The briefing had said that Farino ran for forty-five minutes in her river path circuit, and sure enough, she and the Lincoln were back in front of Marina Towers forty-six minutes after they'd left The Dodger watched through his small binoculars as she spoke to Sheffield and Figini, leaning against the car and lifting her legs as she cooled down, and then went in the front door. The Lincoln idled at the curb. Figini, the driver, was reading a racing form.
Fifteen minutes later, she came out and got in the back seat and the Lincoln pulled away.
It was dark enough and raining hard enough now that the Dodger didn't worry about being spotted as he followed the big, black car over to Elmwood and then north to Chippewa Street. He'd be just another pair of headlights to them in Saturday traffic headed for the one lively spot in Buffalo.
The Lincoln parked on Chippewa and the Dodger paused in a loading zone until he saw the Farino woman cross the street and go in a door. It wasn't a club or a restaurant, so he took note of the address on the PDA, uplinked it through his cell phone, and waited. When a police car trolled by and paused near the loading zone, the Dodger drove around the block, returned, and found a space only three cars behind the idling Lincoln. The patrol car had gone.
He was lucky. In another hour, there wouldn't be public parking within five blocks.
The two bodyguards were watching a lighted third-story window. Sure that he was still unnoticed by the bodyguards in the dark and rain behind them, the Dodger used his binoculars to watch the same window for a second. Angelina Farino Ferrara stepped in front of the window for a second, looking down toward her bodyguards. Then she turned and spoke to someone in the room. The Dodger had learned how to read lips when he was away, but the woman's head was turned just enough that he couldn't make out what she was saying. Then she stepped away, out of sight, and the lights went out in the office up there.
His cell phone chimed softly and the Dodger put away the binoculars. The two men in the Lincoln Town car were just silhouettes now, the big driver reading and the other staring straight ahead, and the Dodger guessed that the woman's coming to the window was a prearranged sign telling Figini and Sheffield to relax.
Text appeared on the PDA screenaddress confirmed, execute.
The Dodger wiped the message, removed his 9mm Beretta, and carefully attached the thin suppressor. Then, after pulling on a cheap raincoat that was two sizes too large for him, he switched off the Mazda sedan's overhead light, scooted past the shifter to the passenger side, and stepped out into the rain.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
"That will do for a start," said Angelina. She moved into the office and watched as Kurtz locked the door behind her. Then she dropped her cashmere coat onto the old leather couch. She was wearing a tight, black dress cut low on top and high on the thighs, expensive leather boots, a single gold necklace, and some subtle gold bracelets.
He'd never seen Angelina Farino Ferrara in clothes like that. Come to think of it , thought Kurtz, most of the time he'd seen her, she'd been in gym togs or jogging attire . Her dark hair was swept up and back on the sides, but secured so that it still hung free in back. It looked wet, but he couldn't tell if that was from walking through the rain or some mousse thing.
Kurtz picked an envelope off his desk and handed it to her. The entire five thousand dollars advance was in it. He'd use other money to manage his getaway on Tuesday if he had to run for it. He dropped into his swivel chair and looked up at her. The.38 was in its holster taped to the underside of his desk drawer, inches from his hand.
She took the envelope without comment or counting it, slipped it into the pocket of the coat she'd draped over the arm of the sofa, and walked to the window. The rain was pelting the glass now and the air through the open screen was chill, taking the edge off the heat and stuffiness caused by the servers and other machinery in the back room.
Still looking out at the neon-busy street, she said, "I need your advice, Joe."
"Joe? " said Kurtz. She'd never used anything but his last name. The idea of her needing his advice was also bullshit.
She turned, smiled, and sat on the edge of Arlene's desk, switching off the desk light there so that only Kurtz's low lamp and the glow of the two computers and video monitor illuminated her long legs, strong thighs, and shiny boots.
"We've known each other long enough to be on a first-name basis, haven't we, Joe? Remember the ice fishing shack?"
Kurtz did indeed remember the fishing shack out on the ice of Lake Erie the previous February. The body of the man he'd shot barely fit through the ice fishing hole because of the shower curtain and chains wrapped around it. Angelina had been the one to prod it through the round hole with her boot on the corpse's shoulderless expensive and more practical boots that night than this. So what?