Blood Flag: A Paul Madriani Novel Read Free Page A

whether the daughter had let them in, though he hadn’t seen any sign of her. Or had the cops taken the door down, broken the lock, or called in a locksmith? The answer came almost immediately. An older woman was standing near the front stoop with the two cops. She had a small dog in her arms. She leaned over, pushed the door, and kind of pitched the animal into the house as one of the cops quickly closed the door behind it. As it shut the push-button lock swung out of the indoor shadows and into bright sunlight. The woman leaned over, studied it for a second, and then began to press the four-digit code into the keypad. He watched through the scope as her finger moved over the buttons, then pushed the lock button. She waited a second, then checked the latch. It was locked. The neighbor woman must have let them in to save the door from being destroyed by the cops.
    He grabbed a pen from his pocket and made a quick note on the palm of his hand. He looked at the time: 3:28. By six thirty it would be dark. He could move the car farther back and watch to see if the police set up a patrol. If so, he wouldn’t go near the place. He could watch to see if anybody came and went, neighbors looking out their windows or checking on the house, and whether the daughter came home. He wondered where she was.
    He started the engine and pulled away from the curb, drove quickly past the parked patrol car, and headed down the street to look for a better location to watch the area. He was approaching the intersection with Forty-Ninth Street, about eight houses down, when he saw them. A rusted-out Chevy Chevelle, a muscle car from the seventies. Two white guys with shaved heads were sitting in the front seat. The driver looked at him, direct eye contact as he drove by. The driver showed tracks of gang tattoos all over his face, ink like a Maori warrior running down his neck disappearing beneath the collar of his shirt. He didn’t have to take a second look at the swastikas, the numbers 14 and 88, to realize that others were scoping out the house and to know who they were. Police patrols in the area might not be a bad idea.

THREE
    E mma looks at me with large oval eyes. The warrant for her arrest and the two detectives waiting in our reception area test the limits even for the queen of worries. Her face has now collapsed into a mask of angst. In too much shock even to cry, she looks at Harry, then back to me. “What do I do?”
    “Nothing,” I tell her. “Relax. Let us handle it. Don’t say anything.” I look toward the door and Brenda. “Tell them to wait, she’ll be out in a minute. Tell them she is conferring with counsel and that we will surrender her momentarily.” Brenda closes the door. “Have you talked to any other lawyers?” I ask Emma.
    She shakes her head. “I wasn’t . . . I didn’t think I needed one; at least I wasn’t sure. Do I have to go to jail?”
    “It appears so,” says Harry. “Lemme go check, see what they got.” He’s out of the chair and headed for the door, then slips out and quickly closes it behind him.
    “The important thing is to keep calm and don’t say a word. They will book you, process you into the jail, take a couple of pictures, do your fingerprints.”
    Now she starts to cry, a river of tears. Sofia grabs the box of Kleenex and hands it to her. She’s put her phone away and for the first time even Sofia looks worried.
    “We’ll handle it,” I tell Emma. “See if we can get bail. If so, you’ll only be there a short time. If they put you in a cell with anyone else, be friendly, polite, but quiet. Whatever you do, don’t talk to them about your case. If they ask why you’re there, tell them you don’t know what’s going on, your lawyers are handling everything. And don’t talk to the cops. If they ask you anything beyond the spelling of your name, your date of birth, and home address, you tell them to talk to your lawyers. Got it?”
    She looks at me with a frantic expression