The Blue Zone

CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

U.S. Marshal Freddie Oliva had been a WITSEC agent for six years. He’d grown up in the Bronx, where his father worked as a switchman for the MTA. He’d gone to John Jay College of Criminology, received a degree in prelaw, and maybe he’d go for the bar one day, but right now there was a kid on the way and bills to take care of, and this was a whole lot closer to the action than sitting in some room with an audio plug in his ear listening to Homeland Security chatter.

Deputy Marshal Oliva liked working for the feds. Most of these dudes, they were pretty much FBI wannabes who couldn’t make it into the program at Quantico. He had it all over them. Sometimes he did guard duty at the courts or had to accompany some Mafia honcho on the trip to trial. Or to a new location. He got to talk to these goombahs, got to know some pretty well. Maybe one day he’d write a book.

What Freddie didn’t like one bit was babysitting duty. An intern could sit here and observe that pooch taking a pee. But after what happened on the river, he’d be all over this chick like grease on bacon. Anyway, it’d be done soon enough. That dude Raab would make a mistake, show up somewhere. They’d nab him and pull her protection. He’d be back to his regular job.

“Oliva,” a voice suddenly crackled in his earphone, “the subject’s coming down the elevator now.”

Subject… He snorted cynically and rolled his eyes. The “subject” wasn’t some crazy-assed hit man they were hiding for trial. Or some twenty-to-lifer who blew jail and was on the run.

Subject was a twenty-three-year-old biologist with a dog who had to pee.

“Got it,” he grunted back. Oliva cracked the car door and stretched his muscles. He could use a little exercise. Sitting in this car all day was making him stiff as a goddamned board.

A few moments later, the building door opened and the “subject” stepped out, with Fido, who had his eyeballs fixed on the curb.

Oliva couldn’t believe he actually got paid for this job.

“Don’t you ever call it a day?” Kate Raab came up to him, the dog pulling her along on his leash.

“You go, I go.” Oliva winked. “You know that, mama. That’s the drill now.”

“And does the drill include going poop?” Kate stared at him. She had on nice-fitting jeans and a quilted jacket, a knapsack over her back, and Freddie found himself thinking that if he had ever had a biology teacher who looked like this, he would’ve spent a lot more time in the lab than on the ball field. She held out a plastic bag. “Here, Oliva, it’ll make you feel useful.”

He grinned. “I’m feeling useful just fine.” He liked a client with a sense of humor.

Fergus came up to him wagging his tail. Oliva figured these past couple of days he had every move the pooch made down pat. First a little sniff around the pole. Then his ass would wiggle at the curb. Then squat-Bingo! Oliva leaned on the car, observing. Shit, Freddie, the girl’s not wrong. You gotta get yourself some new work about now.

Kate let the dog pull her farther down the block. Oliva put his hands in the pocket of his leather jacket against the chill, checking his gun, and followed a short way behind. When they got in front of the little bodega she sometimes shopped in, Kate turned back.

“You mind if I go in and grab some toothpaste, Oliva? Or you want to call Cavetti and check if you have to come in and help me with that, too?”

“No, I figure you can handle that.” Freddie put up his palms as if surrendering. He knew how women got mad, and he didn’t need to make her mad at him. “Five minutes. You know the-”

“Yeah.” Kate rolled her eyes. “I know the drill.”

She dragged Fergus along and stepped inside. They knew her and didn’t seem to mind her bringing him in there with her. She strapped him up inside the entrance and scrunched her face sourly at him.

Okay, okay. Only doing my job.

Oliva went back to the car and leaned on the hood, an eye on the market. A call buzzed in on the radio. Jenkins. His replacement. He’d be there at six. Oliva checked his watch. Twenty of. None too soon. He was set to go home, collect his three hours’ time and a half, pop a beer. Little woman had his favorite meal going tonight. Snapper Veracruz. Maybe there was a Knicks game, too.

His attention shifted to a couple of kids wearing basketball jerseys coming his way down the street. One was trying to dribble past the other. One of them wasn’t half bad. Freddie was thinking how back on Baychester Avenue, where he grew up, he used to handle a ball pretty well himself.

He took another glance down the street at the market. Man, she must be checking out every brand in the store. Several minutes went by. He didn’t want to make the girl too mad. He had to see her tomorrow. And the day after that. But somewhere it started to creep in on Freddie that a boatload of time had gone by. Long enough to buy a dental practice, let alone a tube of toothpaste. An empty feeling suddenly gnawed at his stomach.

Something wasn’t right.

Oliva pushed off the hood and barked into the radio. “Finch, I’m heading up the block to that market. I don’t like what’s going on.”

He pushed through the door. The first thing he saw relieved him. Fergus was sitting there, his leash wrapped around the newspaper rack. Kate couldn’t be far behind.

Then he noticed the piece of paper folded into Fergus’s collar. As he opened it, every cell in Oliva’s body went limp.

“Oliva,” the note read, “make sure Fergie gets a pee on the way home. My husband should be back around six.”

Oliva balled up the paper. “Sonovabitch!”

He bolted over the checkout counter, running frantically up and down the aisles. No fucking sign.

There was a doorway leading out back, behind the meat section. Oliva pushed his way through. It led to an alley that fed onto Eighth Street, a whole other block. The alley was empty. A kid in an apron was stacking crates and boxes.

“Where the hell did she go?” Oliva shouted at him.

The kid pulled out his iPod earpiece. “Where’d who go, man?”

Freddie Oliva closed his eyes. How was he going to explain this? Someone was trying to kill this girl. Her father may have murdered a fellow agent. He slammed his palm against the brick wall.

Kate Raab was gone.