The Devil_s Garden

FIFTY-FIVE

The building was a three-store commercial block on Ditmars near Crescent, home to a bodega, a dry cleaner, and the shuttered space on the end. There was a driveway to the right, leading behind the building. Next to it was a six-suite, two-story apartment building. Powell had been by this block many times, but like so much of New York, she hadn’t noticed it.

Above the storefronts were living quarters. Along the block the windows on the upper floors were open, some with sheer curtains billowing out in the warm spring evening, some with the sounds of dinner being prepared, the evening news blaring its tragedies.

Powell stepped up to the front entrance. It was covered by a rusted steel riot gate. The windows were soaped, all but opaque. Everything seemed benign, empty, peaceful. Had she been wrong about this? She had gotten reports from her teams every minute or so. There had been no sign of Michael Roman or the girls, no sign of their cutter.

Fontova came around the corner. He had gone to check the back entrance to the building.

“Anything?” Powell asked.

“The window in the back door is broken.”

“Recently?”

“Yeah. The glazing doesn’t look weathered.”

“Any vehicles?”

“No, but there’s no glass laying on the ground in front of the door.”

“It was broken from the outside.”

“Yeah. And it’s got blood on it.”

The two detectives looked at each other with understanding. “Let’s get some backup here.”

Fontova lifted the handset to his mouth, and called it in.

That’s when they heard the gunshots.