Chapter 10
Bloch
‘Why can’t you buy a real car?’ said Bloch.
She sat in the passenger seat of Lake’s Aztek as they followed the beige Crown Victoria through the streets of lower Manhattan.
‘This is a real car. It’s inconspicuous,’ said Lake.
‘It’s hideous. It sticks out like a sore thumb.’
‘Yeah, but it’s not threatening. Nobody is going to expect anyone with motivation, a mission, or any kind of agenda to be driving a car like this. This is a vehicle for people with a low profile, and low expectations. If this car makes it to the end of the block, it’s an achievement.’
Bloch shook her head, keeping her eyes on the road as the Crown Victoria pulled up outside a bagel shop. Lake was two cars behind. He steered into a space on the opposite side of the street, twenty feet behind the Crown Vic.
A young woman with auburn hair got out of the driver’s seat of the Crown Vic.
She wore black jeans and a black winter coat.
The bulge on her right hip let Bloch know she was carrying.
Detective Carey was one of the youngest homicide cops Bloch had seen.
She looked like she just graduated from the academy.
No way should she be in a major homicide investigation unless her partner was a seasoned veteran, and she was being groomed for a fast-track promotion.
A vast head came out of the bagel shop, looked around and then the rest of the body followed.
The head alone must’ve weighed seventy-five pounds.
It was almost square, pale, and surrounded by a curtain of brown hair, which only accentuated the bald dome on top which was wide enough to use as a couch table.
The man had small eyes, a mouth that could swallow a bagel whole, and no neck.
A white shirt the size of a sail on a small boat stretched over the torso of the man and was secured into his pants with a thick leather belt.
A dark necktie didn’t reach as far as his navel, and in a strange way almost acted as an arrow pointing to the man’s bloated stomach.
He had a brown paper bag in his left hand, and what Bloch presumed was his suit jacket in the other.
She took out her phone, snapped a picture. She didn’t recognize him, but was pretty sure Eddie would know him.
The big man waved to Detective Carey.
Then turned.
Another man came out of the coffee shop. He was taller, probably just as wide, but in contrast carried about as much body fat as the other man’s neck. He was younger, with a square jaw, dressed in black and wore a thin beard.
The two men spoke.
It was only then that Bloch saw the package in the bald man’s hand. A bulky manuscript-sized envelope, sealed with Scotch tape.
Bloch took another picture of the two men in conversation. The man in black pointed at the package, gave it to the big bald man, then slapped him on the shoulder and departed, checking up and down the street as he did so. Carey didn’t approach or talk to the man in black.
‘That looks suspicious,’ said Lake.
Bloch nodded.
The bald man then folded himself into the front passenger seat of the Crown Vic, severely testing the suspension of the vehicle. When Carey got into the driver’s seat, she turned to the man, then put on her siren and blazed out of the parking space into traffic.
Lake pulled out behind her.
‘Is that a cop she just picked up?’ asked Lake.
‘Must be. The other guy in black didn’t look like police.’
They followed the police car through the streets, but lost them as they turned North and headed toward the upper east side of Manhattan.
‘We’re never going to catch up. Not in this shit-heap. Pull over here. I’ll take the subway,’ said Bloch.
‘We don’t know where they’re going. How are you . . . ?’
Lake paused. Bloch waited for the other shoe to drop.
Lake said, ‘Detective Carey called this morning, they want to interview Vanessa. Got stone-walled. She’s got the sirens on and her lead detective in the car – they’re going to arrest her right now.’
Bloch said, ‘Call Eddie,’ then got out of the car and ran into the subway.
By the time Bloch exited the subway on East 77th Street, climbing the steps to emerge in the milieu of the city once again, she was bathed in sweat and breathing hard.
It was still winter, and while the subway was warmer than the streets above, the sweat was nothing to do with the temperature nor the exertion.
Bloch hated confined spaces, but more especially had a phobia about being underground.
Still, it hadn’t stopped her. She just suffered through it.
That was what made her strong. She worked out every day, hit the gun range twice a month and ran three times a week.
She didn’t want to do any of these things, but knew that she should do them – that the long-term benefits outweighed the short-term effort and pain.
The pain and difficulty was the point. It meant when she experienced adversity in any part of her life, she had the mental clarity and physical memory of being able to go through it and get to the other side.
She sprinted to Third Avenue, turned left and ran to 81st.
By the time she turned the corner she saw Vanessa being led from her home in handcuffs and placed into the rear of Carey’s Crown Vic.
Shit.
She was too late.