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"Are they now? After all them years?"
Bell wasn't sure the woman exactly believed her niece. The detective's own aunt, about this woman's age, was sharp as a needle. Nothing got by her.
But Lilly said, "Be right nice of y'all. Bella, let's make these folk some coffee. And cocoa for Geneva. I remember that's what she likes."
As Roland Bell looked out carefully through a space between the drawn curtains, Geneva started through the box once again.
*
On this Harlem street:
Two boys tried to outdo each other at skateboarding down the tall banister of a brownstone, flaunting the laws both of gravity and of truancy.
A black woman stood on a porch, watering some spectacular red geraniums that the recent frost hadn't killed.
A squirrel buried, or dug up, something in the largest plot of dirt nearby: a five-by-four-foot rectangle dusted with yellow grass, in the middle of which rested the carcass of a washing machine.
And on East 123rd Street, near the Iglesia Adventista Church, with the soaring approach to the Triborough Bridge in the background, three police officers looked diligently out over a shabby brownstone and the surrounding streets. Two--a man and a woman--were in plain clothes; the cop in the alley was in uniform. He marched up and down the alley like a recruit on guard duty.
These observations were made by Thompson Boyd, who'd followed Geneva Settle and her guards here and was now standing in a boarded-up building across the street and several doors west. He peered through the cracks in a defaced billboard advertising home equity loans.
Curious that they'd brought the girl out into the open. Not by the book. But that was their problem.
Thompson considered the logistics: He assumed this was a short trip--a hit-and-run, so to speak, with the Crown Victoria and the other car double-parked and no attempt made to hide them. He decided to move fast to take advantage of the situation. Hurrying out of the ruined building, via the back door, Thompson now circled the block, pausing only long enough to buy a pack of cigarettes in a bodega. Easing into the alley behind the tenement where Geneva now was, Thompson peered out. He carefully set the shopping bag on the asphalt and moved forward a few more feet. Hiding behind a pile of garbage bags, he watched the blond officer on his patrol in the alley. The killer began counting the young man's footsteps. One, two . . .
At thirteen the officer reached the back of the building and turned around. He was covering a lot of ground in his guard detail; he must've been told to watch the entire alleyway, both front and back, and to keep an eye on the windows in the opposite building too.
At twelve he reached the front sidewalk and turned, started back. One, two, three . . .
It took twelve steps again to get to the rear of the building. He glanced around then paced his way to the front, stepping thirteen times.
The next trip was eleven steps, then twelve.
Not clockwork, but close enough. Thompson Boyd would have at least eleven steps to slip unseen to the rear of the building, while the boy's back was turned. He'd then have another eleven until he appeared at the rear again. He pulled the ski mask over his head.
The officer now turned and headed toward the street once more.
In an instant Thompson was out of cover and sprinting to the back of the apartment building, counting . . . three, four, five, six . . .
Quiet on his Bass walking shoes, Thompson kept his eyes on the boy's back. The cop didn't look around. The killer reached the wall on eight, pressed against it, catching his breath; he turned toward the alleyway where the uniformed cop would soon be appearing.
Eleven. The cop would have just reached the street and be turning and starting back. One, two, three . . .
Thompson Boyd, slowing his breathing.
Six, seven . . .
Thompson Boyd, gripping the club in both hands.
Nine, ten, eleven . . .
Feet scraped on the gritty cobblestones.
Thompson stepped quickly out of the alley,
swinging the club like a baseball bat, fast as a sidewinder striking. He noted the pure shock on the boy's face. He heard the whistling of the stick and the cop's gasp, which stopped at the same moment the club struck his forehead. The boy dropped to his knees, a gurgling sound coming from his throat. The killer then clocked the man on the crown of the head.
The officer fell face forward to the filthy ground. Thompson dragged the quivering young man, still partly conscious, around the back of the building, where they couldn't be seen from the street.
