Page 20 of Crosshairs
Chrissy’s head snapped up like she hadn’t been paying attention. She said, “I just, I mean, I …” She started to cry and tried to wipe her eyes on the sleeves of her blouse.
I felt disappointment lurch through me. Mary Catherine’s smile fell right off her face.
Then, through her tears, Chrissy wailed, “I’m so happy I can’t stop crying. I’ll finally have a little brother or sister! This is the best day of my life.”
I was correct; we had raised these kids the right way. Next thing I knew we were in a giant hug around Mary Catherine.
CHAPTER 25
ROB TRILLING DIDN’T want to make it obvious that he’d been watching the man in the corner. He knew the guy hadn’t gone out the front door, so he must’ve slipped out the back. Trilling didn’t burst through the back door and race into the alley looking for him. Instead, he eased away from the semiconscious man on the stool and casually strolled toward the rear door.
Out of sight of the bar patrons, though, Trilling picked up the pace, sprinting down the alley and onto the street. He’d like to say it was his keen instincts that led him to turn a corner and catch sight of the man he thought might be Lou Pershing, but that wasn’t true. It was just luck. The same way luck could determine who survived the battlefield.
The suspect walked with a determined pace, but Trilling had no problem staying half a block back. He had to remind himself he was on his own and couldn’t call in help. All he had to do wassee the disgusting tattoo on the man’s right biceps and he’d have his best fugitive arrest.
Trilling followed the man onto the 6 train, but almost lost him when he got out of the subway at 116th Street. East Harlem was an unfamiliar neighborhood for Trilling. The crowds in Midtown made it easy to blend in, but here there wasn’t nearly as much foot traffic, and he found it much more difficult to stay unnoticed.
Trilling watched as the suspect met a wiry Latino man. The Latino man introduced the suspect to a young woman. She lookedreallyyoung. Dressed in knee-high boots and a skirt too short for the cool temperatures.
No matter what happened, Trilling decided he couldn’t ignore this. He watched as the Latino man walked away and the suspect and woman continued north to a questionable-looking building that resembled an old-time SRO—single-room occupancy. Trilling had heard places like this were all over the city thirty years ago but rare now. The nine-story building looked run-down and had no style. Trash blown from the street gathered around a few dead bushes at the entrance.
Trilling raced half a block just as the suspect and the young woman entered an elevator. He flew up the stairs, jumping out of the stairwell at each floor to see if the elevator had stopped there. He kept pushing himself to the next floor. All the way to nine.
Trilling burst through the stairwell door in time to see the suspect step into a room twenty feet away from the elevator. He took a breath and sprinted to the closing door. He blocked it from locking.
There was no turning back now.
The man turned as Trilling pushed completely into the room.
Instantly Trilling realized how formidable the suspect was up close. He stood a little over six feet and had to have forty pounds of muscle on Trilling.
“What the hell?” the man said in a gravelly voice, reaching down with his right hand and grabbing a pistol from his beltline. He had it out and aimed at Trilling’s nose in an instant. Trilling didn’t think he had ever seen someone draw a pistol so quickly.
There was at least six feet between them now and Trilling knew he couldn’t act without taking a .380 slug in the face.
He stayed in place and raised his hands slightly. Then he looked past the suspect to the frightened girl in a corner of the room. He said in an even voice, “You okay, miss?”
The young woman was obviously flustered but managed to nod. She wore a stylish knit cap, and her light-brown hair framed a pretty face.
Trilling knew he needed the suspect to move closer to him if he had any chance of disarming him.
The man was smarter than that and didn’t move. He said, “You got three seconds to tell me who you are and what you want.”
“Otherwise you’ll shoot me?”
“We got a genius on our hands.”
He still didn’t move any closer.
The man said, “Who the hell are you?”
“My ID is in my front pocket. Do you want me to reach for it or do you want to take it? I don’t want to risk you getting nervous with that gun.” He could see the man weighing the pros and cons of each option.
Trilling had no intention of telling the man who he was. He just needed him to get about three feet closer.
CHAPTER 26
ROB TRILLING STOOD with his hands raised, ignoring the SIG Sauer P230 .380-caliber pistol and instead looking closely at his suspect. Based on the blurry photo he’d been given, he really couldn’t tell if this was Lou Pershing or not. The guy seemed to be a little better built than any of the descriptions of Lou Pershing, but the bushy beard was the biggest impediment to identifying him.