Nicholas and Mike waited for Sophie and Kevin Brown to disappear into the office, safe, out of harm’s way, then Mike grabbed the walkie from Nicholas and moved to the right, to the nearest stack, so she’d be hidden from sight. Nicholas melted into the first stack on the left, and together they waited to see if the man came through the door. Mike clicked the button on the walkie so they could hear everything being said outside, but turned the volume down so the intruder couldn’t hear anything at the store’s door.
Nicholas listened to the surveillance team intently until they suddenly went silent. He nodded to Mike, who whispered, “What’s he doing, what’s he doing?” into the walkie.
Nicholas recognized Special Agent Ben Houston’s voice. “He stopped two doors down. We’ve got a loose box around him so he won’t get away. He’s watching the street, probably looking for us. Hang in there, let’s see what he does. Okay, he’s moving now, coming toward the door. Bald, about six feet, wearing jeans and a Windbreaker. Young, rangy guy, looks buff, real strong.”
Nicholas said to Mike, “I’m half tempted to let him come in, see who he is and what he’s after.”
She duckwalked to his position. “Too chancy. He could come in guns a-blazing.”
Ben’s voice came through the walkie. “He means business, people, he’s being deliberate now, not looking around or watching for a tail. Okay, here he is, at the door. You should be able to see him now. He has something in his left hand, I see metal, might be a weapon—”
Nicholas grabbed the walkie from Mike’s hand, said, “Take him. Take him now.”
Nicholas and Mike stepped out into plain view, weapons raised, and watched the surveillance team converge on the suspect. They saw his head was shaved and he wore a black goatee. He took one look in the glass door, met Nicholas’s eyes, saw the weapons pointed at him, and threw his arms up in the air.
“Don’t shoot, don’t shoot!”
Ben appeared behind him, shouting, “FBI, FBI. Put your hands on your head, get down on your knees. Do it, do it now!”
The man went down on his knees, no hesitation. Ben wrenched his arms back behind him and cuffed him as Mike opened the shop door.
She stood over him, hands on her hips. “FBI. Who are you?”
The man looked confused. “Whoa, whoa! FBI? What’s going on here? What in the world is happening?”
Mike slipped her Glock back into its clip at her waist. Nicholas very nearly smiled. She looked as tough without the Glock in her hand.
Nicholas stepped forward. “Tell us your name.”
“I’m Alex Grossman. I have a lunch meeting with Jonathan. He’s got a book I ordered; he called me last night. My phone’s in my pocket, you can check.”
“What else? Maybe some needles, a weapon?”
“No, man. Only my keys, my wallet, and my phone. What do I look like, a terrorist?”
Mike said, “That isn’t funny, sir. Not at all.”
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m a little freaked out here, okay? Can I put my hands down?”
Nicholas frisked him quickly and retrieved Grossman’s wallet, phone, and keys.
He said, “Where were you this morning, Mr. Grossman?”
“Asleep. I own the Bullet Pub. It’s also a restaurant. We had a private event last night, the group stayed way later than planned. I didn’t get home until after three a.m. I caught some sleep, then headed over here to meet Jonathan. Please, tell me what’s going on.”
Nicholas nodded at Mike, flashed the small cell phone. “Pearce called him last night at eight-thirty p.m.”
Mike nodded. “Tell me what Mr. Pearce said, exactly, Mr. Grossman.”
“That the book had come in. That’s all. He always called when an order arrived. We chatted a bit, caught up. It’s his personal touch, why everyone likes doing business with him. What’s happening?”
“Mr. Pearce was murdered this morning,” Mike said, then nodded at Ben to unlock the cuffs.
“Jonathan’s dead?” Grossman sounded blank-voiced with shock. “But how? Why? I mean, it doesn’t make any sense.” Then he became very still, going inward, Mike thought, accepting his friend’s death as fact. He whispered low, “God rest his soul. Jonathan’s a great guy. Please, tell me you know who did it.”
Mike ignored his questions, leaned against the counter, crossed her arms. “How well did you know Mr. Pearce, Mr. Grossman?”
“Well enough. This can’t be happening. I don’t feel well, can I sit down for a minute?”