldo took delivery of the guns at the armory eleven thirty or so. And we know as of four he’d hidden the delivery somewhere. And everything looked good.”

They knew this from the texts, yes.

Ortiz continued, “In between he made a half dozen deliveries around Manhattan — all of them legit. A washer/dryer, some tomato sauce to a couple of restaurants. Auto parts.”

That was part of the plan, staying legal. Morales didn’t want him to get busted for some little drug drop off and the delivery of guns would get spotted in the process.

“Now I’ve reconstructed his route for most of the day. But there’s no sign that he dropped off our delivery anywhere he went on his legit route. But — here’s the thing — he was unaccounted for, for an hour between his last two deliveries. And it wouldn’t take that long to drive from one to the other.”

Morales’s spirits were buoyed. If Ortiz and his people had been unable to track Rinaldo for the entire day, that would have been a problem. But just an hour or so of a gap? The man’s diversion to the hiding place could probably be reconstructed.

“All right. Let’s proceed. Like I was saying before.”

Ortiz nodded. “I’ll need a little time to make some arrangements.”

It was harder and harder nowadays to get rid of bodies. You had to be absolutely certain that they disappeared completely. And it wasn’t just dogs. They had special radar that could find a body twenty feet underground.

“You’ll be ready by five?”

Ortiz considered. A nod.

Morales gave his man an address verbally and asked him to repeat it. Which he did. The mousy man had a great memory.

“Good.”

And both men rose. Without a word of farewell they turned in different directions and walked away.

“We’re not the only ones working the case.”

Sachs was explaining to Rhyme and Cooper that an Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms agent, Stan Coelho, had been following the shipment of automatic weapons from the other end, the shipper. “They got a tip from some snitch in Chicago, and were following it east from a warehouse on the south side.”

“Supply side investigating, you could say.” Rhyme was pleased with the joke.