The Coming (19 page)

He stood for a moment with his hand on the door. "Call you tonight, Boss, or come by?"

"Call." He shut the door and the car glided away.

Solo stood for a moment, feeling exposed and perhaps betrayed. What the hell was Willy Joe's game this time? A test? A sacrifice play?

You couldn't just walk out on him, crazy and vindictive fucker. Solo fought the reasonable impulse to call a cab and go straight to the airport, sighed, and turned on his heel. Shit or get off the pot.

He went up the walk briskly, checking his watch for the sake of unseen neighbors. The place was a perfect design for breaking in; a small atrium hid the front door from the street.

The atrium was cool and smelled of jasmine. He went straight to the door and rang the bell, getting his story ready in case there was a servant or a robot.

No answer. He looked around carefully for security cameras. If there was one, it was pretty well hidden.

The double lock was a Horton magnetic dead bolt and a plain Kayser underneath. He took out a plastic case of tools and threaded a probe into the Horton and pushed a button. It sometimes got the combination right away; sometimes it took a few minutes. With two mechanical picks, he unlocked the Kayser in seconds. Then the Horton gave a solid snap. He pushed the door open.

He stepped into the anteroom and eased the door shut. Books, paper books, from floor to ceiling! This might work after all; these people had real money.

The Horton lock snapped and he looked back at it—hell, it was a keypad on this side. He'd have to find another way out.

He took one step and a voice in every room said, "Hello? Who's here?"

Shit. The place did have a system. "Professor Bell," he said, and the system answered "okay"—but of course it was already calling the police.

Quickest way out. He ran into the kitchen. The door to the garage was also a keypad. There was a glass door and a stained-glass window looking out into the atrium. He picked up a heavy bar stool and swung it against the glass door; it bounced back, nearly dislocating his shoulder. He threw it into the stained glass, which crashed in a glittering rainbow shower, and jumped through the hole into the atrium. He rushed to the walk, paused to smooth his jacket and his tie, and started striding toward town, casually but fast.

Hope the dispatcher's not too swift.

"Units seven, nine, and twelve. I have a 217 at 5412 NW Fourteenth Avenue. Who wants to pick it up?"

Allah, Rabin thought, that's Norm's house. What's going on?

"Take it?" his partner said. "That's like eight blocks."

"Wait and see if there's a closer pickup." Seconds ticked by, and no other unit responded.

"Come on, Qabil. We could use some laughs."

"Sure. Let's take it." Two-seventeen was B&E, usually no big deal. Except when the house being broken into belongs to your fellow sodomite. Sweet Allah!

"Unit nine on the way," his partner said, and switched to manual. The car surged into the middle of the street, and traffic parted in front of them like the Red Sea for Moses. Qabil checked to make sure his pistol was on "stun." He was tempted to accidentally switch the dart selector to "lethal." Whatever this guy might say was unlikely to advance his career.

He allowed himself one long moment of reflection. That had been a turning point in his life—as large as being a soldier; larger than the POW camp. He went straight after the wife caught him with "Normal Norman," at least straight enough to collect his own wife and kids. Love is love, though, and lust, lust, and a man can't help being what he is.

"Perp shot," the radio said, and the monitor showed a picture of a well-dressed man swinging a bar stool at a glass door. The image ratcheted forward and rotated, to give them a full-face portrait of the man.

"We have an ID," the radio said. "Suspect did six months Raiford in fifty-two, accessory to extortion. Two juvies, B and E and A and B. He has a Georgia license to carry a concealed weapon, supposedly in three states. Dolomé Patroukis, street name Solo. Consider him armed and dangerous."

"Well, hello," his partner said. The suspect was loping down the sidewalk toward them, on the other side of the street, hands in pockets. No other pedestrians in sight. "Guy can't even afford a car."

He turned on the lights and pulled over to the curb, traffic weaving, and bumped up onto the sidewalk. The man crouched as if to run, and then stood up with his hands over his head.

"I'll take it." His partner got out and walked toward the man while Rabin unclipped the detector from the visor, then opened the door and stood behind it, peering through the detector tube.

"David!" he said. "Left armpit!" He and David both had their stunners out in an instant.

Solo stood on his toes, reaching high. "Hey! Hey! I got a ticket! I'm a private investigator!"

"Yeah, sure." David reached into the man's jacket and pulled out a light automatic. "You got a Georgia ticket outta some cereal box. You got the right to remain silent anything you say may be held against you this encounter is being recorded and encrypted and will be acceptable as evidence against you."

"I don't say nothing until I talk to my lawyer. Not meaning to be disrespectful."

"Like I say," David said, "everything you say is evidence. Everything you don't say, too."

"You can call your lawyer from the station," Rabin said. "First we're going back to the place you were trying to rob."

"Hey, I didn't take nothing."

David took him by the shoulder and steered him toward the car. "Keep talking. You were a Jehovah's Witness, or what?"

"I got lost, I was confused. Went to this house to ask directions, and then this voice starts up."

He pushed him down into the backseat. "Put your wrists on the armrests, please." He did. "Close." The armrests handcuffed him. "So then you had to break your way out."

"Man, it locked me in! What would you do?"

"Oh, I'd probably call nine-one-one. But then I'm a cop. I have the number memorized." He eased the door shut and went around to the driver's seat.

Rabin had just finished calling it in. He turned around and studied Solo for a moment. "So whose house was it? What were you after?"

"I don't know. Like I say, just wanted directions."

"Bullshit. We have you on a previous B and E."

"What, bacon and eggs?" Rabin just smiled as the car bumped over the curb and eased into traffic. "Look, I was just a kid. The judge said that was goin' to be erased."

"Probably on the condition of good behavior. Assault and battery isn't such good behavior."

"That was juvenile,
too
! You never got into a fight?"

"No, as a matter of fact. Not until the war."

Solo was staring at his name badge. "Oh."

"That's right; I was on the other side. And here I am, a towel-head, arresting you. Is this a great country?" They pulled into the driveway at 5412.

David said "release" and helped Solo out of the car. He chinned the microphone on his lapel. "This is Eakins. You got the owners on this B and E?"

"Not yet," a distant voice said. "One's at lunch, the other's in transit."

"Keep trying." He inserted a probe like Solo's into the Horton lock. Both locks snapped open instantly. "After you." He pushed Solo inside.

"House," Rabin said, "this is the police."

"I know," the house said.

"Did this man take anything or do any physical damage to you?"

"Yes, he broke a stained-glass window. The replacement cost will be six thousand four hundred and fifty dollars."

David whistled. "Felony property. You should have done a different window. Or even used the door."

"Like I said. The house locked up."

"Hello?" someone said from the hall. "Police?"

A police car in the driveway and the door wide open. The holster with its illegal weapon felt heavy as a stone.

Then
he
almost turned to stone when he saw Rabin. And then he recognized Solo. His voice almost squeaked. "What's going on here?"

"I'm Lieutenant David Eakins and this is Sergeant Qabil Rabin. We apprehended this man fleeing after a robbery attempt."

Solo looked straight at Norman. "I'm tellin' you I didn't rob nothin'. It was all a big mistake. I got trapped in here and panicked."

"Have you ever seen this man before?" David asked.

"I'm not sure," Norman said. "He looks familiar."

"I don't know him from Adam," Solo said. "It's like I said—"

"Shut up," Eakins said. "After he set off the alarm, he couldn't bust through the plastic doors, so he broke your stained-glass window to escape. The house says it's worth six thousand four hundred and fifty dollars."

"More than that," Norman said slowly. "The artist was a friend, and he's dead now."

"Ten grand," Solo said.

Norman looked at him. "What?"

"Look, I don't know much about law, but if me and him agrees, can't we like change venue from a criminal offense to like a civil one? Him bein' the only aggrieved party."

"I don't know," Eakins said. "House, did you follow that?"

"Searching," the house said.
"Mason
versus
Holabird,
2022. If both parties agree on the settlement and there is no objection from the state."

"Fifteen thousand," Norman said.

"Twelve!" Solo said. "If I even
got
twelve." He pulled out his wallet and riffled through the bills, extracting the brick-red ones. "Nine … ten … eleven. I got eleven and some change."

"That's a lot of money for an innocent bystander to be carrying around," Rabin said.

"So my family don't believe in banks. That a crime now?"

"He was armed," Eakins began.

"Legal!" Solo said, holding out his wallet. "Look! I got a goddamn permit."

Eakins waved him down. "You can get those permits in any truck stop in Georgia. What I mean, Professor Bell, is that his intent here might have been to do you harm. I wouldn't be too quick to let him buy his way out of it."

"That's a good point," Norman said.

"He has a jail record," Qabil said, "down in Tampa."

"I was a
kid,
" Solo said. "Look, let me use the phone. I can make it twenty. Like I say, I'm a private investigator. I can't take no jail term on my record. Adult jail."

"This is getting kind of complicated," Norman said, taking a calculated chance. "I don't know. Twenty thousand would more than replace the window. But it's not as if we were poor. Maybe I ought to let you guys have him, for my own safety."

"What, your
safety
? I don't mean you no harm."

"He doesn't have another weapon?"

"Not of metal," Rabin said. "I scanned him outside."

"Tell you what," Norman said, taking the phone off his belt and handing it to Solo, "you guarantee me that twenty thousand, and then you and I will have a little talk. Agreed?"

Solo gave him a look he'd seen over many a poker table: What the hell do you have in your hand? "Yeah, sure. I can use your john to make the call?"

"Be my guest." Solo went down the hall toward a bathroom.

"I think you're making a mistake," Eakins said. "This jerk's a career criminal if I ever saw one. He just hasn't been caught before as an adult."

"Or he's been caught," Norman said, "and bought his way out of it. Like now." He looked toward the bathroom. "You've got his weapon—I mean, you can keep it?"

"By all means," Rabin said. "We have to send it to Jacksonville for an FBI check. That's a federal law, and his change of venue doesn't mean anything with them."

"Why do you want to talk to him?" Eakins asked Norman.

"I don't know. As you say, he probably didn't walk in off the street. Maybe I can find out what's going on."

"We're paid to do that, sir," Eakins said. "If you really don't need the money, let us take him downtown. He's a felon now, and we can use drugs to make him talk."

That would be really great. "He's a felon but he's a human being. If I decide to change the venue back—"

Solo came back up the hall and handed Norm the telephone. "We done a direct credit exchange," he said. "Check your amount at the credit union. You're twenty grand richer."