Could it be...?

He'd find out tomorrow. Tonight he had to share a car with Cordova and somehow keep himself from strangling him.

12.

They sat parked east of Lexington, where Jack had waited Friday night. Cordova had insisted on using his aging, smelly Jeep Laredo, saying he had all his equipment stowed in the back, plus they might need the four-wheel drive.

So Jack had parked his rental a couple of blocks from Cordova's Williamsbridge house and cabbed to Tremont Avenue. They'd met in front of Cordova's office and driven downtown together.

"What's with the gloves?" Cordova said. "It ain't that that cold." cold."

Jack looked down at his hands, tightly swathed in black leather driving gloves. "My fingers are very sensitive."

Cordova snickered. "Why am I not surprised?"

"Pardon?"

"Never mind."

Probably thought he was funny. A real comedian.

Jack eyed his suet body, his suet lace with its suet cheeks, his suet hands resting on the steering wheel, and wondered if this was the same car he'd used to s.n.a.t.c.h Sister Maggie.

Be so easy to reach over and grab his suet throat and squeeze... squeeze until he pa.s.sed out. Let him wake up, then start squeezing again... and then do it again...

Jack wondered how many hours he could keep it up, how many times he could- "h.e.l.l-o-o?" Cordova said. "Did you hear me?"

Jack shook his head, not trusting himself to speak at that moment.

"I said, What time's Brady usually head for the hills?"

Jack stared at the garage exit. Eight o'clock already and so far no sign of Brady. Jack remembered Jamie telling him about Brady's Sunday night trips, but had she said anything about time? He didn't think so. Had to improvise here.

"Varies. Sometimes early, sometimes late. But always after dark."

"Well, it's already after dark, so let's hope this is an early night. I hate stakeouts anyway. And to be frank, Lou, you ain't much of a conversationalist."

"I'll have plenty to say once I have Brady where I want him," he snapped. "I gave you your money. Don't expect chitchat too."

He noticed Cordova's quick, sidelong glance and reminded himself to remain in character.

He let out a long sigh. "Oh, I'm sorry, Mr. Cordova. I'm usually quite a talker. Sometimes I swear I just can't shut up. But tonight I'm a little tense. No, I'm a lot tense. I mean, this just might be the night I get something on him." He reached over and laid a gentle hand on the fat man's suety shoulder. "You simply have no idea how badly I want this."

Cordova shrugged off his hand. "Easy with the touching stuff. I ain't into touching."

Jack s.n.a.t.c.hed his hand back and dropped it into his lap. "Sorry."

Cordova's laugh sounded forced. "Hey, relax about the rest. If there's something to get, I'll get it."

Jack hoped they got something-the bigger the better. He had three scenarios planned. Plan A was the one most fully worked out, and would kick in if they hit pay dirt scandal-wise. If not-if Brady was involved in nothing blackmail-worthy-then Jack would go with Plan B. Plan C was the simplest and the least appealing: If Brady didn't show up tonight, Jack and Cordova would return next Sunday.

The thought of allowing Richie Cordova to go on breathing for another week made him queasy. And to have to spend another night with him in this car... that might just be too much to bear. Might force Jack into doing something rash.

"Hey," Cordova said, pointing across the street to where a black Mercedes was pulling out from the garage. "Is that our boy?"

Jack squinted at the plates. "Yes! That's him! Go! Go!"

"Just take it easy," Cordova said, singsonging as if addressing a child. "A professional doesn't tip his hand like that. We'll wait a few seconds, let another car get between us, then then start after him." start after him."

Jack wrung his hands. "But we'll lose him!"

"No we won't. I guarantee it."

13.

Jack had to admit that Cordova was good at tailing. It didn't hurt that Jack knew the Thruway exit Brady would be taking. At least he hoped he knew. Blascoe had said Brady owned a place not far from his, so Jack a.s.sumed he'd use the same exit Jamie had when she took him to Blascoe's. He told Cordova that he'd followed Brady twice to that exit and lost him afterward. That allowed Cordova to pa.s.s Brady and wait for him near the off-ramp. If Brady was watching his rear, he'd see no one follow him off the Thruway.

Jack had a bad moment or two, sitting there with the pressure of the Beretta against the small of his back, wondering if he'd made the wrong choice. But then Brady's black Mercedes came down the ramp and stopped at the light.

After that it was a trip up the same twisty road Jack and Jamie had traveled just three nights ago. Was that all it had been? Just seventy-two hours?

Brady pa.s.sed the driveway to Blascoe's place without even slowing. Two miles beyond he turned onto a dirt path and headed uphill. Cordova cruised farther on for a mile or so, then turned, killed the lights, and headed back.

After he'd backed the Jeep deep into the brush about a hundred yards away from the mini-road, Cordova turned to Jack.

"Sit tight and I'll go see what's up."

Jack popped open his door. "No way. I'm going with you."

"Lou, are you crazy? You don't have any experience-"

"I'm going."

Cordova cursed under his breath as he pulled his cameras and lenses from the back seat. He continued grumbling and muttering as they made their way up the hill through the brush. Jack was struck by a strong sense of deja vu: He and Jamie had made the same sort of trip on Thursday night just a few miles back down the road.

Cordova turned and said, "Hey, almost forgot: If you got a cell phone, turn the G.o.dd.a.m.n thing off."

"I already did."

Jack wondered about perimeter security devices but decided not to worry about them. If Brady was into something shady up here, he wouldn't want to draw attention to the place by linking it to a security monitoring company, and especially not to the Dormentalist temple.

"There's a cabin," Cordova said, pointing ahead to where lights glowed through the trees. "Time to slow down and keep it quiet as possible."

Soon they reached the edge of a clearing. The cabin-made of real logs as far as Jack could tell-stood at its center, windows aglow. A plank porch ran across the front and around the left side.

Cordova motioned Jack to wait and slunk into the clearing. Jack followed. When Cordova noticed, he waved him back, but Jack kept coming. The fat man's annoyance showed in the slope of his shoulders. Jack didn't care. He wasn't going to wait for Cordova to develop his film to see what Brady was up to.

As they neared a side window Jack began to hear music. All the doors and windows were shut, so the volume had to be near max. Sounded cla.s.sical. Jack couldn't identify it. Didn't even try. Except for some Tchaikovsky, he found most cla.s.sical music unlistenable.

They reached the side window and peeked through. The interior was similar to Blascoe's. So similar that Jack would bet they'd been built from the same design. The major difference was the collection of maybe half a dozen full-length mirrors s.p.a.ced around the great room.

"Must love to look at himself," Cordova said.

And then the man himself appeared, wrapped in a big white terry cloth robe. He strode to the kitchen counter and poured himself some Glenlivet on the rocks.

s.h.i.t, Jack thought. This wasn't quite what he'd been hoping for.

Cordova's snide tone said he agreed. "Oh, yeah," he whispered-probably could've yelled, considering the volume of the music inside-"shots of this are gonna do real real damage." damage."

"The night is still young."

"Yeah, but he's alone."

"For the moment."

"You know something?"

"No. Just hoping."

"Yeah, well keep on hoping. Because even if we get shots of him whacking off or doing himself with a d.i.l.d.o, it's no big deal. You can embarra.s.s the h.e.l.l out of him, maybe, but you ain't gonna bring him down with stuff like that."

But it'll be something, Jack thought. All I need is one thing... anything... just one little thing, and Plan A goes into effect.

They hung around the window, Cordova calibrating and testing the low-light image intensifiers on his cameras, Jack studying Brady through the window. He watched him leaf through some big, antique-looking book, a hungry look in his eyes. What was it? Ancient p.o.r.n?

Unlike his burning rage against Cordova, Jack felt cold, clinical, almost detached about Brady. He could torture Cordova, do to him what he'd done to Sister Maggie, and not feel an instant's regret or remorse. But that wouldn't do for Brady. Jack had other plans for him, plans that Brady might well find worse than torture.

"I say we give it an hour or so," Cordova said, now that his cameras were ready.

"We stay until we get something or he goes to bed, whichever comes first."

"Lemme tell you something: I ain't standing out here freezing my a.s.s off till G.o.d knows when."

Jack put a hand on Cordova's shoulder, just as he'd done back in the car.

"Please, Mr. Cordova. I told you how much this means to me."

He leaned away from Jack's hand. "And I told you how I feel about being touched. Now lay off, got it? If we-"

Through the window Jack saw Brady pull a cell phone from the pocket of his robe.

"Hey. Looks like he's getting a call."

He and Cordova watched Brady go to the stereo and turn down the volume, then smile as he spoke on the phone. When the call ended, he upped the music again, and closed the big old book he'd been reading.

"This could be it," Jack said.

Cordova grunted. "And it could be nothing. But he sure do look happy, don't he. Wouldn't be surprised if-oh, s.h.i.t!"

Brady had carried the book to the center of the room where he knelt and pulled up a trapdoor that perfectly matched the rest of the floor. He started down into the bas.e.m.e.nt.

"If he stays down there we're f.u.c.ked," Cordova said.

Jack kept silent, watching. Moments later Brady reappeared and closed the trapdoor. What was down there? A secret library of some sort? Something that could be used against him? If the photos didn't work out, then maybe- "Oh, man!" Cordova said.

Brady had tossed off his robe to reveal a well-toned, well-tanned body.

"Buffed and baked," Jack said. "This is good. This is very good."

Cordova was already snapping pictures. "Don't get too excited now."

Jack put on a huffy tone. "I beg your pardon?"

"I mean, this kind of beefcake ain't gonna hurt him. Might get him lots of calls from the ladies, though. Or the guys. Maybe even-holy s.h.i.t!"

Jack watched, fascinated, as Brady placed a feathered mask over his head, leaving only his eyes and mouth exposed. He examined himself in one of the mirrors, then slipped back into his robe.

Cordova's shutter was clicking like mad. "I got a feeling we might be heading for pay dirt."

"Shhh!" Jack whispered as he raised a gloved finger to his lips. "Is that a car?"

Cordova cupped a hand around an ear. "d.a.m.n right it is." He picked up his cameras and began moving away. "Let's ease back into the bushes and wait."

Jack followed him. They crouched in the brush as a pair of headlights became visible through the trees. Before long a Chevy van pulled up and stopped before the front door.

"Get a shot of the plates," Jack told Cordova. "I want those plates."

But Cordova already had his eye to the viewfinder. "So do I."

A gray-haired man about Cordova's age, but whippet lean, was illuminated by the courtesy lights as he stepped out of the van. He opened a rear door and out hopped two boys, maybe twelve years of age, fourteen tops. He ushered them up to the front door where Brady was waiting. After the boys were inside, the man returned to the car and drove away.

As soon as the car was out of sight Cordova was on the move toward the cabin, chortling. "Ho-ho-ho! The plot sickens!"