EIGHTY-SIX

LIEUTENANT McNulty had dispatched Quinn’s squad to Lower Manhattan, to investigate the “fireworks” that panicked citizens around Battery Park. That’s what they turned out to be, too—more remote-controlled pyrotechnics meant to confuse and distract law enforcement.

But I was onto the deception, and I laid it all out to Quinn while Lori kept a discreet distance behind the suspect vehicles.

“Eduardo De Santis is being framed,” I explained. “That’s why your OD Squad was targeted. And the whole Panther Man thing was about rattling the cops, diverting the police from doing their jobs. Right now, Midtown is quiet because the jewel thieves wanted the police somewhere else while they robbed the vault in the World Diamond Tower . . .”

We spoke over the phone instead of using the police radio. We both knew these thieves could be monitoring the police band.

“Why has no one from Lyons Global Security raised an alarm?” Quinn asked. “By now someone must have discovered the robbery.”

“They used some kind of knockout gas on Madame and me. Maybe they used it on the security guards, too. I’m sure the thieves have someone on the inside who prevented alarm triggers from going off.”

“I follow you,” Quinn said. “And now we know why McNulty’s Inside Job Squad was targeted, too. His men were so distracted by the shootings they dropped the ball on what could be the biggest inside job of all time . . .”

All caught up, Quinn now described his plan of action.

“My guys are a lot closer to the Brooklyn Terminal than that Village Blend van. We’ll arrive ahead of time and set up a trap at the terminal entrance. It will look like a routine security check, until it isn’t.”

“Be careful,” I pleaded. “Matt’s a hostage. If things go wrong, they might kill him.”

Quinn’s reply was garbled, as I temporarily lost the phone signal.

While I imagined Mike and his crew racing to the terminal to spring their trap, the Village Blend van and the SUV rolled downtown at a leisurely pace—a little too leisurely, like they had nothing to hide, and nowhere in particular to go.

After thirty minutes, we’d tailed them all the way to City Hall. That’s when McNulty’s gruff voice barked over the radio.

“Ten-seven, Detective Soles. Ten-seven. Ten-seven, immediately . . .”

Lori groaned. “I never reported to my precinct commander. Now McNulty wants to know my situation. If I don’t reply, I’m officially AWOL.”

“Detective Soles, ten-seven, at once . . .”

Ignoring the radio voice, she gave me a sidelong glance. “I hope you’re right about this, Cosi.”

Me too . . .

Minutes later, as we rolled across the Brooklyn Bridge, something magical occurred. It was almost as if the spirit of the bridge cat—that legendary supernatural guardian of the Ponte Vecchio—suddenly filled our hearts, until our doubts were dispelled, and we were electrified with a new sense of resolve.

Or . . . maybe it was the cop calling for help over the police radio.

“All units, Midtown, respond immediately. I have a ten-twenty B on the corner of Sixth and 48th Street. Need assistance at Lyons Global Security. There’s been a robbery—”

“You are right, Cosi!” Lori clutched the steering wheel, her expression determined. “Let’s nail these thieving, cop-shooting SOBs!”

On the Brooklyn side of the bridge, the Village Blend van headed to the Cruise Terminal, just minutes away. But the SUV unexpectedly split off, heading deeper into the industrial section of Red Hook—an area I knew well.

“Quick! Do we follow the SUV or the van?” Lori demanded.

“Quinn’s intercepting the van. So let’s follow that SUV. I’m pretty sure I know where they’re going, and if I’m right, Matt isn’t in the van. He’s inside that car right now.”