He told the others his theory, and he, Ortiz and his wife approached the three racks--one in front of a statue of Jesus, one before Mary, and one in front of a simple cross.
Coelho stayed with the child. Morales got the impression he was already anticipating, with some pleasure, killing the boy.
Morales found nothing under his rack. Ortiz too came up empty handed. But as he looked across the pews he noticed his wife nodding and smiling. Something small and silver disappeared into her pocket.
He inhaled deeply and, in thanks, lit a candle himself. And slipped a hundred dollar offering in the box chained to a radiator by the door.
As the entourage left the church, Connie whispered to him. "Saf-Storage in Queens. He even wrote the address."
Morales whispered, "We'll get somebody over there now. And I want to go back to the Abbotts and wait for that cop, the woman, Sachs. Take her out and the bodyguard too."
Connie said absently "She had such nice hair. Didn't you think?"
Morales said nothing. He was then vaguely aware of some people walking behind them, presumably the parishioners who'd left, though he hadn't seen any of them stand and head out the door.
They were just at the SUV when it happened.
From behind him came a woman's voice, sternly shouting: "Police! Hands where we can see them! Get down on your knees! Now, now, now!"
A dozen tactical police officers appeared from hiding places between parked cars in front of the church, and four squad cars and three unmarkeds skidded to a stop around them.
Connie screamed and flung her hands in the air. Ortiz, who'd been arrested several times, knew he'd end up on the ground eventually and simply flopped onto his belly, hands outstretched. Morales sighed and lifted his hands. He turned to see the woman whose death he'd just been planning--Detective Sachs--leading the tactical operation. He gave a faint laugh, observing that all of the cops wore two bullet-proof vests, and he realized that, since they knew about the special armor-piercing bullets, they probably knew everything.
His whole plan, so brilliant, in ruins.
"Now!" Detective Sachs shouted.
Morales turned to his wife. "Do what they say. Get on your knees."
"My stockings, my shoes!"
"Go ahead," he said kindly. "And don't do anything quickly. You'll be all right."
Then the redhead was shouting, "You, Coelho! Let go of the boy. On the ground. Now!"
Morales glanced back. And saw the ATF agent, angry resolve in his fat face, looking about. Suddenly he gripped the boy by the chest and lifted him, drawing his gun and aiming it toward the police, who scattered for cover. The redhead stayed where she was, but crouched, trying to find a target. But Javier was not a tiny boy and he proved to be a decent human shield, despite the agent's girth.
"Coelho," she said. "You know the drill. You'll never get out of here. Put the weapon down."
"Have the woman throw me the key to the Lexus. Now!"
"No," Detective Sachs said. "It won't happen."
"Then I'll kill the boy." He tapped Javier's forehead with the gun.
Morales said, "No, Stan. Let him go!" He in truth didn't care about the boy's safety, but if Coelho killed him, it would be another count of homicide--felony murder--against all of those present, even if not directly involved in Javier's death.
But the agent ignored him.
"Keys! I'm not asking again."
The policewoman: "You shoot him, you die one second later."
"Keys," he roared.
"No."
Suddenly a huge crack of gunshot and the pistol in Coelho's hand jumped.