The Midnight Club_ A Novel - James Patterson [90]
The detective stiffened. He was overweight, with a florid face. He almost looked angry at her for being in tears.
“Could it be that you let your boy walk to school by himself this morning? That’s what often happens.”
Sarah was thrown even further into shock. She was used to working with intelligent policemen: she’d forgotten about the other kind. She overcame the urge to hit this man, to scream at him, to break down completely.
“No, of course not. Detective Cirelli, this is unbelievably hard for me. Why are you making it harder? I was with Sam. I was with my son when it happened.”
“All right, Mrs. McGinniss. Try to relax, please. Could we have a description of your boy? It is a boy, you said?”
“Yes, he’s seven years old. He weighs a little under fifty pounds. I’m not sure how tall Sam is right now. He has brown hair, not very long. His father just had his hair cut.”
“Is the boy’s father here?” Detective Cirelli asked.
“No. We’re divorced.”
“Could the father be responsible for taking the boy? What I mean is, were there any custody problems recently?”
The front doorbell rang again. This time it was Stef. He came inside and Sarah hugged him fiercely. Stefanovitch didn’t need to hear about what had happened. He knew already. He understood completely… The street law.
After the detective and patrolman from the Nineteenth Precinct left, Stefanovitch and Sarah held one another in the living room.
Finally, he swallowed hard and said, “Everything that we can do right now is being done. That’s the truth, Sarah.”
“Stef, what if we turned it all off?” She spoke the words softly, very tentatively. He sensed that she already knew the answer.
“We could try, but I don’t think it would make any difference to St.-Germain and his people. We broke the street law. We have to think of some other way to get Sam back. And we will, Sarah. We’ll find Sam. We’ll do whatever we have to do.”
87
Alexandre St.-Germain; The Hunts Point Market
AT THE INTERSECTION of Randall Avenue and Halleck Street, in the Bronx, the road dead-ends at a vast two-story shed that is the New York City Terminal Market at Hunts Point.
The buildings themselves are in the shape of a fork, with four separate tines; each has approximately sixty stores. Inside are truck docks, loading platforms, display areas, and private offices for the owners. Produce and meat trucks enter the building complex at a toll plaza in the late evening, usually between eleven and one A.M. The peak of activity is between three and five A.M., with buyers driving through the market, parking and shopping at their preferred stores. As a rudimentary security system, I.D. is required by the city’s Department of Ports and Terminals, but the I.D. is available to anyone.
On July 24, Alexandre St.-Germain’s dark blue Mercedes limousine silently moved down the tightly packed corridor of storefronts and loading docks that marked the beginning of the market. Inside the car, the Grave Dancer was as emotional as he allowed himself to become.
It was three fifty-five in the morning. The stores had already been open for hours.
The glistening limousine didn’t seem out of place among the dilapidated storefronts and tractor trailers. Several wealthy store owners, and obsessive Manhattan restaurateurs, came to the marketplace in their expensive cars.
Alexandre St.-Germain saw the dark brown sedan before his limousine reached the meeting place. He knew that it contained part of the hit team from Atlantic City, the European mercenaries.
As the limousine approached, the sedan’s front and back doors swung open.
A few seconds later, the first of three men climbed inside the limousine. The men wore open-necked shirts but also sports jackets, and in one case, in spite of the summer heat, a light brown leather car coat.
“Hello, signore.