The Deliveryman (Lincoln Rhyme 11.50)

The hour was lunchtime and the sidewalk here was crowded. He was lost in the throngs of people entering and leaving the restaurant.

As he approached he saw she was quite pretty. What the hell was she up to? Some hot babe in a muscle car, poking around the place where a half million dollars of very illegal shit had been transferred. She could be a skirt working for a gangbanger, who'd picked her to minimize suspicion, in his search for the mysterious delivery.

Hell, that was a sexist thought. The bitch might be an OG herself, some rival to Morales. The world was changing. It was only a matter of time until a woman rose up high in the organized crime scene of New York and was crowned an Original Gangster.

Gangsterette? Coelho allowed himself the humorous thought.

She set the suitcase into the trunk, slammed it and pulled out her phone to make a call.

As soon as she finished and got into the front seat, he'd make his move.

He now broke through the crowd and started across the street toward the Torino.

But she moved fast. Yanking open the door and tossing the phone onto the passenger seat. In seconds, the car fired up and she was skidding--actually laying a patch of rubber as she sped away.

Shit.

Well, at least he'd had some confirmation that the arsenal had a connection with Rinaldo and the infamous delivery. Why else would an armed woman, who drove like that, be interested?

A connection...What the hell was it?

He glanced at a Greek diner behind him, smelling the garlic and grilling fish.

Then he thought about his boss and told himself: No, get to work.

"Wh

at's this discovery you're so excited about?" Mel Cooper asked Amelia Sachs as she walked quickly into Rhyme's parlor.

"Gloves."

"Really?" Cooper asked, enthusiastic.

"I'll give you the whole story," she said. "In addition to the oil operation and the stable--that told you Rinaldo'd been to the armory--there're two restaurants across from the back entrance to the place. A McDonalds and a Greek diner. I found two witnesses who're pretty sure that--"

"Pretty sure--"

"Rhyme," she warned.

He shrugged. "Pray continue."

"Who're pretty sure that two white trucks drove through back entrance about eleven thirty yesterday morning."

"How'd they get in?"

"Locks were picked, I'm pretty sure. Scratch marks. The doors closed and nobody saw what happened then or when they left. The state owns the place and I called their real estate division and they had the maintenance service let me in. Creepy place. If you're ever inclined to make a horror film, that's the set for it. The place basically has a dirt floor, so I took soil samples. I found treads that even without comparison I recognized as Rinaldo's. The other truck there? The treads were pretty bad. It'll be impossible to get any ID'ing tread marks from them."

"You were mentioning gloves." Rhyme was growing impatient.

She held up a plastic bag. "Latex."

"Ah, that is good news." Latex gloves, unlike cloth, pick up fingerprints quite well (on the inside) and have adhesive properties that retain trace. Smart criminals burn them into nothing, the not-so-smart throw them out, for police to find and, soon thereafter, make all sort of helpful discoveries to aid in arrest and conviction.

"Friction ridges first."

Wearing his own set of gloves--a similar shade of blue--Mel Cooper extracted and tested them. There were two, a right and a left. Rhyme hoped they belonged to whomever Rinaldo had met in the armory, as they already had Rinaldo's identity.

They did not, as it turned out. Only the victim's prints were inside the gloves.