When he was convinced he was alone, he went back and slammed the front door.
Make no mistake about it, he told himself, these people are killers, and whatever they want, whatever they believe Jimmy McHugh might have told you, they’ll sure as hell kill you to get it.
Jordan went to the bathroom, placed his gun on the counter, and leaned over the sink to splash cold water on his face. He had a look in the mirror, staring at himself for a moment, studying his dark features, preparing himself.
Back in the bedroom, he sorted through the clutter of shirts and trousers that were scattered across the floor. He had shaved and showered at Dan’s earlier that morning, but was still wearing clothes from the day before. He picked up a pair of gray slacks, a long-sleeved, black polo sweater, and found his favorite black loafers. He quickly changed then returned to the living room, righted a chair, and sat down to make a call. As he reached for the telephone, he saw the line had been cut.
“Sonuvabitch,” he said.
EIGHT
Rahmad’s assassin, Tafallai, was strolling down 76th Street. It was a quiet street by New York City standards, rows of brownstones lining both sides, trees planted in pavement cutouts, circled by short, wrought-iron grating. He moved at an unhurried pace, alert to any movement around him, as he approached Sandor’s building.
When he received the call informing him that his target had returned home, he had stopped at a Korean market and purchased the largest bunch of flowers they had.
He stopped and had a look up and down the street. There was nothing to make him suspicious, no indication that the police had responded to a call about the break-in. He resumed walking until he was directly in front of Sandor’s building, then he turned and headed up the stairs.
Jordan had packed his black leather overnight bag with a few articles of clothing and most of the contents he retrieved from the hidden compartment in his closet, including the Smith & Wesson .45. The smaller handgun, a Walther PPK .380, was already tucked into the back of his waistband.
He needed to make a couple of calls before he left town and, although he had a clean cell in the bag that he had never used before, he didn’t want to use that line. Not yet.
Florence Carter was an attractive black woman who lived directly below him, an actress of stage and screen whenever she could get the work, a waitress the rest of the time.
It was not yet noon, and she was home.
Jordan told her he was having phone problems. She let him in and said he should make himself comfortable.
“You need some privacy?” she asked.
“No, I don’t think so. But thanks.”
She offered him something to drink, but he passed.
“Say, Florence, you didn’t hear anything going on upstairs last night? Or early this morning?”
She shook her head. “I was working last night. What sort of thing you mean?”
“I was away overnight. Thought someone might have been in my apartment.”
“In your apartment?”
“It’s nothing. Just my phones are out. Service guy might have come by or something.”
“No. Not that I know of. My phone is fine.”
“Good. Well, I’ll just be a couple of minutes.”
“Take your time,” she told him.
Jordan sat on the couch and picked up the cordless telephone. When he checked his answering service, there were several messages, including a voicemail from Reynolds in the past hour.
His first call was to Sternlich.
“How bad?” he asked after Jordan had told him about his apartment.
“Like a small tornado ran through my place.”
“Call the police, Jordan.”
“No. Not yet, at least.”
“What are you waiting for?”
“I had enough of the gendarmes yesterday.”
“And what happens when these intruders make a return visit?”
“Maybe I’ll ask them to clean up.”
“I think you ought to make yourself scarce for a while.”
“The idea had crossed my mind. What’ve you found out for me?”
“Nothing yet. I’m a reporter, not a magician.”
“You’re not even a reporter anymore. You’re an editor, remember? Use your connections and get me some answers.”
“I’ll work on it. Please call the police.”
“First I’m going to see Beth,” Jordan told him.
“Beth?”
“We have a lunch date. Thought maybe I should keep it.”
“Why not?” Sternlich said in frustration. “Give her my best.”
“I will. Just call me when you have something.”
Jordan hung up and began dialing a new number.
“I owe you a buck, Florence. I’ve got to call upstate.”
“Don’t be silly,” she said as she answered a buzz from the front door of their small building.
Jordan was transferred three times before he finally got through to Captain Reynolds. “I have some news for you from down here,” he said, then described what he had found when he returned home. “Please don’t tell me to call the locals. You and I know this is no ordinary B and E.”
Reynolds didn’t disagree. “But you should have the place photographed and dusted for prints.”
“I haven’t touched much, believe me. I’d just prefer to put that on hold for a little while.”
“Reason?”
Jordan thought it over, but was distracted by the conversation Florence was having over the intercom.
“I’m getting enough attention right now,” he told Reynolds. “Might be better if these clowns don’t know I’ve been to my apartment yet.”
“That assumes you’re not being watched,” Reynolds warned. “And these are not clowns, Sandor. You know that already. I’ve got to advise you to report this. Off the record, I never heard a thing about it.”
“Agreed, and thanks.”
“Isn’t that something?” Florence was talking to herself. “Who’d be sending me flowers today?”
“How’re the patients doing this morning?” Jordan continued.
“Early report, they’re both stable. Your friend is in better shape than Collins—”
“What did you say, Florence?” asked Jordan.
“—may be safer up here—” Reynolds was still talking.
“Flowers,” she said.
“—got men all over the place—”
“What’s that?” Jordan asked over his shoulder.
“I said—” said the captain, beginning to answer Jordan’s question as though it had been meant for him.
“Not you.”
“What?”
“Hold on, Captain,” Jordan said, then turned to Florence. “Is it your birthday or something?”
“No.”
“Were you expecting flowers from someone?”
“Jordan, what’s going on?” Captain Reynolds’ voice sounded tinny coming from the receiver.
Florence saw the look in Sandor’s eyes and her smile instantly vanished. “No. No, I’m not.”
“Is your door locked?”
“No,” she said, feeling scared and not knowing why.
“Lock it,” he ordered her. “Now.”
She was suddenly so frightened that she couldn’t move, so Jordan raced across the room and bolted the door himself.
“Jordan?… Jordan—” Reynolds’ voice was growing anxious.
“Captain,” Jordan said into the phone, “I think I’ve got an unwelcome visitor on his way upstairs. I’ll call you back.”
“Call the poli—” Reynolds barked, but Jordan had already hung up.
“Listen, Florence,” Sandor said, “just stay cool and quiet and we’ll be all right.”
“This has something to do with last night, right? Your apartment? The telephones, like you were asking?”
“Just stay calm, we’ll be fine.” Even as he spoke the words, he remembered.