Джон Сэндфорд - Ocean Prey [calibre]

“Yeah. Large. Maybe we could get some kind of technical-looking tool box,” Devlin said.

Orish looked at Kerry, her second, and asked, “What do you think?”

“I like it,” Kerry said. “We would need to put some SSG guys right there, on the block, when Davenport and Devlin go through the front door, to make sure nobody runs out the back.”

Orish said, “Let’s plan on this, figure out what else we need to do. Get a satellite picture of that block up on one of our screens . . . I’ll call the AIC.”

After some discussion, the Manhattan agent in charge agreed to the daylight pickup and search. Warrants had been prepared for all the homes of the identified prime distributors, and the warrant for Curry’s house was printed out in a half hour.

National Grid agreed, after some persuasion, to loan a van, uniforms, and tool bags for what they were told was a surveillance operation in Pleasantville, which was in the opposite direction from Staten Island.

The AIC was getting involved: “You kick the door, or whatever you do,” he said to Lucas, with the rest of the task force team listening in, “We’ll put SWAT guys in a couple of the SSG cars and have them close when you kick the door. That way, if you’re shot to pieces, we’ll have somebody to pick up the pieces. And shoot back.”

“I wouldn’t want our pieces neglected,” Devlin said.

Then the AIC continued, “Then we send in three nicely dressed ladies in a small SUV. They knock on the door and you let them in, like they’re going to a tea party. Or a quilting bee. One’s an assistant U.S. attorney, who’ll help sweat Curry. The other two are search specialists. They’ll have lady-style tote bags with their tools inside . . .”

Over the next two hours, details were filled in and the tension began to crank up. The gas company van arrived, the unforms were brought up. Before Lucas and Devlin had time to change, an SSG agent called to say that Curry was leaving his house in the pickup.

Orish: “Ah, no! We’re ready to go.”

Lucas looked at his watch: 1:20. “We’ve got to move on this. Virgil and Rae will be on their way to the boat before four o’clock. If I’m going to pull them, it’s got to be before three.”

The SSG agent called again, three minutes later, and said, “He’s going to a ShopRite, a supermarket.”

Lucas said, “Let’s get the uniforms on.” He and Devlin went into the bathroom, got out of their street clothes and into the uniforms, which fit well enough. The uniforms had leg pockets for tools, and they put their handguns inside them.

When they came out of the bathroom, Kerry said, “I’d buy it.”

Orish: “Except that the uniforms have never been used and they both have creases from the packages they came in.” Lucas and Devlin spent a couple minutes bending and stretching, trying to twist up the uniforms, and an agent came out of the bathroom with a damp towel and wiped them down. “Still look too clean,” she said. “And you still have creases. You could spend a couple minutes crawling around the parking lot when you get outside.”

Devlin said, “I put on a suit right out of the dry cleaners and five minutes later I look like I slept behind a dumpster. Now I can’t uncrease my goddamn pants. Why can’t they make suits out of this shit?” He pulled at his pant legs.

Lucas: “Because it’s canvas. They make tents out of it. You wanna wear a tent?”

Curry was inside the supermarket for twenty minutes, came out pushing a cart and loaded four grocery bags into the truck, then drove to a bakery and went inside.

Lucas said to Devlin, “He’s gotta be on his way home with the groceries. Let’s go,” and to Orish, “Tell everybody. We’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”

Kerry: “Good luck, guys. Careful.”

In the elevator, they dropped two floors, the elevator stopped, and an older couple got in. As the doors closed, the woman looked at the uniforms and asked, “Is there a problem?”

“No, a routine inspection of the shutoff valves and the safety inner locks,” Devlin said cheerfully. “Everything is fine.”

“I didn’t smell anything,” the woman said.

“That’s because there aren’t any leaks,” her husband said.

She said, “Huh,” and peered at Devlin, then Lucas, as though she didn’t believe a word of it.

When they were across the lobby and out the door, Devlin looked back and said, “Suspicious old bat.”

“She knew we weren’t quite right,” Lucas said. “We got creases.”

“Or, could be your haircut. Gas company plumbers don’t have hundred-dollar haircuts.”

On the way to Curry’s house in the gas company van, with Devlin driving, Lucas took a phone call: “The lawyer and the two search specialists are on the island, a few minutes behind you,” Orish said. “It’s coming together. Good luck and call me the minute everything is secure and I’ll send them in.”

Lucas clicked off and said to Devlin, “Sounds like a bad British spy movie. ‘Everything is secure.’ I was ripping on the British again this morning . . .”

“Could be a bad Canadian spy movie,” Devlin said.

“So then we sound like anti-Canadian bigots.”

“Yes. We’re nervous and we’re trying to be funny. Happens every time,” Devlin said. He pulled out his Glock, popped the magazine, reseated it, put it back in his pocket. “Bob could be funny.”

“He tried,” Lucas said. “But we weren’t very funny. Not really.”

Orish called again: “Curry’s in his driveway unloading the groceries.”

“We’re five minutes out. Call us when he’s done unloading and is inside.”

They were four blocks away when she called back: “He got the last load out and locked the truck. He’s inside.”

“We’ll be there in a minute or two,” Lucas said.

“I know. We’ve got eyes on you.”

They parked directly in front of Curry’s house. The day hadn’t gotten any warmer, and there was nobody on the sidewalks. Lucas looked up at the house and said, “Two doors, the inner door and the storm door. Both might be locked, so they’ll get a long look at us before they unlock the storm door. The storm door will open out. Looks like there might be some ice on the top step, so watch it. I don’t want you falling on your ass.”

“I got it.”

“Right. You Louisiana guys are like ballerinas on ice,” Lucas said.

“I got it, man,” Devlin said impatiently. “Let’s do it.”

They climbed out of the van and Devlin got a canvas tool bag out of the back; it was stuffed with newspaper to fill it out, since it was empty when delivered with the uniforms.

Lucas led the way up the steps, unsnapped the leg pocket with the gun. He glanced back, saw that Devlin had his hand in his pocket. Lucas said, “Little ice,” and reached out to the doorbell and pushed it three times, hard. They could hear it ringing inside.

Ten seconds later, Devlin muttered, “Looking at us out the window.”

Then the door lock rattled and Lucas said, “I’m gonna punch it.”

A fleshy middle-aged blond woman looked out through the storm door’s window, frowned, fumbled with the lock and handle on the storm door and said, “Gas company?”

Lucas had his hand on the handle of the storm door, yanked it open, pulling her off balance, said, “U.S. Marshals,” and pushed past her and through her, knocking her back into the house and as he went by, the woman screamed, “Cops!”

Lucas burst down a short entry hall and into the home’s living room, where two elderly people were watching television, an old man from a wheelchair and an elderly woman from an overstuffed green couch; both of their mouths were hanging open. Through a hallway off the living room, he could see Curry standing in front of a refrigerator with a twelve-pack of Pepsi-Cola in his hands. Lucas ran straight on through, toward Curry, heard two doors slam behind him, the storm door and the inner door, heard Devlin shouting something at somebody, not him.