Blindsight

Laurie couldn’t believe she was being asked to dinner for a third night in a row. It was certainly flattering. “All right,” she said at last. “You have yourself a date.”

“Wonderful,” Jordan said. “Have any suggestions for a restaurant?”

“I think you have a lot more experience,” Laurie said. “You pick.”

“Okay, I will. Shall we say nine o’clock again?”

Laurie nodded as she sipped her decaf. Looking into Jordan’s clear eyes, she thought of Lou’s negative description of the man. For a second Laurie was tempted to ask how the meeting with the detective lieutenant had gone, but decided against it. Some things were better left unsaid.

9

11:50 p.m., Thursday

Manhattan

“Not bad,” Tony said. He and Angelo were just leaving an all-night pizza joint on Forty-second Street near Times Square. “I was surprised. The place looked like such a dump.”

Angelo didn’t answer. His mind was already on the job that lay ahead.

When they arrived at the parking garage, Angelo nodded toward his Town Car. The garage owner, Lenny Helman, paid money to Cerino. Since Angelo usually collected it, he parked for free.

“Better not have scratched the car,” Angelo said after the attendant drove the car up to the curb. Once he was satisfied there wasn’t a mark on its highly polished surface, Angelo got in. Tony did the same. They pulled out onto Forty-second Street.

“What’s next?” Tony asked, sitting sideways so he could look directly at Angelo. The light from the glittering neon marquees of the neighborhood movie theaters played over Angelo’s gaunt face, making him look like an unraveled mummy in a museum.

“We’re going to switch to the “demand’ list,” Angelo told him.

“Great,” Tony said with enthusiasm. “I’m getting tired of the other. Where to?”

“Eighty-sixth,” Angelo said. “Near the Metropolitan Museum.”

“Good neighborhood,” Tony said. “I’ll bet there’ll be souvenirs for the taking.”

“I don’t feel good about it,” Angelo said. “Wealthy neighborhood means fancy alarms.”

“You handle all that stuff like a breeze,” Tony said.

“Things have been going a little too well,” Angelo said. “I’m starting to get concerned.”

“You worry too much,” Tony said with a laugh. “The reason things have been going so well is because we know what we’re doing. And the more we do it, the better we get. It’s the same thing with everything.”

“Screw-ups happen,” Angelo said. “No matter how much you prepare. We have to expect it. And be able to handle it when it does.”

“Ah, you’re just a pessimist,” Tony said.

Engrossed in their banter, neither Tony nor Angelo took note of a black Cadillac cruising two cars behind them. At the wheel, a relaxed Franco Ponti was enjoying a tape of Aida. Thanks to a tip from a contact in the Times Square area, Franco had been tailing Angelo and Tony since their stop at the pizza place.

“Which one are we doing?” Tony asked.

“The woman,” Angelo said.

“Whose turn?” Tony asked. He knew Angelo was due but hoped he might have forgotten.

“I don’t give a damn,” Angelo said. “You can do her. I’ll watch the man.”

Angelo drove by the brownstone several times before parking. It was five stories tall with a double door at the top of a short flight of granite steps. Beneath the stoop at the ground level was another door.

“The service entrance is probably the way to go,” Angelo said. “We’ll be a little shielded by the stoop. I can see there’s an alarm, but if it’s the kind I think it is, it won’t be a problem.”

“You’re the boss,” Tony said. He took his gun out and attached the silencer.

They parked almost a block away and walked back. Angelo carried a small flight bag full of tools. When they got to the house, Angelo told Tony to wait on the sidewalk and let him know if anyone was coming. Angelo descended the few steps to the service entrance door.

Tony kept an eye out, but the street was quiet. No one was in sight. What Tony didn’t see was Franco Ponti parked only a few doors down, blocking a driveway.

“All right,” Angelo whispered from the shadows of the service entrance. “Come on.”

They entered a long hallway, moving quickly to the stairs. There was an elevator but they knew better than to use it. Taking two steps at a time, they climbed to the first floor and listened. Save for a large antique clock ticking loudly in the dark, the house was quiet.

“Can you imagine living in a place like this?” Tony whispered. “It’s like a palace.”

“Shut up,” Angelo snapped.

They continued upstairs, climbing a curving, double staircase that circled a chandelier Tony guessed was six feet across. On the second floor they peered into a series of sitting rooms, a library, and a den. On the third floor they hit pay dirt: the master bedroom.

Angelo stood to one side of the double doors that no doubt led to the master suite. Tony took the other side. Both men had their guns drawn. Their silencers were attached.

Angelo slowly turned the door handle and pushed the door in. The room was larger than any bedroom either of them had ever seen. On the far wall-which seemed very far to Angelo-stood a massive canopied bed.