The Deliveryman (Lincoln Rhyme 11.50)

"Yeah?" Ortiz took to whispering too.

"It's empty." The ATF agent pointed up the alley. Ortiz co

uld make out, just barely, faint motion from the back service doorway of the Abbotts' apartment. Ah, it was the cop from the stakeout, Ortiz understood. Ah, not a bad idea. You leave an SUV running in front of the place you're guarding--and an SUV with darkened windows, hard to see inside. Then the driver slips behind the building. Anyone wanting to break in would avoid the front door and its General Motors bouncer...and then get busted by the asshole hiding in the back.

Coelho whispering: "Come on. Here."

The big man slipped into the back doorway of the apartment building they were closest to, a recessed area, on the same side of the alley as the foster parents'. He had, apparently, already snapped the lock and deadbolt here and gestured Ortiz inside. Then, with a glance toward the cop, followed, pulling the door shut.

The ATF agent said, "We gotta go up." Lifting his eyes toward the ceiling. "Onto the roof. We go over the building--"

"We have to jump?" Ortiz was not a fan of heights.

"From one building to the other?" The massive man seemed amused. "I look like I do that? No, they're all connected. We get to their place, then down. They have the whole building."

Ortiz nodded toward the Abbott's building. "And the kid's in there?"

The man didn't answer but his look said, why you think Morales called us both here if he wasn't.

"Let's get going."

In five minutes they'd made their way down the ladder and then the stairs into the Abbotts' townhouse. The top floor, where the two men stood, guns in hands, consisted of three bedrooms, all of them--Coelho checked and reported--empty.

From below were the sounds of a television and muted conversation. The agent nodded in that direction. They started down the stairs. Normally he'd be uneasy at times like this. But he felt more or less comfortable, pleased that Coelho was here. There was going to be, Miguel Angel had suggested, some killing and, while Ortiz shied from such work, the ATF agent--you might say--lived for it.

He forced himself not to cry out in shock.

Javier Rinaldo had come back from the bathroom and as he walked out of the john, he'd seen shadows from upstairs. He ducked into a spare bedroom and leaned out. He saw two figures coming down the stairs.

Holding guns.

No, no, no!

One of them was the guy had killed his father, he bet! Coming here to kill him too. And those nice people, the Abbotts!

Javier didn't have any idea how they'd found him but here they were. One Latino and skinny. One white and big.

What was he going to do?

They were between him and his bedroom--he couldn't get to it without being seen. He glanced at the window in this room. Then outside. He couldn't jump; it was concrete below. He couldn't fight them, either. No weapon.

But he could warn the Abbotts. There was no phone in this room but there had to be one in the big bedroom up the hall, the Abbotts'. The men with the guns moved slowly down the stairs and turned away, looking toward his room, where music from his computer game played. When they were focused on it, Javier slipped out and made his way on the carpeted floor of the hallway to the bedroom. His hands and heart shook, tears dotted his eyes.

He stepped inside fast.

And stopped. Blinking in shock. He wasn't alone. Mrs. Abbott was sitting on the bed, making a phone call.

She frowned. Filled with relief, Javier locked the door and then ran to her. "There're these men!" he whispered. "They're up the hall. They mustta come in through the roof! Call the police, you know nine one one!"

Rising, Mrs. Abbott touched her lips. "Shhh," she said. "Silencio! No se mueven."

Crying more tears, Javier nodded and stopped speaking. He gestured to the phone. She said nothing but walked to the door.

He gasped as she unlocked it. "No! They're out there."

Only then did he register that she'd been speaking to him in Spanish. Which she hadn't done before.

Something was wrong here. Real wrong.