these men as constellations in the night sky, light years’ distant.
At one time or another, he had probably rousted a few of those brothers, or someone they knew. Good times.
He hit Forty-seventh Street, which took him to Bronzeville, an area once known as the “Black Metropolis” because of all the black movers and shakers who’d once lived in the neighborhood. By the time he had been born, the only movers and shakers around were the thugs who controlled the high-rise slums. The inevitable wave of gentrification had eventually demolished the projects, though, and single family homes and condos had been erected in their place.
The home in which he had lived before his bid in the joint was a one-story, brick, with three bedrooms, built in 1905. It stood along a row of similarly old, elegant properties flanked by skeletal, ice-encrusted trees.
He slowly cruised past the house. It was in good condition, the front yard mantled with snow.
In his so-called divorce, the judge had allowed him to keep the place, since he’d lived there long before he had married the bitch and she displayed no interest in taking the house anyway. As if she were so eager to sever her ties with him. It compounded the insult of her betrayal.
The home had long been paid off, and stood vacant. Javier had paid the property taxes each year and hired a lawn service to cut the grass during the summer months. He was a loyal partner.
Dexter circled around the block, checking for surveillance vehicles. He found none, which meant either that the manhunt had not yet progressed to the city—or, more likely, someone was off taking a lunch break.
He parked around the corner, under a gigantic oak. He rummaged in the duffel bag on the passenger seat, found the hammer he had taken from Javier’s hideout, and stuffed it inside his parka.
He also pocketed the Glock.
He went back to the house on foot. Snow and ice crackled under his boots. There was light traffic, no police cruisers.
He crossed the walkway that led to the front door and marched around the side of the house, to the back. A brown, two-car garage stood behind the house, bracketed by snow.
A thermometer was affixed beside the garage door, in the same position where he’d mounted it several years ago. He peeled off his gloves and opened the concealed slot at the base.
A key dropped into his palm.
The key fit the back door. He pushed open the door and stepped into the kitchen.
It was like going back in time. All the furniture was still there, though cobwebs draped the lights and dust covered the counters. Amazingly, the bitch had left with nothing but the clothes on her back.
Most important, the Turkish travertine floor tiles he’d installed were still in place, as was the refrigerator. It was unplugged, but occupied the wall niche for which it was intended.
Uncharacteristically, his pulse had begun to race.
Before going farther, however, he drew his Glock and searched the house. Squatters were always a potential problem in vacant properties.
The house was clear. It was tempting to linger in the various rooms and reflect on old times, but he quickly went back to the kitchen.
He grabbed the sides of the refrigerator and dragged it out of its wall slot, until he had hauled it completely clear of the space. A black oil drip mat lay on the floor where the refrigerator had stood, ostensibly to protect the tiles.
The presence of the mat was an encouraging sign. But his pulse still raced.
He knelt, peeled away the mat, and tossed it aside. He withdrew the hammer from his coat and used the hooked end to loosen the stone tile in the upper right corner.
Once that piece was free, he began to remove the tiles surrounding it, gradually exposing the concrete slab on which the house had been constructed.
A gray, fireproof safe had been sunk in the concrete. It was about two feet long, twenty inches wide, and one foot deep.
At the sight of it, he smiled.
He wiped sweat from his brow with the back of his gloved hand, and carefully spun through the combination. He turned the lever and raised the heavy hinged lid.
“No,” he said, breathless.
The box was empty.
One point seven million dollars, in rubber-banded denominations of twenties, fifties, and hundreds, had been stored in the safe, and now it was gone.
6
Price Electronics operated out of a brick storefront on Main Street in Fairburn, sitting alongside a row of businesses that included a pizzeria, an antiques shop, a hardware store, and an Internet café. Part of a historic commercial district, the one-to three-story buildings had been constructed in a range of styles, from Italianate to Neoclassical, and most included awnings that contributed to the downtown street’s nostalgic vibe.
Joshua pulled his Ford Explorer into a parking slot in front of the electronics shop, grabbed his laptop off the seat, and headed inside. A bell above the door chimed at his entrance.
The shelves were packed with electronics from almost floor to ceiling. Except for the computers, the items for sale were mostly cutting-edge gadgets and arcane parts, the purposes of which eluded Joshua. Heavy metal played on the in-store stereo.
Tim Price, the proprietor of the business and a friend of Joshua’s since high school, sat behind the long glass counter typing furiously on a BlackBerry, a messy mop of brown hair obscuring his face. Tattoos webbed his gangly arms—colorful renderings of dragons, griffins, and more otherworldly imagery.
Tim drove a custom-painted purple Chrysler PT Cruiser that continued the fantastical theme, sword-bearing warriors, gruesome orcs, long-bearded wizards, and slavering giant monsters adorning the body, like a mobile advertisement for Dungeons & Dragons. During their high school days, Tim had been a hardcore role-player and probably would have spent his days playing as a grown man if not for the shop.
Tim looked up, rose from his chair. He was nearly as tall as Joshua. He wore a white T-shirt with the slogan, ANIMALS TASTE GOOD, beneath which were shapes of fish, chicken, cattle, and pigs.
“Big Jay,” Tim said. They slapped hands.
“Nice shirt,” Joshua said.
“I’ve already offended one customer today. Some vegan guy.”
“Don’t you ever worry that wearing shirts like that might cost you business?”
He shrugged. “Screw ’em if they can’t take a joke.”
Although Tim had earned an electrical engineering degree from Georgia Tech, he’d worked in the shop all his life. His grandfather had launched the store in the seventies and passed it down to his father, who had then given it to Tim about five years ago. They specialized in the sort of obscure consumer electronics that only tech junkies cared about, and a large part of their business was doing repairs.
Joshua placed his notebook computer on the counter.
“I’ve
