Night and Day (Book 3): Bandit's Moon (8 page)

Becca shook her head. “The
difference is that the new bad bunch is scary. They act like military and
they’re armed accordingly.” She paused. “And they don’t like company. We
don’t go near the Floresta. We don’t even drive past it, unless we can’t
help it, and if we do, we don’t look at it when we pass.”

“Oh, horseshit, Becca,” I said,
shaking my head. “I understood why they left Lazaro alone. That was then.
But things have changed in the police department. You’re telling me that
they let a gang of heavily armed people set up camp in the middle of
Eastside District?”

“That’s exactly what I’m saying,”
she said. “Orders from the brass at Central is that we leave them alone.
They don’t mess with us, we don’t mess with them.” She paused. “Whatever
they are, they’re not criminals, and I guess that’s good enough for
headquarters.”

I knew what they were. So did Sgt.
Alexandra Olsen. And if she knew, so did Chief Daryl Northport.

What was Daryl playing
at?

That was a question for another
time. I needed to get started on the job, see if I could eyeball Katarina
Schleu. Then figure out my next move.

“All right, Becca, they’re bad
people. I get that. But I’m kind of stuck here. I have information that the
person I’m looking for might be inside the Floresta.”

“I told you, walk away,” he said.
“You’re a smart guy, stud. Smart enough to know that no case is worth dying
for.”

“Look Becca, I wasn’t going to do
it hard. I thought Papa Lazaro was still running things and I don’t have a
badge to back up a request. Even without Lazaro, I’m not going to do it
hard. I just want to sit outside, watch, and see if I can put eyes on my
target.” I paused. “Then talk to the client and see what he wants me to
do.”

I already knew the answer to
that.

“My question is simple. If I find a
good spot to watch the Floresta, am I going to have any trouble from the
actual criminals that you have around here, or will I be able to do what I
have to?”

Becca laughed. “Oh, you not going
to have any trouble from the street trash, stud. They don’t go any closer
to the Floresta than we do.”

“Good,” I said. I picked up the
glass of club soda and drained it.

“You know I can’t help you if you
get in a jam, Charlie,” she said. “They can nail you to the Floresta
walkway and set you on fire and the police department won’t do a damn thing
about it.”

“I get that,” I said. “With any
luck, there won’t be any nailing or torching going on. Thanks for the
information.”

I left Becca in the bar and crossed
the street to my Jeep. I already knew that staking out the Floresta wasn’t
going to be easy. Nothing she’d said about the place was a surprise. Except
for the orders from Central Division, Metro police headquarters, to leave
Schleu’s Human First Front alone.

Those orders would be coming from
Daryl Northport as Chief of Police Operations.

He’d only been in the position for
about ten months, so maybe he was just letting an earlier order ride. Or
maybe, like he’d told me, he didn’t want to get into a pissing match with
the Resistance. Or maybe he knew something I didn’t.

Too many maybes, and the truth
wasn’t going to be found on Tuxedo Avenue. But that’s where I needed to
be.

I made a U-turn on 68
^th
and headed back to Fowler, turning left in the general direction of
midtown. I wanted to approach the Floresta from the west, so I’d be able to
slide into a parking spot on the south side of Tuxedo. Avoid driving by
from one direction and then reappearing from the other
direction.

After a turn and a couple of blocks
on 44
^th
Street, I made a left on Tuxedo, keeping my speed low. I
needed to be close enough to see the comings and goings at the Floresta
front door. The building didn’t have a back door. There had been one when
it was built, but Papa Lazaro had sealed it up. He tore down the
fire-escapes too. Lazaro only wanted people coming into his building
through the front door.

I could see the Floresta rising
above the smaller buildings around it as I got closer. It was time to find
a place to park.

The trick was to find the right
parking space. Preferably on this side of the building. It was easier to
watch looking forward instead of over-the-shoulder.

And I had to be fairly close. I
didn’t carry a pair of binoculars in my go-bag, because nothing says
watching like staring through binoculars. They were useful in some
situations, and if I knew I was heading into one, I could grab the pair I
had hanging in the closet. But they were out on this job. If somebody from
the Floresta saw me with binoculars, I’d be burned. And maybe catch a
bullet through one of the lenses.

So It would be eyeballs only. I had
to be close enough to visually identify Schleu.

Ahead on the right I saw what
remained of a truck. It had been a big box truck from what I could see of
the remaining lettering on the side, probably a U-Haul rental truck. It was
hard to tell for sure, since the box was mostly gone, burned out. What
really caught my eye was the open space immediately behind it.

I slid the Jeep in directly behind
it, tight against the curb and just far enough back from the ass end of the
truck to pull out without backing up. Just in case I had to make a quick
getaway.

From the driver’s seat, I could
just see the front door of the Floresta, maybe a hundred and fifty feet
away. The morning sun in front was blocked by the remains of the truck,
leaving me in shadow. As the sun moved, the interior of the Jeep would stay
shadowed. It was a good spot.

I studied the building. There were
a couple of guys standing outside the door, one on either side, bundled up
like I was. Sentries. No obvious sign of weapons.

My gaze went up the side of the
building. Most of the windows had curtains. One, on the third floor, was
open. Which didn’t make a lot of sense in this kind of cold until I caught
some movement inside. Somebody was watching the street from the window. And
if I’m not mistaken, that somebody had an automatic rifle.

But neither the third floor watcher
or the two at the door seemed to be paying any attention to me. The angle
probably made it kind of hard to make out the Jeep and their eyes would be
used to seeing the burned-out truck and the shadow behind it.

For the time being, I was okay.
Keeping my eyes on the front door of the Floresta, I leaned back in the
seat, pulled an energy bar from the duffle bag on the seat next to me, and
unwrapped it.

The hours passed. There was no
traffic on the sidewalk and not much more on Tuxedo Avenue.

About an hour after I got there,
the door sentries were relieved by a couple of other guys. One was wearing
a heavy, hooded green coat, and I caught a glint of sun on metal down by
his right leg when he turned to the left. Probably the barrel of a
rifle.

When they came out, they made a
show of scanning the street from one end to the other. Both of them looked
right past me without hesitation. No matter how committed and well-trained
they were, it was cold and that would be smothering any other thoughts they
had. Stay warm, get through the shift, get relieved, go inside. That was
what was on their minds.

I didn’t have the luxury of relief
coming in a few hours. I was there for the rest of the day, maybe some of
the night as well, depending on how well lit the entrance was when the sun
went down.

Watching is boring. It takes
concentration, especially when nothing happens. In an average hour, one or
two people passed through the door, coming or going. None of them Katarina
Schleu. The rest of the time, I was staring at the two sentries. They
weren’t very interesting to watch.

So I did things to pass the time.
Made bets with myself about the sentries. The one on the left would lean
back against the wall. I’d bet how long he would lean before he
straightened up. The one on the right would stamp his feet to keep warm.
How long before he stamped them again?

I pulled the transistor radio from
the go-bag and turned it on, keeping the volume low. Wait for a song I
liked, and sing along. Softly. Wait for another.

At one point, I climbed into the
back seat for a couple of hours. Stretched my legs out on the bench seat,
leaned back against the headrest, and watched. When I felt myself starting
to relax too much, back to the front seat and the radio.

Another shift change. They seemed
to be switching out sentries every four hours. A little long, maybe,
considering the cold. But I was glad to see the guy in the green coat with
the long gun go inside, replaced by a girl in a heavy camouflage parka and
a red knit cap. Sadly it wasn’t Schleu.

At a little past 4:30 in the
afternoon, the sun went down. In the half hour before, as it started to get
dark, I was glad to see that the light over the front door of the Floresta
was bright enough to completely illuminate the entrance and about ten feet
of the walkway that went to the sidewalk. Not a lot, but enough to identify
Schleu if she made an appearance.

With darkness, the cold got worse,
for me and for the sentries. Their relief arrived two hours after their
shift started instead of four.

The only relief I was getting was
peeing into one of the mayonnaise jars, and as the night went on, the first
one was getting kind of full from the bottles of water I sipped. I had two
jars, which would certainly get me through the rest of night, or at least
as much of it that I’d be there.
 
But I really needed to
stretch my legs.

 There was an alley off the
sidewalk just behind the back end of the Jeep. The alley itself wasn’t
visible from the front door of the Floresta, being blocked by the
burned-out shell of the truck. Because of the angle, I didn’t think the
observer in the upper floor could see it either, and anyway, it was black
on black on the sidewalk. No street lights, no business lights.

It was possible that Schleu would
come or go during the minute or so I’d be out of the Jeep, emptying the jar
in the alley. But I didn’t think she’d be out for a walk on a cold night
like this. She’d be coming or going in a car, and if I heard one, I’d get
back in my car and be ready.

I opened the passenger door of the
Jeep and slid out, staying low. Did a couple of quick squats to get the
blood flowing in my legs and hurried to the alley. It was quiet outside.
Really quiet. In the distance I could just make out music, shouting, car
horns. A gun shot. But none of it was close. There was a bubble around the
Floresta, and noise apparently wasn’t allowed inside it.

It was a short alley, almost an
alcove. I stepped into it, the mayonnaise jar in my hand. Quickly
unscrewing the top, I bent over and slowly poured the urine on the
concrete, making sure there that there wasn’t a lot of splatter or splash.
I didn’t want the sound to carry in the dead silence. I also didn’t want to
splash pee on my boots.

I shook the jar a couple of times
to make sure it was empty, then started to straighten up.

They were good. I have to give them
that. Real quiet and real quick. I was barely upright when I felt something
cold touch my right ear. The barrel of a pistol.

“Federal agent,” the guy behind the
pistol said softly.

“What’s that in your hand?” another
guy asked from my left side, his voice low.

“Mayonnaise jar,” I
whispered.

“Well put the mayonnaise jar on the
ground,” he replied. “Slowly. Quietly.”

I squatted and put the jar on the
concrete. The pistol in my ear followed me all the way down.

“Okay, stand up,” the guy on the
left said.

I stood. “I’m a licensed private
investigator and I’m armed,” I said softly. It’s always good to get that
out early with cops, local or otherwise. It avoids misunderstandings
later.

“A private dick, huh,” the guy with
the pistol said. He was speaking quietly, but his voice was rough,
gravelly.

“Where’s the piece?” The guy on the
left. Smoother voice, some kind of accent. New York, maybe
Boston.

“Shoulder rig,” I said. “Under my
left arm.”

The one on the left unzipped my
jacket and stuck his arm inside. After some fumbling with the strap that
held the pistol in the holster, he had the gun in his hand. “Nice,” he
said. “What is it?”

“Glock 29.”

“I like it,” he said. “Compact. Not
too heavy. How many rounds in the clip?”

“Ten.” For a federal agent, he
didn’t know his firearms very well.

I heard a scratchy voice ask,
“What’s happening?”

Gravel voice fumbled in his pocket
and I looked over my shoulder to see him raise a small walkie-talkie to his
mouth. It was one of those little oblong ones they used to sell for short
range communications before the war. Not exactly what I would have expected
federal law enforcement to be using.

“We got him,” he said into the
radio.

“Okay, wait,” the man on the other
end said. “Be ready to move fast.”