Текст книги "The Collectors"
Автор книги: David Baldacci
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Текущая страница: 17 (всего у книги 27 страниц)
Chapter 41
Annabelle had a room service dinner, showered, wrapped herself in a towel and started combing out her hair. As she sat in front of the vanity mirror, she started mulling things over. The fourth day had arrived, and Jerry Bagger was now aware that he was $40 million poorer. She should’ve been at least six thousand miles away from the man, but in fact was barely a short plane hop south. She had never failed to follow the exit plan before, but then again, she’d never had an ex–husband murdered before either.
She was intrigued by Oliver and Milton, though Caleb was a little “special” and Reuben was more than a little amusing with his puppy–dog crush. And Annabelle had to admit she kind of liked hanging around with the odd bunch. Despite having a loner personality, Annabelle had always been part of a team, and a side of her still needed that. It had started with her parents and had continued into adulthood when she began running her own crews. Oliver and the others were filling this need in her life, albeit in a different way. But she still shouldn’t be here.
She stopped combing her hair, slipped off the towel and pulled a long T–shirt on. She crossed to the window and looked out at the busy street below. In the swirl of traffic and fast–walking pedestrians, she mentally retraced what she’d done so far: Impersonated a magazine editor, knowingly aided Oliver in breaking into the Library of Congress, committed a felony by impersonating an FBI agent, and she was now supposed to come up with a way for Caleb to look at the security tapes to try and figure out what had happened to Jonathan. And if Oliver was right, some people who might be even more dangerous than Jerry Bagger could be aligned against them.
She turned back from the window, sat on the bed and started putting lotion on her legs. “This is crazy, Annabelle,” she told herself. “Bagger will move the ends of the earth to kill you, and here you are, not even out of the damn country.” And yet she had promised the others to help them. Actually, she reminded herself, she’d insisted on being part of it. “Should I stick it out and take a chance that Jerry’s radar doesn’t hit D.C.?” she said out loud. Someone had killed Jonathan. And she wanted revenge if for no other reason than she was furious that someone had made the decision to end his life long before it should have been over.
She had a sudden thought and checked her watch. She had no idea what time zone he was in, but she needed to know. She ran to the desk against one corner and snatched up her cell phone. She punched in the numbers and waited impatiently while it rang. She’d given him this number and an international phone so they could keep in contact for a while after the con. If one heard anything about Jerry, he or she was supposed to call the other.
Leo finally answered. “Hey.”
“Hey yourself. I didn’t think you were going to pick up.”
“I was in the pool.”
“In the pool, nice. Where in the pool?”
“The deep end.”
“No, I meant where in the world?”
“No can answer. What if Bagger’s standing right there?”
“I see your point. Heard from anybody else?”
“Not a peep.”
“How about Bagger?”
“No, I took old Jerry off my Rolodex,” he said dryly.
“I meant, have you heard any of the fallout?”
“Just some scuttlebutt. Didn’t want to get too close, you know. You can bet the dude’s homicidal.”
“You know he’ll never stop looking for us as long as he’s breathing.”
“Then let’s pray for a massive heart attack. I don’t want the guy to suffer.” Leo paused and said, “Something I should’ve told you before, Annabelle. Now, don’t get pissed.”
She sat up straighter. “What did you do?”
“I sort of let it slip to Freddy a little about your history.”
She stood. “How much of my history?”
“Your last name, your stuff with Paddy.”
She screamed into the phone, “Are you out of your damn mind?”
“I know, I know, it was stupid. It just came up. I just wanted him to know that you weren’t like your old man. But I didn’t tell Tony. I’m not that dumb.”
“Thanks, Leo, thanks a hell of a lot.”
She clicked off and stood in the middle of the room. Freddy knew her last name and also that her father was Paddy Conroy, Jerry Bagger’s mortal enemy. If Jerry got to him, he’d make Freddy talk. And then the man would come for her, and she could predict her fate with reasonable accuracy. Jerry would feed her into a wood chipper body part by body part.
Annabelle started packing her bag. Sorry, Jonathan.
• • •
When Caleb returned to his condo later that night, he found someone waiting for him out in the parking lot.
“Mr. Pearl, what are you doing here?”
Vincent Pearl didn’t look like Professor Dumbledore this evening, principally because he wasn’t wearing a long lavender robe. He had on a two–piece suit, open–collared shirt, shiny shoes, and his long thick hair and beard were carefully combed. He looked thinner in the suit than he had in the robe. The chubby Caleb made a mental note never to start dressing in robes. Pearl’s spectacles were halfway down his nose as he silently studied Caleb with such a condescending look that the librarian started getting a little perturbed.
“Well?” Caleb finally asked.
In a deep, offended voice Pearl said, “You haven’t returned my calls. I thought a personal appearance would help remind you of my interest in the Psalm Book.”
“Right, I see.”
Pearl looked around. “A parking lot seems hardly appropriate to engage in conversation about one of the world’s most important books.”
Caleb sighed. “Very well, come on up.”
They rode the elevator to Caleb’s floor. The two men sat across from each other in the small living room.
“I was afraid that you’d decided to go straight to Sotheby’s or Christie’s with the Psalm Book.”
“No, it’s nothing like that. I haven’t even been back to the house after you were there. I didn’t call you because I’m still thinking.”
Pearl looked very relieved by this statement. “At the very least it would behoove us to obtain definitive tests on the Psalm Book. I know several firms with impeccable reputations that can do this. And I see no need to wait.”
“Well,” Caleb said hesitantly.
“The longer you procrastinate, the less control you have over the public learning about the existence of a twelfth Psalm Book.”
“What do you mean by that?” Caleb said sharply as he sat forward.
“I’m not sure you adequately realize the significance of this discovery, Shaw.”
“On the contrary, I realize very clearly the enormity of it.”
“I mean that there might be leaks.”
“How? I’ve certainly told no one.”
“Your friends?”
“They’re completely trustworthy.”
“I see. Well, pardon me if I don’t share your confidence. But if there is a leak, people might start making accusations. Jonathan’s reputation may suffer considerably.”
“What sort of accusations?”
“Oh, for heaven sakes, man, let me just spell it out for you: accusations that the book was stolen.”
Caleb’s thoughts leaped to his own theory about the library’s Psalm Book being a forgery. Yet he said as earnestly as he could, “Stolen? Who would believe such a thing?”
Pearl took a deep breath. “No other owner of one of those treasures in the long and celebrated history of book collecting has ever kept it a secret. Until now.”
“And you think it’s because Jonathan stole it? Preposterous. He’s as much a thief as I am.” Please, please, let that be true.
“But he might have purchased it from someone who had stolen it, perhaps unwittingly, perhaps not. At least he might have had a suspicion, which would explain the secrecy he kept about owning the book.”
“And where exactly would the book have been stolen from? You said you checked with the other places that own one.”
“What the hell would you expect them to say?” Pearl snapped. “Do you think they would admit it to me if their Psalm Book had been stolen? And maybe they don’t even know. What if a very clever forgery was left in its place? It’s not like these places check their literary treasures daily to assure their authenticity.” He added, “Did you find any paperwork relating to the book? A bill of sale? Anything to show where it came from?”
“No,” Caleb admitted, his heart sinking. “But I haven’t looked through Jonathan’s personal papers. My work was limited to the book collection.”
“No, your work extends to all evidence of ownership of his books. Do you really think that Christie’s or Sotheby’s will put a Psalm Book up for auction without being absolutely certain of both its authenticity and the legal authority under which Jonathan DeHaven’s estate will be selling the book?”
“Of course, I was aware that they would need to know that.”
“Well, Shaw, if I were you, I would set about immediately to find that evidence. But if you can’t, the clear impression will be that Jonathan came by it through means that are not verifiable. And in the rare book field that is tantamount to saying that he stole it himself or knowingly purchased it from someone who did.”
“I suppose I could ask his attorneys if I could search through his papers. Or perhaps they could do it if I told them what to look for.”
“If you go that route, they will want to know why. And when you tell them, you will have most certainly lost control of the situation.”
“Do you expect me to look all by myself?”
“Yes! You’re his literary executor, start acting like it.”
“I don’t care to be talked to in that manner,” Caleb said angrily.
“Are you paid a percentage of the sale price of auction?”
“I don’t have to answer that,” Caleb retorted.
“I’ll take that as a yes. Well, if you try to auction this Psalm Book off without finding ironclad proof that DeHaven came by it honestly and it’s later found that he didn’t, it won’t only be his reputation down the toilet, will it? When a great deal of money is involved, people always assume the worst.”
Caleb didn’t say anything as this slowly sank in. As repugnant as he found Pearl’s remarks, the man had a point. It was devastating to think that his deceased friend’s reputation would suffer a shipwreck, but Caleb certainly didn’t want to sink to the bottom along with it.
“I suppose I could go through Jonathan’s things at his house.” He knew that Oliver and the others had already searched the house, but they hadn’t been looking for ownership documents for the book collection.
“Will you go tonight?”
“It’s late already.” And he’d given the key to Reuben.
“Well, tomorrow, then?”
“Yes, tomorrow.”
“Very well. Please let me know what you find. Or don’t find.”
After Pearl had left, Caleb poured himself a glass of sherry and drank it while eating a bowl of greasy potato chips, one of his favorite snacks. He was under too much pressure to adhere to any sort of diet now. As he sat drinking, he ran his gaze over his own small collection of books he kept on a set of shelves in his den.
Who would’ve thought book collecting could get so damn complicated?
Chapter 42
Very early the next morning Reuben reported to Stone that nothing had happened the previous night at DeHaven’s; this was a repeat of the report he’d given the night before.
“Nothing?” Stone said skeptically.
“No action in the bedroom, if that’s what you’re implying. I saw Behan and his wife come home around midnight. But apparently, they don’t use that bedroom, because the light never came on. Maybe that venue’s reserved for the strippers.”
“Did you see anything else? The white van, for instance?”
“No, and I think I got in and out of the place without anyone seeing me the last two nights. A ten–foot hedge runs all the way around the rear area. There’s an alarm pad right inside the back door, so that was easy enough.”
“Are you sure you didn’t notice anything that could help us?”
Reuben looked uncertain. “Well, it might be nothing, but around one in the morning I thought I saw a glint of something in a window of the house across the street.”
“Maybe the owners were up and about.”
“That’s the thing. It doesn’t look like anybody’s living there. No car and no trash cans out front. And today’s trash day because all the other houses had them out on the curb last night.”
Stone stared at him curiously. “That is interesting. Could the glint have been an optics signature?”
“Not from a gun, I don’t think. But maybe a pair of binoculars.”
“Keep an eye on that place as well. What about the call to the police?”
“I did it from a pay phone like you said. I took it as a bad sign when the woman told me to stop making crank calls to the police.”
“Okay, call me with your next report tomorrow morning.”
“Great, but when exactly am I supposed to sleep, Oliver? I’m leaving for the loading dock right now, and I’ve been up all night.”
“When do you get off work?”
“Two.”
“Sleep then. You won’t have to be at DeHaven’s until ten or so.”
“Thanks a lot. Can I at least eat the man’s food?”
“Yes, so long as you replace it.”
Reuben snorted. “Man, living in a mansion ain’t what it’s cracked up to be.”
“See, you haven’t missed anything.”
“And while I’m out here busting my ass, what’s Your Highness doing?”
“Your Highness is still thinking.”
“Have you heard from Susan?” Reuben added hopefully.
“Not a word.”
• • •
A half hour later Stone was out working in the graveyard when a taxi pulled up by the gates and Milton climbed out. Stone rose, dusted off his hands, and the two went in the cottage together. While Stone poured out some lemonade, Milton opened his laptop and a paper file he’d brought with him.
“I’ve found out a lot about Cornelius Behan and Robert Bradley,” he said. “I just don’t know how helpful it’ll be.”
Stone sat down at his desk and pulled the file toward him. Twenty minutes later he looked up from the pages. “It does not appear that Behan and Bradley were friends at all.”
“Enemies, more accurately. Although Behan’s company won those two big government contracts, Bradley thwarted him on three others, in part by floating allegations that Behan was into buying influence. I got that last bit from a couple of Hill staffers I know. They wouldn’t come out and say it, of course, but it was pretty clear that Bradley went out of his way to spearhead the attack on Behan. And it’s also clear he thought Behan was corrupt. It doesn’t sound like they’re part of a spy ring.”
“No, it doesn’t, unless it’s a cover. But I agree with the late Speaker. I believe Behan is corrupt too. Is he corrupt enough to kill? In DeHaven’s case I would say yes.”
“So maybe Behan had Bradley killed too. He’d have a clear motive if the man was interfering with his business.”
Stone said, “We’ve established that DeHaven was killed by CO2 poisoning and that the lethal cylinder came from one of Behan’s companies. Caleb called me yesterday. He went into the vault and checked behind the bent air vent. There was a small screw hole in the wall of the duct that could have been used to secure the camera. And he also reported that the grille screws came out very easily, as though they had been taken out recently. But it’s not enough to prove a camera was ever there.”
“So if Bradley and Behan weren’t in cahoots together, Jonathan couldn’t have seen them at Behan’s house. So why kill Jonathan?”
Stone shook his head. “I simply don’t know, Milton.”
After Milton had left, Stone went back to work in the cemetery. He hauled a lawn mower out of a small storage shed, cranked it up and ran it over a patch of grass in a field to the left of the cottage. When he finished and cut the motor, he turned to find her watching him. She had on a big floppy hat, sunglasses and a three–quarter–length brown leather coat over her short skirt. Behind her he saw the rental car parked just outside the gates.
He wiped his face with a rag and pushed the lawn mower over to the cottage’s front porch, where Annabelle was standing. She slipped off her glasses.
“How’s it going, Oliver?”
He didn’t say anything for a few moments. “You look dressed to go somewhere.”
“Actually, that’s why I came by. To let you know of a change in plan. I have to leave town. My flight heads out in a couple hours. I won’t be back.”
“Is that right?”
“That’s right,” she said, her tone more firm.
“Well, I can’t blame you; things are getting a little dangerous.”
Her gaze went to his face. “If you believe that’s why I’m bugging out, you’re not nearly as smart as I thought you were.”
He studied her for another moment. “Whoever’s after you must be pretty dangerous.”
“You strike me as a man who has his enemies too.”
“I don’t go looking to make mine. They just seem to find me.”
“I wish I could relate. I tend to make my enemies.”
“Are you going to tell the others?”
She shook her head. “I thought you could do it for me.”
“They’ll be disappointed. Especially Reuben. And I haven’t seen Milton this happy in years. And of course, Caleb won’t admit that he likes having you around, but he will pout for the longest time.”
“And how about you?” she said, her gaze downcast.
He used his boot to scrape the grass off the lawn mower’s wheels. “You certainly have some remarkable skills.”
“Speaking of, you caught me picking your pocket. That hadn’t happened since I was eight years old.” She looked at him questioningly.
“I’m sure you were a very precocious child,” he said.
She gave him a tiny smirk. “Anyway, it’s been fun. And you guys look out for yourselves. Like you said, enemies tend to find you.”
She turned to leave.
“Uh, Susan, if we do figure this all out, do you want us to contact you, let you know about Jonathan?”
She faced him. “I think I should let the past stay right where it is. In the past.”
“I just thought you’d like to know. Losing a spouse that way, you don’t really get over it.”
“You sound like you speak from experience?”
“My wife. It was a long time ago.”
“Had you two divorced?”
“No.”
“It wasn’t the same with me and Jonathan. He decided to end our marriage. I’m not sure why I even came here.”
“I see. Well, could I have the picture back, then?”
“What?” she said, appearing startled.
“The picture of Jonathan. I wanted to return it to his home.”
“Oh, I … I don’t have it with me.”
“Well, when you get to wherever you’re going, you can send it along.”
“You’re far too trusting, Oliver. There’s nothing to make me send it back to you.”
“That’s right. Nothing at all.”
She gazed at him curiously. “You’re one of the most unusual people I’ve ever met, and let me tell you that’s saying something.”
“You should get going, don’t want to miss your flight.”
She glanced around at the tombstones. “You’re surrounded by death here. Way too depressing. You really might want to think about getting another job.”
“You see death and sadness in these sunken patches of dirt, I see lives lived fully and the good deeds of past generations influencing the future ones.”
“That’s way too altruistic for me.”
“I thought that once too.”
“Good luck.” She turned to leave.
“If you ever need a friend, you know where to find me.”
Her shoulders tensed for an instant as he said this. Then she was gone.
Stone put the lawn mower away and sat on the porch gazing solemnly at his tombstones as a chilly wind started to sweep across.
Chapter 43
Caleb rose and greeted the man as he came into the reading room.
“Can I help you?”
Roger Seagraves showed Caleb his library card, which anyone could obtain in the Madison Building across the street by showing a driver’s license or passport, fake or not. The name on the library card was William Foxworth, and the photo on the card matched the man. The same information had been loaded into the library’s computer system.
Seagraves glanced around at the tables where a few people sat. “I’m looking for a particular book.” Seagraves named the one he wanted.
“Fine. Do you have a particular interest in that era?”
“I have lots of interests,” Seagraves said. “That’s just one of them.” He studied Caleb for a moment as though thinking of what he wanted to say. Actually, the script had been carefully planned, and he had done his homework on Caleb Shaw. “I’m also a collector but a novice one, I’m afraid. I have a few recent purchases in English literature that I’d like someone to evaluate for me. I guess I should have had that done before I bought them, but as I said, I’m just starting out collecting. I came into some money a while back, and my mother worked at a library for years. I’ve always had an interest in books, but serious collecting is a whole other ball game, I’ve found.”
“It absolutely is. And it can be quite ruthless,” Caleb said, and then hastily added, “In a dignified way, of course. As it happens, one of my areas of expertise is eighteenth–century English literature.”
“Wow, that’s terrific,” Seagraves said. “My lucky day.”
“What are the books, Mr. Foxworth?”
“Please, call me Bill. A first–edition Defoe.”
“Robinson Crusoe? Moll Flanders?”
Seagraves said, “Moll Flanders.”
“Excellent. What else?”
“Goldsmith’s The Life of Richard Nash. And a Horace Walpole.”
“The Castle of Otranto, 1765?”
“That’s the one. It’s in pretty good shape, actually.”
“You don’t see many of those. I’d be glad to take a look at them for you. As you can imagine, there are many variations in editions. And some people buy books thinking they’re true first editions, but they turn out to be something else altogether. It even happens with some of the better dealers.” He added quickly, “Inadvertently, I’m sure.”
“I could bring them in the next time I’m here.”
“Well, I’m not sure that’s a good idea, Bill, because you’d have a hard time getting them past security unless prior arrangements have been made. They might think you stole the books from us, you see. You don’t want to be arrested.”
Seagraves paled. “Oh, right, I hadn’t thought of that. My God, the police. I’ve never even had a parking ticket.”
“Calm down, it’s okay.” Caleb added a little pompously, “The world of the rare book can be very, how shall I say, sophisticated, with a spice of danger. But if you are serious about collecting in the eighteenth century, you’ll need to make sure you have a number of authors represented. A few that come to mind are Jonathan Swift and Alexander Pope; they’re regarded as the masters of the first half of the century. Henry Fielding’s Tom Jones, of course, David Hume, a Tobias Smollett, Edward Gibbon, Fanny Burney, Ann Radcliffe and Edmund Burke. It’s not an inexpensive hobby.”
“I’m finding that out,” Seagraves said glumly.
“Not like collecting bottle caps, is it?” Caleb laughed at his little joke. “Oh, and of course, you can’t forget the eight–hundred–pound gorilla of that era, and the master of the second half of the century, Mr. Samuel Johnson. It’s not an exhaustive list by any means, but a good start.”
“You certainly know your eighteenth–century lit.”
“I should, I have a PhD on the subject. As far as evaluating your books, we can always meet someplace. Just let me know.” He fished in his pocket and handed Seagraves a card with his office number on it. He clapped Seagraves enthusiastically on the back. “And now I’ll get your book.”
When Caleb brought the tome out to him, he said, “Well, enjoy.”
Seagraves glanced at Caleb and smiled. Oh, I will, Mr. Shaw, I will.
• • •
By prior arrangement Caleb met Reuben, and the pair went to DeHaven’s house after Caleb got off work. They searched for two hours. While they found receipts and bills of sale for all his other books in his desk, they discovered nothing supporting the slain librarian’s ownership of the Psalm Book.
Caleb next went down to the vault. He needed to check the Psalm Book for the Library’s secret coding: That would prove whether Jonathan had stolen it. And yet Caleb made no move to enter the vault. If the code was there? He couldn’t face that prospect. So Caleb did what came naturally when he was under pressure: He ran for it. The book would keep, he told himself.
“I just don’t understand this,” Caleb said to Reuben. “Jonathan was an honest man.”
Reuben shrugged. “Yeah, but like you said, people can really get into this collecting stuff. And a book like that one might make him do something on the shady side. And that would explain why he kept it a secret.”
Caleb replied, “But it would eventually have come out. He had to die sometime.”
“But he didn’t expect to die that suddenly, obviously. Maybe he had plans for it but never got a chance to carry them out.”
“But how do I auction off a book that he has no ownership documentation for?”
“Caleb, I know he was your friend and all, but it seems to me that the truth has to come out at some point,” Reuben said quietly.
“There’ll be a scandal.”
“I don’t see how you get around it. Just make sure you don’t get swept up in it.”
“I guess you’re right, Reuben. And thanks for your help. Are you staying here?”
Reuben looked at his watch. “It’s a little early yet. I think I’ll leave with you and then sneak back later. I was at least able to get some sleep this afternoon.”
The two men left. Three hours later, a bit before eleven o’clock, Reuben reentered the house through the back door. He made a snack in the kitchen and went upstairs. In addition to Cornelius Behan’s “love room” the attic also allowed for a fine view of Good Fellow Street through another half–moon window. Reuben alternated watching Behan’s place through the telescope and the house opposite with a pair of binoculars he’d brought.
When a car pulled up to Behan’s house around one o’clock in the morning, Reuben watched closely as Behan, a young woman dressed in a full–length black leather coat and a couple of Behan’s bodyguards got out of a dark green Cadillac SUV. They all went into the house. The missus must be away, Reuben thought as he took up position at the window overlooking Behan’s house.
He didn’t have long to wait. The lights in the bedroom came on, and in walked the defense contractor and his lady for the evening.
Behan sat in a chair, clapped his hands, and the young lady immediately went into action. Button by button she undid the leather coat. When she opened it, and even though he knew what was coming, Reuben still gasped as he stared at the scene through the telescope: thigh–high fishnets, bullet bra and what seemed to be a mere slip of panties. He let out a long, satisfied sigh.
An instant later Reuben noticed a flash of red from the window overlooking the street. He glanced up. Thinking it was a brake light from a passing car, he shrugged and looked back through the telescope. The young lady had dropped her bra to the floor and was now sitting in a chair and taking her time sliding the stockings down her long legs as her surgically enhanced bosom spilled over her flat stomach.
Never go for paper when you can get plastic, Reuben thought with another long, contented sigh. He glanced again toward the other window, where he could now see a bright red glow. That couldn’t be a car. He crossed to the window and gaped at the house directly across the street. The damn place is on fire. He listened intently. Were those sirens he was hearing? Had someone already called it in?
He didn’t get a chance to answer that question. The blow hit him from behind, and he toppled to the floor. Roger Seagraves stepped around him and toward the window overlooking Behan’s house, where, even without the advantage of the telescope, he could see that the lady had finished undressing and, with a wicked smile, was now slowly kneeling down in front of a doubtless very happy Cornelius Behan.
That wouldn’t last.
• • •
When Reuben awoke, he at first had no idea where he was. He slowly sat up and the room came into focus. He was still in the attic. He rose on shaky legs and then remembered what had happened. He grabbed an old piece of board for a weapon as his gaze swept the attic. Yet there was no one there. He was completely alone. But someone sure as hell had hit his skull hard enough to knock him out.
The noise from the street reached him. He looked out the window. Fire trucks were lined up out front putting out the flames from the house across the street. Reuben also noted several police cars coming and going.
Rubbing the back of his head, he glanced over at Behan’s place. All the lights were on. When he saw police entering the house, Reuben got a sick feeling in his gut. He stumbled across the room and looked through the telescope. The light in the bedroom was still on, although the space was bustling with far different activity now.
Cornelius Behan was lying facedown on the floor, still fully dressed. His hair was far redder now thanks to the gaping hole in the back of his head. The young woman was sitting up against the bed. Reuben could see the crimson patches all across her face and chest. It looked like she’d taken a killing round right in the head. Uniformed cops and a couple of suits were poring over the place. How long had he been unconscious? The next thing he saw drove all other thoughts from his mind.
There were twin bullet holes in the bedroom window and matching ones in the window he was looking out of. “Oh, shit!” Reuben exclaimed as he ran for the door, stumbled again and fell. He reached out to catch himself, and his hand closed around it. When he stood back up, he was holding the rifle that he was certain had been used to kill two people. He immediately dropped it and took the steps two at a time. As he raced through the kitchen and saw the food that he’d left out, he realized his prints would be all over the damn place, yet he had no time to worry about that. He stepped through the back door.
The light hit him flush in the face, and he put a hand up to block the glare.
“Freeze!” the voice bellowed out. “Police!”
