The Ninth Step Read Free Page B

Scene Unit could be delayed for a while, if their teams were busy with other cases. Sometimes the job seemed to be all about waiting.
    A big truck came lumbering along Coney Island Avenue, which was a drab commercial stretch of car washes, auto parts emporia, international phone card stores, and humble Middle Eastern food joints that fed the many brown-skinned local taxi and car service drivers. Their wives strolled by, wearing bright saris or somber head scarves, surrounded by lively children. The area was home to Pakistanis, Bangladeshis, and other Muslim immigrants.
    Jack stared off down the sunny thoroughfare, but in his mind’s eye he was seeing a little street in Red Hook, watching a police car come along several blocks down, waiting for it to arrive. But it never would, no matter how many years he waited. No matter how many times he replayed the scene, his brother would always drop to the sidewalk, holding his mortally wounded side. One little moment in time, one split second when the whole world turned upside down. Jack had spent a lifetime obsessing about that random encounter, wishing he could go back and fix it, wishing he could pull the harsh words back into his mouth.
    Only, the thing was, based on what the stranger had told him, it hadn’t been random at all. Maybe he had been carrying this burden of guilt for nothing.
    He sighed and turned; like it or not, he needed to go back inside and wrap up this silly bodega killing. Maybe the perp was nuts; maybe he had had some prior run-in with the vic. Perhaps the guy had been screwing his wife. Either way, it looked to be just another rinky-dink slaying, like a thousand others.
    Routine—until the van came screeching up and the men in the protective bodysuits jumped out.

CHAPTER THREE
    T HERE WERE FOUR OF them, and they looked like deep-sea divers as they piled out of the vehicle, which was not at all like a typical NYPD undercover van (dented and unwashed). No, this was a shiny black ride that might as well have had signs painted on it: PROPERTY OF THE FEDERAL GOVERNMENT . The men—they all looked like men, though it was hard to tell, considering their bulky, hooded suits—wore oxygen masks. Jack’s first thought was biohazard , but then he saw the yellow-and-black radiation symbols, which always reminded him of the fallout shelter sign in his elementary school cafeteria. The last man out carried a clicking device.
    The NYPD uniforms guarding the perimeter tried to question this odd crew, but they ducked right under the tape.
    Jack held up a hand. “Whoa! What the hell’s going on?”
    The man in front tugged at his mask; the rubber squeaked as he lifted it over his hooded head. An older guy with a bland, round face, wire-rimmed spectacles, rather stringy white hair combed over his balding pate. Grandfatherly. “You in charge here?”
    Jack nodded. “NYPD, Brooklyn South Homicide. Now, who are you ?”
    The man pulled out an unfamiliar I.D. “Brent Charlson. Homeland Security.”
    Jack threw a skeptical glance back at the little deli. “You sure you got the right address?”
    The man didn’t bat an eye. “How long have you been inside there?”
    Jack was definitely starting to get the creeps. “What’s going on?”
    “I’m going to have to ask you to clear out any personnel from inside. Immediately.”
    A street person, a big man wearing a wool watch cap, soiled sweatpants, and scrunched-up leather slippers, came shuffling around the corner. He stopped short when he saw the crime scene tape and the frogmen. “Yo! What’s happ’nin’? Is this some of that anthraps ?”
    A uniform waved him away.
    Jack watched the guy look back anxiously as he shuffled off. Any New Yorker who had lived through 9/11 and the subsequent anthrax mailings took the potential for terrorist activity very seriously. Even four years later, it didn’t take much to get you worrying: any siren, a sudden halt on a subway train, an unattended knapsack.
    He turned back to the