Night Film

68

“Excuse me?”

She didn’t turn. She jammed the key in the lock, pushing open one of the doors.

“Ma’am, I’m looking for the nearest subway.”

She darted inside, switching on a light. I caught a fleeting glimpse of a white entryway, a black-and-white checked floor, and as she whisked around, the woman herself, before she slammed the door hard.

A deadbolt clicked, followed by the seven-digit beep of an alarm.

I froze in shock. I knew her.

Suddenly, the lamps over the entrance switched on, bathing me in bright light. She wanted a good look at me in the security camera.

I moved up the steps and rang the doorbell.

There was no response.

I rang it a second time, then a third. Not that I expected her to open the door — it was to alert Hopper. It would signal to him to get the hell out. I jogged swiftly down the steps, heading toward Park. At the corner, I crossed north, finding Nora where I’d left her.

“He’s still inside,” she whispered. “I texted him but haven’t heard back—”

“You’re not going to believe this. That was Inez Gallo. Cordova’s assistant for years. The Cordovas must own this place.”

It was stupefying—not just that Hopper had broken in, but he was now trapped inside a personal residence of Cordova’s.

Nora, amazed, turned back to the townhouse, where a bright light had just illuminated the second floor, revealing a dark, wood-paneled library, the shelves lined with books.

“Now he has no way out,” Nora whispered. “Should we call nine-one-one?”

“Not yet.”

“But we have to do something. She might shoot him—”

“We need to give him time to look around.”

“How long?”

Distant wails of sirens answered her question. They grew louder, and suddenly three police cars came barreling down the street, screeching to a halt in front of the townhouse. Four policemen jumped out, hastening up the steps, Gallo opening the door, and they disappeared inside. Two cops remained on the front steps, staring suspiciously down the street.

“Time to get the hell out of here,” I said.

“But we have to make sure he’s okay—”

“We’ll be more help to him out of jail.”

But suddenly there were loud voices, and the cops reemerged, leading Hopper down the steps.

He was handcuffed, and his gray coat had been confiscated, but otherwise, in his faded blue T-shirt and jeans, he looked rather undaunted by the proceedings. His eyes purposefully avoided our direction, though I swore I caught a faint smile on his face as they shoved his head down and pushed him roughly into the backseat.