Rising fast, she reached for her weapon.
Then from behind, a man's voice. "Don't bother."
She froze and turned to see a heavyset man, with salt and pepper hair and a large moustache of the same shades. He was holding a gun pointed roughly in her direction. It was a small Glock, the .380. She judged angles. Her own pistol, a larger one, 9mm, was strapped outside her overalls--yes, there was a risk of contamination but she would never be zippered away from her weapon.
But no, she judged, she couldn't draw in time to stop him from shooting. If he went for a chest shot, though, the vest beneath the overalls would give her time to drop and draw.
A double tap in her head--tactically wise but a harder shot--that would be the end.
But as it turned out there was no gunplay.
The man looked at the NYPD Crime Scene Unit logo on the overalls and slipped his weapon away. "I was saying: Don't bother with him." Nodding toward the archway where the sound had come from. "He's just some meth-head. Harmless."
Then he reached into his pocket and withdrew a shield case. He displayed the badge and the ID.
"Stan Coelho. ATF." He gave a laugh. "Well, now ATFE, since they gave us explosives too. When I first saw you, I thought you might be working for some crews. But now--" He gestured toward her outfit. "--looks like one of the good guys. Well, gals." He frowned. "Or shouldn't I be using that word nowadays?"
Miguel Angel Morales saw his lieutenant striding briskly along the walk toward the bench.
Raphael Ortiz sat down on the bench, though three feet away.
"No," Morales said, "It's clear. I've been watching."
The skinny man, thirty to fifty, impossible to tell, moved closer. He pulled his gaudy yellow and brown checkered jacket closer. Morales paid the lieutenant good money. Why he dressed like this was always a mystery.
"We know Rinaldo took delivery of the guns at the armory eleven thirty or so. And we know as of four he'd hidden the delivery somewhere. And everything looked good."
They knew this from the texts, yes.
Ortiz continued, "In between he made a half dozen deliveries around Manhattan--all of them legit. A washer/dryer, some tomato sauce to a couple of restaurants. Auto parts."
That was part of the plan, staying legal. Morales didn't want him to get busted for some little drug drop off and the delivery of guns would get spotted in the process.
"Now I've reconstructed his route for most of the day. But there's no sign that he dropped off our delivery anywhere he went on his legit route. But--here's the thing--he was unaccounted for, for an hour between his last two deliveries. And it wouldn't take that long to drive from one to the other."
Morales's spirits were buoyed. If Ortiz and his people had been unable to track Rinaldo for the entire day, that would have been a problem. But just an hour or so of a gap? The man's diversion to the hiding place could probably be reconstructed.
"All right. Let's proceed. Like I was saying before."
Ortiz nodded. "I'll need a little time to make some arrangements."
It was harder and harder nowadays to get rid of bodies. You had to be absolutely certain that they disappeared completely. And it wasn't just dogs. They had special radar that could find a body twenty feet underground.
"You'll be ready by five?"
Ortiz considered. A nod.
Morales gave his man an address verbally and asked him to repeat it. Which he did. The mousy man had a great memory.
"Good."
And both men rose. Without a word of farewell they turned in different directions and walked away.
"We're not the only ones working the case."
Sachs was explaining to Rhyme and Cooper that an Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms agent, Stan Coelho, had been following the shipment of automatic weapons from the other end, the shipper. "They got a tip from some snitch in Chicago, and were following it east from a warehouse on the south side."
"Supply side investigating, you could say." Rhyme was pleased with the joke.