The Deliveryman (Lincoln Rhyme 11.50)

"Yeah. It's okay."

"Could you draw some pictures in your tablet where you and your father went? Maybe write down anything you remember too. I'll come by later and we can look at it together."

"I guess."

She added, "Sally? Could you help him?"

The woman agreed that they would and she'd call Sachs when the boy had some thoughts.

"Javier? You need anything?"

"No."

Sachs said goodbye and they disconnected. She looked at Rhyme with a coy smile. "You don't seem to feel that's a productive form of inquiry."

"An eight-year-old drawing pictures of his recollections in crayon? In a word, no."

"It's colored pencil," she corrected.

"Well, now, there's a difference for you. Can we get back to the evidence, please and thank you?"

Studying the windows, the dancing shadows.

Hidden in the below-ground alcove of an apartment across the tree-lined street, Raphael Ortiz gazed at the town house on the Upper West Side, the home of foster parents Peter and Sally Abbott. This was the address that Miguel Angel Morales had recited to him not long ago as they sat on the bench in windy Central Park. The arrangements for body disposal were complete and he was pleased to see he'd arrived here a few minutes early. It was 4:50 p.m. He imagined that Miguel Angel would be pleased too. The man appreciated punctuality.

The shades of the town house were up, but lacy curtains, wafting in the breeze, obscured the view inside. Occasionally, he noted, there came a flicker of light, blue and gray and white, and he knew the television was on. He wondered if Rinaldo's boy was watching the set, and what; was the kid interested in cartoons?

When Ortiz was Javier's age he hadn't watched much TV. The family had one--everybody in the Bronx neighborhood did--but cable was crappy and it went out frequently. Probably stolen by his old man. He envied the boys and girls at school who'd talk about episodes of Law and Order and Walker, Texas Ranger. The girls loved Blossom and Full House.

A car cruised past. Several more. Ortiz, though, stayed unseen. He was careful, watching the faint wisp of exhaust from the unmarked police SUV. He didn't know if the cop inside was constantly studying the doorway and the traffic on the street, or was there merely as a deterrent and he was content to listen to the radio or read.

But he would assume the cop was vigilant as a wolf.

Miguel Angel was never emotional, never raised his voice. But he was also a viper, known to kill easily, even those he seemed fond of. Thinking of the time Santos was smoking on a job at a warehouse in Hell's Kitchen. He tossed out his cigarette carelessly and it set a small fire. That set off the alarm, which brought the fire department.

The crew lost a smooth thirty thousand from what would have been an easy payroll check cashing service heist.

Miguel Angel had personally tied a weight to Santos's waist and pushed him into the East River, near the sewage treatment facility in Queens.

His hand close to the Smith and Wesson in his back pocket, Ortiz now slipped out of hiding and walked up the street to the intersection, turned left and into the alley behind the townhouse complex. Staying close to the back walls, he moved slowly forward, over cobblestones, the alley cleaner than most in the city. He was counting back doors. The Abbotts' was the sixth building on the left.

Ortiz had just reached the third when a shadow appeared fast from the right and behind him.

Shit...

He gasped as a massive set of fingers closed on his own hand--the one reaching instinctively toward his pistol. An arm gripped his shoulders and tugged him roughly backward and closer to the wall. He struggled to break free but the assailant was far stronger.

He smelled a whiff of some sour aftershave and a head was next to his ear, so close that he felt beard stubble against his lobe.

"Quiet," came the command, a guttural voice.

Ortiz nodded.

The pressure relaxed completely and he turned. His lids lowered briefly in relief. He'd thought, for a moment, that there'd been a second cop, one in the alleyway, who'd nailed him. But no, it wasn't a cop. Though technically he was a law enforcer. Stan Coelho, officially working for the ATF but making most of his money as an informant and all around badass for Miguel Angel Morales.

"Jesus. Almost shit my pants."

Coelho whispered, "The SUV in front?"