The naked edge

3

Lt. Russell arranged for numerous cruisers to leave the precinct at the same time, so many that Carl's operators couldn't follow them all. But if any tried, the sparse traffic of two a.m. would make the surveillance obvious and easily intercepted.

Cavanaugh and Jamie hid in the back seat of one of those cruisers. They got out at Central Park's West Drive, slipped into the trees, and headed north. From time to time, they paused among murky boulders and bushes to check if they were being followed. Only the park's usual predators stalked them, but Cavanaugh and Jamie gave off such strong don't-screw-with-us vibrations that just four kids made a move, and what happened to them was so swift and decisive that word spread quickly-stay away.

Confident that they'd eluded Carl and his men, Cavanaugh and Jamie crossed Eighth Avenue and proceeded along West Seventy-Third Street. They reached a modest apartment building, outside which a man with a beer can in his hand seemed asleep behind the steering wheel of a car. Farther along, a man walked a dog. Still farther along, a van had a small air vent in its roof, the vent actually an aperture for a surveillance camera.

Outside the front door, Cavanaugh studied a list of tenants. He pressed the intercom button next to the name Zimbalist.

After a moment, a man's voice said, "This better be good. It's the middle of the night."

"Jimmy Lile sent us," Jamie said, mentioning a famous knife maker whose name they'd selected as a code.

A buzzer sounded. Cavanaugh opened the door and stepped into a warm, pleasantly lit vestibule. Halfway along a hallway, a door was ajar. A security camera looked down from a corner. They went up one flight of carpeted stairs and prepared to knock on door 2-C when it opened and Rutherford smiled.

"You two don't look so good."

"You don't need to seem so cheery about it," Jamie said.

"I'm just glad you're all right." He locked the door after they entered.

"What about William?" Cavanaugh asked. "Did he get back to his safe site okay?"

"Nobody followed the car."

In the living room, two men in white shirts had their suit coats draped over chairs, their holstered handguns visible on their belts. They watched a row of closed-circuit TV monitors that provided views of the street, the door to the building, the vestibule, and the stairs leading up.

"You ought to feel flattered," Rutherford said. "The Bureau maintains this place only for prized informants."

"The park." Cavanaugh rubbed his arms. "Cold."

"You've got your pick of two bathrooms to take a hot shower."

"Hungry," Jamie said.

"The pizza's already here," Rutherford said. "With pepperonis, right?"

"And anchovies and black olives."

"And salad and garlic bread. Everything you ordered."