The Eighth Day

Chapter 18

Detectives Ethan Mooney and Nat Francis waited for Sam on the sidewalk outside, tapping at their smartphones.

"Let's go," Sam said without breaking stride.

They pulled away from the precinct and sped down the road, Sam and Mooney in the lead and Francis close behind. As they turned right onto Broadway, Mooney asked, "Wanna know what I found on Lark Morton?"

Sam nodded.

Mooney said, "I talked to the landlord. He said they moved out last night. No explanation or anything. Couple of muscle heads showed up and loaded everything into the back of a cargo truck, like one of them U-Hauls, he said. Desks, chairs, a couch and coffee table, stuff like that. Said it couldn't have furnished more than an office or two, which he thought was strange since they'd leased the entire floor."

"He see these guys?"

"Yep. I'm gonna have O'Brian get with him when we're done at the Garden. He gave me an address. Phone number too, but that was disconnected. Probably a burner, but I'll look into it. The address is for a warehouse in Jersey." Mooney shook his head. "Goddamn Jersey."

Ahead, the holographic traffic signal stretching across the road turned yellow, and Sam accelerated through the intersection. In the rearview mirror, Francis sagged in the driver's seat of his car, one wrist draped over the top of the steering wheel.

As they sped south down Seventh Avenue and crossed the intersection of Thirty-Ninth Street, Mooney said, "He's gonna get me files on the lease. I'll swing by after—"

And a two-door compact slammed into the passenger side of Sam's car.

The window exploded, and the door crumpled inward in a cacophony of shrieking steel and tinkling glass. Noise and color blurred the world. The impact drove them sideways, and they smashed into the car on their left, sending Sam hard against his seat belt, then crashing into his door with bone-rattling force. His head bounced off the window, and a burst of stars flared across his vision. Then they were on top of him, pummeling his chest and his face and pinning him back in his seat. He threw his hands up and beat at his assailants.

It was his air bag, his goddamn air bag. He cursed, punching at it and pushing it aside as it deflated. It felt as if someone had worked him over with a tire iron, and he panted, wheezing, unable to take more than meager gulps of air.

Mooney slumped forward against his seat belt, eyes closed. A thin stream of blood spilled from his slack mouth and fell into his lap. He moaned but remained motionless. Sam closed his own eyes, his thoughts fogging over as unconsciousness tugged at his sleeve.

A horn echoed down the street, and several others joined in while traffic stacked up behind the accident. Sam reached for the sound, used it to pull himself back toward consciousness, and willed his eyes to open.

The compact that had T-boned them loomed outside the passenger-side window, its front-end crumpled and steam leaking from beneath its hood with an angry hiss. Through the steam, Sam could see its driver sitting behind the wheel of the mangled vehicle, knuckles white and eyes wide. His gaze fell on Sam, and his eyebrows drew down, his lips pressed into a thin red line. He flung open his door and hauled himself out.

"The fuck? Are you people colorblind?" the driver screamed.

To Sam's left, the car he'd sideswiped had drifted forward and rolled to a stop against the curb. A woman perched in the driver's seat, palms covering her face. A man next to her had an arm wrapped around her shoulders, pulling her against his chest.

Running footsteps prefaced Francis's arrival. He staggered to a halt on the passenger side of Sam's car and leaned over the compact's hood to peer in through the shattered window, gasping for breath. "Are you all right?" He saw Mooney. "Oh, kid. Oh, no."