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Hidden in the recessed doorway of a closed restaurant next to the pub, Cade glanced at his watch.
Nearly 1 a.m.
The brewery would close soon.
Good.
Time ticked slowly past. A few cars rolled along the roadway only to curve around the turnabout at the west end of Broadway, then wander through the blocks. A cluster of teenagers laughing and swearing, probably high, jaywalked noisily, running between parked cars to disappear down a side street, never knowing they’d just passed several armed cops.
Suddenly there was movement in the doorway of the Wooden Nickel.
Cade braced himself, his weapon in hand.
A couple in their early twenties emerged. Their hands were all over each other, their mouths kissing hungrily as they moved as one toward a shiny Nissan four-door parked near the bridge where Kayleigh was positioned. Someone, probably Swanson, whispered into his headset, “Jesus, get a room!”
“That’s the idea,” another cop said. “Ooohwee.”
“Shh!” someone reprimanded sharply.
The man helped his obviously inebriated date tumble into the passenger side, then hurried around to the driver’s side and slid behind the wheel, only, once the door was closed, to pull the woman close. They went at it again, going so far as to start the windows steaming before the embrace was broken.
Cade had ignored them for the most part, keeping his gaze trained on the door.
With a roar, the Nissan tore away from the curb, sped down the street, the red glow of its taillights disappearing as the driver turned a corner to disappear between the buildings.
The street was once again quiet, the eerie silence interrupted only by the hum of traffic on the highway, the rumble of the sea to the west, and an occasional burst of raucous laughter from the pub.
Cade waited.
But not for long. Within minutes the word came through his headset. “He’s settling his tab,” Dillinger whispered. “Get ready. Wearing a Mariners cap and a camo jacket.”
Cade’s fingers tightened over his pistol.
Dillinger again: “He’s headin’ for the door.”
Cade saw the movement of shadows in his peripheral vision. Other member
s of the team had stepped closer to the entryway. He told himself to be calm, even though every muscle in his body was tense, his nerves strung tight as bowstrings.
He set his jaw.
He saw a figure appear in the open doorway, a guy in a baseball cap and denim jacket. Hollander? The size was right, but his face was shaded beneath the brim of his cap. And didn’t the man inside say he was in camo?
Cade’s heart was pounding.
“Oh, shit,” Dillinger said, just as the suspect stepped onto the street to stand in front of a neon sign in the window of the pub and then, as if sensing something wasn’t right, cocked his head for an instant. Listening as he reached into his jacket pocket.
Was he reaching for his gun?
“Hold your fire,” Dillinger whispered. “He’s not the guy! He’s not the guy!”
Swanson appeared from around the corner and, as the man started to cross the street between two parked cars, leveled his gun at him. “Police!”
Cade moved from the doorway of the adjacent building. Something was wrong.
Swanson yelled, “Bruce Hollander, put your hands where we can see them!”
“What?” the man in the cap said and looked up. “Oh. Jesus.” He looked like he was about to pee his pants. “Who the hell are you?”
