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Chapter 74
“Your cute doggy is what his name?” the turbaned taxi driver asked in a heavy accent, as he pulled up in front of the Metropolitan Museum of Art.
“Finishing Touch,” the Teacher said. He paid the man and tugged the platinum blond Maltese out of the cab.
He’d bought the dog at a boutique pet store on his way over here. It was going to be his prop for doing recon around the Blanchettes’ building. An extremely well-dressed metrosexual walking a lapdog in that part of the Upper East Side would seem like wallpaper.
The Teacher headed up the park side of Fifth, with the nervous little dog straining at its leash. A full block south of the Blanchettes, he stopped and sca
One thing struck him as odd. He’d expected extra security, but he didn’t see any besides the doormen. Well, so much the better. His lips curved in a smile. His destiny was holding strong. He was at the finishing line, about to enter the wi
The plan was to gain access with the invitation he’d finagled. If he was stopped or searched, he would simply draw the Tec-9s, now hanging in their custom holsters under his arms, and start firing. Kill his way into the elevator. Go upstairs and blast everyone dumb enough to get between him and the Blanchettes.
In a way, he actually hoped there would be some resistance. The Blanchettes would hear, and it would give them something to think about as he made his way closer.
He was gearing himself up for action when he walked past a van on the park side of the street and heard the sound – a strange kind of squelch. A radio, he realized. Inside the catering van! The cops had the place staked out after all.
That cold, snaky shiver ran down his spine again, and his breathing became labored. By sheer willpower, he kept walking casually along, pulling the dog as if he did this every day.
What was the right move if they challenged him? Shoot? Run? Maybe this was his final chance, and he should go for the Blanchettes right now. Rush across the street into the lobby, guns blazing.
He palmed the cold grip of the Tec under his left arm and thumbed off its safety. Whatever happened next, he wasn’t going to die alone. Goddamn cops. Why couldn’t they have stayed useless for just another five minutes!
He chanced a quick look over his shoulder. Nobody! They weren’t coming. He started breathing more easily. Christ, he’d been lucky.
Two blocks north, the Teacher made a hard left and bolted into Central Park. The mutt started yapping, grating on his fried nerves as he dragged it along the darkened path.
Calm down, he told himself. He was safe. He put the Tec’s safety back on. Now he had to think. This wasn’t like the Pierre, with a cop car sitting out front in plain sight. The obvious lack of security, with a major event going on, should have tipped him off. Those sons of bitches had set some kind of trap! That asshole, Mike Be
But the Teacher had read a lot of strategy and war books in his day. The Art of War, The Book of Five Rings, The Prince. They all essentially advised the same simple, yet not so simple thing. Figure out what your opponent thinks you’re going to do next, then do something else. Deception is the art of war.
He was halfway around the reservoir jogging track when the answer came to him. An inspired plan to get around Be
His grin widened as the dumbass face of Detective Be
“You had your shot, Be
He let go of the leash and drop-kicked the squealing Maltese into the darkness.
“Now, it’s my turn.”
Part Four. The Poor Box Thief
Chapter 75
Sitting in the darkened Holy Name confessional booth, Father Seamus Be
“Poor box stakeout,” he whispered into the microphone. “Day two.”
Sick, my ankle, he thought, sniffling. He’d never been sick a day in his life. Stay in bed? Didn’t Mike know that at his age, lying down was a hazard to be avoided at all costs? Who knew if he’d ever be able to get back up again? Stay on his feet and stay busy, that was the thing.
Besides, he had a parish to run. Not to mention a dastardly poor box thief to collar. It was clear by now that nobody else was going to do it. The overrated NYPD was no help, that was for sure.
Twenty minutes later, he was starting to doze off when he heard a sound – very faint, tentative, a creak that was barely there. Stifling a sneeze, Seamus slowly drew open the confessional’s velvet curtain with his foot.
The noise was coming from the middle aisle’s front door! It was opening an inch at a time. Seamus’s heart rate kicked into overdrive as a human figure, shadowed in the dim glow of the votives, emerged from behind it. He watched, mesmerized, as the thief stopped beside the last pew, stuck his arm up to the shoulder down into the poor box opening, and removed something.
The object was a folder of some kind. So that’s how it had been done, Seamus thought, watching the felon slide coins and a few bills out of the folder into his hand. He’d used a type of retrievable trap that would catch any money dropped in the box. Ingenious. For a poor box robber, he was a true mastermind.
Except for getting caught red-handed, Seamus thought as he removed his shoes and stood quietly. Now for the arrest.
In just his socks, he crept out into the side aisle. He was less than ten feet away from the culprit, approaching silently from behind, when he felt a nasty tingling sensation in his sinuses. It was so fast and powerful that he was helpless to hold it back.
The sneeze that ripped from him sounded like a shotgun blast in the dead silence of the church. The startled figure whirled around violently before bolting for the door. Seamus managed to take two quick steps before his socks slipped out beneath him and he half dove, half fell forward with outstretched arms.
“Gotcha,” he cried, tackling the thief around the waist.
Coins pinged off marble as the two of them struggled. Then suddenly his opponent stopped fighting and started… crying?
Seamus got a firm grip on the back of his shirt, hauled him over to a wall switch, and flipped it on.
He stared in disbelief at what his eyes told him. It was a kid. And not just any kid.
The poor box bandit was Eddie, Mike’s nine-year-old son.
“For the love of God, Eddie. How could you?” Seamus said, heartbroken. “That money goes to buy groceries for the food bank, for poor people who have nothing. But you – you live in a nice apartment with everything you want, and you get an allowance besides. Don’t tell me you’re not old enough to know stealing is wrong.”
“I know,” Eddie said, wiping his teary eyes, with his gaze on the floor. “I just can’t seem to help it. Maybe my real parents were criminals. I think I got bad blood. Thieves’ blood.”
Seamus snorted in outrage. “Thieves’ blood? What a crock.” He shifted his grip to the young man’s ear and marched him toward the door. “Poor Mary Catherine must be worried sick about you. You’re supposed to be home.You’re going to have a thief’s black-and-blue behind once your father hears about this.”