Читать книгу Flawless - Heather Graham, Heather Graham - Страница 7
ОглавлениеWALLY O’NEILL, a civilian tech employed by the FBI, was working with Craig and Mike, viewing the security footage from the jewelry stores. They could have looked at the videos alone, but Craig was glad they had Wally’s help. He was a whiz when it came to cameras, computers...anything digital.
The security footage showed that all the robberies had been carried out in much the same way.
Quickly, for one.
Three men—or they looked like men, anyway—in dark jeans, hoodies and ski masks suddenly converged on the door and entered the store. They burst in with guns out. Not one of the recording devices allowed for sound, but Craig was certain that the first man to break in roared that no one had better set off the alarm or someone would die.
No alarms had been set off, but in the last two robberies, people had died anyway.
“Okay,” Mike said, “since they’re dressed alike, maybe they come from different directions or time it so each one is slightly ahead of the next guy to avoid calling attention to themselves. I mean, half the kids in America walk around wearing hoodies with their heads down and hands shoved in their pockets, but the ski masks are a real attention getter. I’m betting they don’t put those on till the last minute.”
Mike was probably right about that, Craig thought. In New York City, with crowds everywhere and people walking in every direction, their own agendas in their heads, there would be no particular reason to notice someone dressed like that. And Jersey? Pretty much the same story.
“They don’t split up when they leave, though,” Craig pointed out.
“There’s gotta be a getaway car idling somewhere nearby.”
“They committed the murders in Jersey. They’re either getting bolder—or they’re not the same crew.”
“That again,” Mike muttered.
“I might be right.”
“You might be wrong.”
“Yeah, I might be. In fact, I hope I am,” Craig said.
Wally cleared his throat. “Uh, guys? What do you want me to do now?”
“Roll the last two,” Craig told him.
Wally hit a key and brought up the crime-scene photo from the alley. He quickly apologized. “Sorry, pushed the wrong button.”
“It’s all right. We’re going to have to go over that, too,” Mike said.
They all stared grimly at the photo. The woman was dark haired and wearing a cover-up over her clothing—her way of staying clean while she swept and dusted, Craig thought.
She was lying on her side, almost as if she were sleeping. Except that a pool of blood billowed out from beneath her hair.
Mike looked at his folder. “Ana Katrina Martinez, forty-seven. Small-caliber bullet fired at point-blank range right through her forehead. Cartridge not found and the bullet is still in her brain. The ME will supply it to ballistics right after the autopsy.”
Craig felt a swell of emotion. Ana Katrina Martinez wouldn’t care what kind of bullet had killed her, and neither would her family. They would only care that her killer was caught. Even dead in a pool of blood, she had a kind face. Craig thought she had smiled frequently in life. “Why her?” he muttered angrily.
“Because someone was a grade-A sociopath with no concern for anyone other than himself,” Mike said. “You’d have to be,” he added gruffly, “to kill someone just because she was no longer useful. Hell, they were probably still in their ski masks—she couldn’t have identified them.”
Wally cleared his throat. “Stay with this image or roll the footage?”
“Roll the footage,” Mike said.
“So in the city they leave everyone alive,” Craig said. “Then they go to Jersey and leave a woman dead in an alley.”
“And a man dead at his desk,” Mike added.
“I can’t help but think it’s different perps.”
“Just different states. I’ll bet you a twenty. No, I’ll go a hundred.”
“It’s a bet I hope I lose,” Craig said.
“What are your thoughts on the matter, Wally?” Mike asked.
Wally looked up at them with surprise. Craig figured that his expertise was often sought, but not his opinion.
“I’ve enhanced the footage as much as possible. If they’re copycats, they have the clothing and the ski masks down perfectly,” he said. “I don’t know—I just don’t know.”
“Let’s watch again—then we can start with the interviews,” Mike said.
“Whatever you want,” Wally said.
“What about the murdered jeweler?” Craig asked.
“You’ll see that on the footage,” Wally said.
They didn’t see the death of Ana Katrina Martinez on the computer screen; no camera had captured that.
They did see the death of the elderly owner of the first store. He looked up, said something and appeared to be willing to do whatever the men wanted.
Then he was shot, and he crumpled over.
Mike looked at the files again. “Arthur Kempler, eighty-four. He owned and managed Kempler’s Fine Jewelry for over fifty years. Never had so much as a parking ticket.”
“They didn’t need to kill him,” Wally muttered.
Neither Mike nor Craig disagreed with him.
“Go back to the first robberies,” Craig told Wally.
Wally nodded. “Right away.”
In the earlier heists, they saw the thieves exit by way of the front door, the same way they had come in.
Only in New Jersey had they used the rear exits, at least so far.
“In those first five robberies—as the cameras show—they went back out into the street,” Mike said. “And they were casual about it. I figure within a few steps they had their ski masks off, and in another few steps the hoodies were gone and no one would have known they’d been wearing them at all. They didn’t hide from people—they used them. They melted in with the crowd until they got to their getaway car or the subway and left the area.”
Craig shook his head. “Okay, let’s look at all the footage again. I’m telling you, these aren’t the same thieves.”
“How can you be so sure?” Mike asked. “Look at the New York footage. Three of them each time. Walking in and making it all happen fast. Then New Jersey. Same outfits, same number of guys—except in the first one, the bastards shoot the owner, and in the second, one of them grabs that poor woman and drags her out the back door.”
“No, go back—go back and look at the height differences. There—look at the first tape. Two the same height, one shorter. Now go to the first store that was hit in New Jersey. None of them are the same height,” Craig said. He looked at Wally. “Wally, sorry, run them again. Slow them down.”
Wally obliged, and they watched the footage again.
Mike sighed. “How the hell are you seeing that? Maybe they’re the same size—or maybe they’re not. They could be wearing different shoes, for all you know. The perspective’s so crazy there’s no way to know for sure.”
“I just don’t think they’re the same. I think the second group are copycats. Except that they kill.”
“What’s the likelihood of two sets of thieves with virtually identical MOs starting up at the same time?” Mike asked, exasperated.
“Why not? Some criminal opportunist sees what the first guys are getting away with and figures he’ll give it a shot himself. Only he doesn’t give a damn about human life.”
“Let’s watch them one more time, then start interviewing the first cops on the scene, and the staff and customers who were there,” Mike said. “Wally?”
“Yeah, yeah, one more time,” Wally said. “And I can do comparison ratios—tell you who was and wasn’t the same height.”
“Great. For now, freeze both of the shots I’m talking about, please,” Craig said. “Can you show them to us side by side, split screen?”
As Wally brought up the two shots, Craig heard Mike’s phone buzzing. Mike picked it up, and Craig watched his partner’s features tighten.
“On our way,” Mike said. “Wally, hold tight to that footage. Craig, looks like they’re at it again. We have a chance to catch them red-handed and learn the truth. Let’s go.”
Craig stood quickly, thanking Wally again, and the two men headed out to their car.
“Where’s it going down?” Craig demanded as they walked. “What’s going on? Did someone trigger an alarm this time?”
“No. No alarm. People are just getting more nervous and, thankfully, more vigilant. They’re watching for men in hoodies near jewelry stores. And the thieves are right in the Diamond District this time. Sonny Burke from Atlantis Gems just called in to say he saw three men in black hoodies heading down Forty-Seventh Street. That place is a smorgasbord for diamond thieves. Damn, they’re getting bold!”
“I’ll drive,” Craig said.
“I’m back, Craig. I’m good. Honestly. I’ve got it.”
“You drive like an old woman. Give me the keys.”
Mike didn’t argue. Craig was the better driver and Mike knew it. He tossed over the keys.
* * *
This will all be over soon. It will be fixed. Everything will be okay, Kieran told herself.
She had the diamond; she was appropriately dressed to shop in a jewelry store of the stature of Flawless. The store was in the Diamond District, up on Forty-Seventh, so she’d had a ways to go to get there. She would have chosen a cab with the diamond now in her keeping, but she’d been afraid of getting caught in traffic, so she’d headed for the subway.
She’d been lucky enough to get some traveling in when her father had been alive, but she’d spent the majority of her life in New York City, even attending NYU. She’d taken the subway system all her life.
Today she found herself looking suspiciously at everyone who boarded her subway car. She shifted and moved to a new spot at each stop. If she lost the diamond to a casual pickpocket, all her efforts to save her brother would be doomed. And with technology being what it was, she wasn’t certain that there still wasn’t some way to prove that he had taken it.
I’m not his keeper, she thought to herself.
But, in a way, she was. She’d been the one girl in the family. Her father had been a wonderful man, as proud of his daughter as he was of his sons—and quite ready to open a can of tuna for himself without help. But she had taken on a certain role in the house—different with Declan, of course, because he had her by two years. Like it not, she felt responsible for both her younger brothers, even though she was older than Kevin by a mere seven minutes and her baby brother by only a year.
She’d been “the girl.” Spoiled shamelessly, according to her brothers, but...
It seemed girls really did mature more quickly than boys, and continued doing so even as adults.
Nope. She couldn’t go by that. After all, Julie had helped develop the idiotic and dangerous scheme.
She arrived at her stop and made it to street level with absolutely no trouble—other than the usual rush of people. New Yorkers weren’t rude, despite their reputation, and most of the time they were actually quite pleasant and happy to help anyone who looked lost. There were just a lot of them, and it seemed that everyone was in a hurry to get where she was going. Several people said “excuse me” as they jostled past, and she said the same to several other people in turn.
Once she reached Forty-Seventh Street, she walked along until she saw her destination, Flawless.
She felt sad, remembering how excited they’d all been when Gary had gotten the job. He’d started working there soon after the wedding, just a little more than a year ago.
While the shop—like many others in the Diamond District—advertised Exceptional Quality for Exceptional Prices, it was a high-end and well-respected store. It had been in the Krakowsky family for four generations; landing a job there without being a Krakowsky was no easy feat.
But that was then, and this was now.
In truth, she was glad that she wasn’t going to run into Gary today, given her desire to bash him over the head with something. Julie’s words had been true. She hadn’t wanted to rush into marriage; Gary had. Julie was a video game designer and loved what she did, and she’d wanted to go further in her career. She’d been all set to head to grad school in California when Gary had begged her to marry him.
It was ironic.
She was glad that Gary had gotten this job after the wedding. He was friendly with his coworkers, and at that moment she was glad that she didn’t know any of them.
She heard the soft sound of the buzzer as she entered the store. The door, she knew, was connected wirelessly to a camera that counted and recorded every entrance and exit made at the store.
There was a large showroom filled with display cases. To her left the cases held diamonds set in yellow gold, to her right were cases with diamonds set in white gold and through an archway beyond there was a small display nook for gems of various sorts set in platinum. Beyond the counter—where some of the finest pieces were displayed—were the offices and the private rooms where salesmen sat down with important clients and served champagne while discussing the merits of the best stones. She knew all this because Gary had once described the setup for them.
She arrived just as one of the salesmen was drawing down the inside shutters that protected the window displays at night. He didn’t challenge her entrance, however, but smiled at her.
It wasn’t quite closing time; he was just getting ready.
“Good evening, miss,” he said to her, smiling again.
“I’m sorry—you’re closing,” she said.
“Mr. Krakowsky is in the platinum room with another customer—you’re fine,” he told her.
The salesmen here dressed in designer suits and were perfect gentlemen. This one was in his early forties, she thought, with dark brown hair neatly clipped and a clean-shaven face.
“What can I show you?” he asked her.
“Actually, I was looking for Gary Benton,” she said. “Is he working today? He’s a friend,” she added, almost choking on the word. “And that’s why I came—he speaks so highly of the store.”
“No, I’m sorry. At the moment it’s just me and Mr. Krakowsky. But I’ll happily show you whatever you’d like to see.”
He was still standing too far from the display cases for her to pull off her sleight of hand.
She smiled sweetly. “I heard you have some exceptional loose diamonds.”
“Of course,” he told her, grinning. “We are in the Diamond District, after all.” He offered her his hand. “I’m Matt Townsend. How do you do?”
“Kieran Finnegan,” she told him, shaking. “A pleasure.”
“The pleasure is all mine,” he said. “Come over here, if you will.” He led the way to the counter.
He walked around behind it as she followed him, and ducked down to open a safe beneath the counter.
A chill swept through her. She was suddenly terrified that something would go wrong.
It couldn’t go wrong; she had to remain calm, act normal.
She looked casually around the shop as she waited. She glanced at the security camera, estimating her brother’s position when he had pilfered the stone.
She looked away to avoid suspicion, then looked quickly back at the camera again. Reflected in the lens she could see someone entering the store—another late customer.
No, not another customer.
The man was wearing a black hoodie, which shadowed his face. And she couldn’t see his face because he was also wearing a ski mask.
And he was pulling a gun from his pocket.
He was followed quickly by a second man—his twin in every detail.
Kieran felt her knees grow weak. She’d read about the recent run of jewelry store robberies, but...
But there were dozens of stores in the Diamond District. Why had the thieves picked this store on this day?
“Stay down,” she said softly to the salesman.
They hadn’t killed anyone yet—had they? Even so, there was always a first time.
And when there were guns involved, there was no sense in taking a chance.
No diamond was worth a man’s life.
“Stay down,” she repeated.
But either the salesman didn’t hear her, or he heard her and had no idea what she was talking about.
He rose, setting out a velvet cloth with several uncut diamonds. “Here you—”
He broke off, staring. Kieran’s back was to the new arrivals, but she knew Matt Townsend had a clear view of them and the gun—guns?—that was undoubtedly pointed at him now. He stepped back, raising his hands.
Just at that moment, a distinguished-looking older man came in from the platinum room with a young woman in a gorgeous fur coat.
The woman saw the thieves and screamed.
“Shut up or I shut you up!” one of the gunmen said. “You got two seconds.”
She didn’t hear him. She was still screaming and was clearly hysterical.
Kieran turned to see the first man pointing his gun in the screaming woman’s direction, while two others—when had the third man entered?—kept their guns trained on Matt.
Kieran wasn’t sure what propelled her—maybe it was the stark raving fear that if he shot one person he would shoot them all—but she wasn’t about to let the terrified woman die, much less put them all in the morgue. She hurried over to the young woman and slapped her cheek, then took her face in both hands and said softly and firmly, “Stop. Stop right now. We’re going to live. We’re all going to live, all right?”
“Smart girl,” one of the gunmen said.
The woman had stopped screaming. The older man—Mr. Krakowsky—looked at Kieran with what she thought was gratitude in his eyes.
“Take whatever you want,” he told the thieves. “We won’t move a muscle to stop you or set off the alarm.”
“Good call, old man,” the second gunman said. “You,” he told Kieran. “You look bright, and you’re definitely pretty—there’s got to be a guy out there somewhere who wants you alive. And you’re obviously the type who would really like to see everyone survive here today. So if you listen carefully to my every word, we’ll all be able to sleep in our own beds tonight.”
She wasn’t sure if being called bright and pretty by a gun-wielding thief was a compliment, but there were three men in her life who loved her very much: Declan, Kevin and Daniel.
She clung tightly to the concept that everyone would live.
“So, Red,” the thief continued, “scoop up those diamonds on the counter. Now. And you, guy behind the counter, get out the other diamonds down there in your safe. The really good ones. And you, Red, you make sure he does it. I want all of them.”
“Do what he says,” Mr. Krakowsky advised.
“And, Red, watch him, because if you lie to me, Screaming Mimi over there gets it first.”
Matt ducked beneath the counter again. He was shaking.
“If the alarm goes off, I shoot every one of you,” the thief promised. “I’m a crack shot. Six bullets, only four of you. No problem.”
Townsend was far too terrified to hit the alarm. He brought out five velvet cloths filled with loose diamonds and set them on the counter.
“Now, man behind the counter, go ahead of me. Get out your keys so you can open the back door. Old man, you and Screaming Mimi get down on the floor. Come on—move. Time is of the essence.”
Everyone stared at him—frozen—for a split second.
“Down,” Mr. Krakowsky said, pressing the young woman to the floor with him.
“You,” the first gunman snapped to Kieran. “Get those stones and come with me—now.”
Kieran stared at him. She wondered whether she could even move, she was shaking so badly. Some instinct came to her rescue. She swept up all the diamonds while the thief who had done the talking headed to the back with Matt Townsend. A second one moved to stand close to her. Even though she knew that his gun wasn’t touching her, she still thought she could feel it.
The third remained near the door, oblivious to the camera, his gun ready.
The thief in charge shouted from the back that the door was open. Kieran stood with the velvet-wrapped diamonds in her hands, frozen once again.
Then the nearest gunman grabbed her arm and turned, walking backward and keeping his eyes on Krakowsky and the other customer as he pulled her down a hallway and toward the back door.
He fired a shot as he walked; she felt the pistol’s kick shoot through her via his grip on her arm. The sound was deafening.
She couldn’t tell if anyone had been hit or not.
All she knew was that she was being hustled through the store and out the back door.
The alley beside the store had once been an open-air path. It was still a pedestrian passage, but now it was flanked by new buildings—new as in maybe only fifty or so years old—and boasted sidewalk cafés at both ends.
“Move!” the third man shouted, hurrying to catch up to them. “Someone in there must have set off the alarm. Hear the damned sirens?”
Her captor shoved her toward the wall, and all she could do was wonder if they would or wouldn’t shoot her in the back.
But before she hit the wall she was grabbed by the third man. “Keep her—we may need her,” he said, wrenching her around to face him. His eyes were like chips of blue ice. “If you—”
He stopped speaking for a moment, and she saw his eyes widen. Did he know her? she wondered.
He quickly found his tongue again. “We’re going to run, and you need to do everything I say. If you don’t, I will fucking blow a hole right through you. Got it?”
Kieran was trying so hard not to shake that she was afraid she wouldn’t be able to move. She finally nodded.
“Good. Now run. And don’t hold me back. Don’t trip, don’t falter, don’t stop for any reason. Your life depends on it.”
* * *
The moment Craig brought the car to a screeching halt, double-parking next to a silver Mercedes, he and Mike leaped out. They were already communicating via headsets, ready for whatever they might find inside.
A half dozen uniformed NYPD cops had arrived just ahead of them and were lined up outside the door of Flawless.
Mike produced his badge and said, “FBI. Anyone go in yet?”
“Just got here,” one of the cops said.
“We’ll take it easy—there could be people in there,” Mike said. “If two of you will cover me on the left, I’ll take the door. Craig, what are you thinking?”
Craig had been studying the building and thinking about the best way in.
Space had been at a premium in NYC for decades, if not centuries. Buildings tended to be flush against each other, but there were exceptions. In this instance, there was a café at the end of the block, with tables spilling out on a throughway that led to the back of the building. An old archway suggested another narrow alley at the back of the building that fronted the block, an alley that presumably ran between the buildings that faced one street and those that faced the next.
“Going around—there’s bound to be a back door,” he told Mike briefly and pulled his gun.
He didn’t wait for a go-ahead or a reply but moved as soon as he was done speaking.
He heard Mike’s voice in his ear. “Hey, watch what you’re doing. You need backup, you say the word.”
“I’m good, no problem yet,” he said in return.
He moved as quickly as he could and rounded the corner. He saw that there was an actual archway on the end of the alley, space enough for some outdoor seating for a chain luncheonette.
There were people at the tables.
“Move!” he shouted, threading his way through them. “Move!”
“What the fuck—” someone said.
“We’re moving in,” Mike said over Craig’s earpiece.
“You take care.”
“I have backup.”
Craig swore softly, running into a chair a man had pushed back.
“Dickhead!” the man said.
“Move—”
“You dickhead!”
“Move. FBI!” Craig roared.
The man moved and then someone screamed and everyone got out of his way.
Craig realized then that he was wielding his Glock.
“What’s going on, Craig?” Mike demanded.
“I’m running!” Craig panted.
He tore down the pedestrian alley as fast as he could move.
As he reached the rear of the jewelry shop he could see that the back door was open.
He heard Mike’s voice again in his ear. “I’m inside. Two people in here, both okay. One is old man Krakowsky. He said they went out the back and they have a hostage.”
“I’m on it,” Craig said.
Dammit. The thieves had been there—and they were a step ahead.
He could see people running at the other end of the alley.
Men in black hoodies. And they weren’t alone.
Mike had been right. They had a hostage. A woman was being dragged along with them.
At least she wasn’t dead on the ground in the alley.
Swearing, Craig cranked up his pace.
As the thieves neared the street, he saw that they were heading to a van that was waiting at the end of the alley, a commonplace white van.
The sliding door was open, the driver obviously waiting for his companions to jump in.
One of the thieves drew the woman out of the way as they reached the sidewalk. Another brandished his gun.
People were screaming everywhere. Some were running; others, too startled to move, stood where they were.
Right in the way of the thieves.
And in his mind’s eye, all Craig could picture was the video of the thieves shooting the manager. And of the dead woman lying in an alley.
“Craig, what the hell are you doing?” Mike demanded.
“I’m on them.”
“You’re on them how? Wait for backup.”
“I can’t—I’ll lose them.”
He could hear Mike cursing.
“Can’t talk—running!” Craig said.
The thief holding the woman turned and saw—in the midst of the chaos—that they were being followed. He shoved her into the van and jumped in after her.
Craig practically flew toward the street. The last of the thieves was entering the van, and the door hadn’t closed yet. He couldn’t fire, though; he could too easily hit the woman or an innocent bystander.
He was going to need both hands, he thought, and shoved his Glock back into the holster nestled into the small of his back. Then he launched himself through the open door.
He pitched headfirst into one of the thieves and heard a cracking sound—the guy’s head hitting the far wall.
The driver screeched into traffic, rounding the corner onto the avenue and yelling, “What the hell...?”
His entry had been something like a bowling ball striking the pins at the end of the lane. All three thieves went sprawling. The woman was facedown, and he was somehow entangled with her legs.
“Craig, what the hell’s going on?” Mike demanded.
“White van going south on Fifth,” he said.
The thief he’d catapulted into was out cold. That left two more, plus the driver.
He heard a cacophony of shouting in the van. And through his earpiece, he could hear Mike cursing Craig beneath his breath between giving orders to stop every white van on Fifth.
Then Craig saw that one of the men was rising and that he had a gun. Craig reacted, rolling the woman onto her back as he struck out with his left foot. He caught the guy right in the jaw, and he stumbled back awkwardly, then fell flat on his rear.
Craig barely missed getting whacked across the head by the third man. But he ducked in time and head butted the man in the gut.
By then the second man was moving again. He lifted his gun and aimed at Craig’s head.
He never got the chance to fire.
Craig was astonished—and incredibly grateful—to see that the woman had not only moved, she’d found a tire iron and cracked the thief hard over the head with it. He went down like a brick.
The panel door suddenly slid open. The last of the thieves hopped from the moving vehicle.
The driver suddenly stepped on the gas. Craig looked out the windshield and realized that they’d miraculously hit a clear patch of Fifth Avenue.
Craig knew he couldn’t have gone after the thief anyway. The woman was still in the van, and the driver was alive and well.
Now his lead foot on the gas sent both Craig and the woman flying. He landed half on top of the unconscious man she’d hit and half on top of her.
For a moment he got a good look at her face. Mid to late twenties, brilliant blue eyes, deep red hair, fine bone structure and porcelain skin.
He got moving again quickly, staggering to the front, pulling the Glock out of its holster as he went, then pressing the muzzle against the driver’s head.
“Pull over. Now.”
“Ah, hell,” the driver muttered. He added a few colorful expletives, but, as ordered, he pulled over to the side. Craig cuffed him and then went back to cuff the other two, easing their guns out of reach as he did so, swearing inwardly. A takedown wasn’t easy when he was stooping over the whole time to avoid hitting his head on the ceiling of the van.
The young woman was getting to her feet at that point, and he realized she was tall enough that she needed to stoop, as well. He met her eyes. They were a stunning crystal blue, almost impossible to look away from.
“Thanks,” he told her. “You saved my life.”
“I think you saved mine,” she said.
“Oh, fuck you both,” the driver said. “No one saved anyone. We don’t kill people. We’re thieves. We don’t even use real guns!”
Craig spun around toward him and then bent down to pick up the thieves’ guns.
It was an incredibly real copy of a Smith & Wesson. And it was made out of plastic.
He grabbed the other weapon off the floor of the van; it, too, was an excellent copy and, like the first, made of plastic.
“Where the hell did you get these?” Craig demanded.
The driver laughed. “Toy store,” he said. “Check that one out. It’s a water pistol.”
“You idiot. Don’t you know that the police would shoot you, whether these were real or not?”
“Police never should have caught us,” the driver said.
“Am I hearing this right?” Mike demanded over the earpiece.
Craig wasn’t sure how Mike could hear anything, frankly. By now sirens were ripping through the air and police cars were surging around them.
He slid open the panel door, holding out a hand with his badge showing. “Lower your weapons. FBI. The situation is under control.”
He looked back at the driver.
The guy wasn’t wearing a ski mask or a hoodie. He looked like any other blue-collar worker in a Yankees’ beanie and a plaid flannel shirt. He was about thirty-five, Craig estimated. Brown hair, neatly trimmed beard and mustache.
Someone’s all-around good old boy uncle, perhaps, come to the big city.
Craig realized that he and the woman were no longer in danger—not as far as this crew went. He regretted the fact that he was now certain he had been right.
There was a copycat group working the streets. With real guns—guns that killed.
He’d won the bet with Mike.
He wished that he’d lost.
Two groups...
And the one that killed was still out there.
