The Second Life of Nick Mason (Nick Mason #1)(42)

He watched the traffic go by. Watched the Camaro sitting there empty and his whole day circling around the drain. Then he got a call on the radio.

He picked up the transmitter, frowning with confusion. He knew he’d be transferring to the day shift soon, a fresh start for him after the business with his partner, but for now he was still officially on afternoons. So he had no idea who could be looking for him.

“Detective Sandoval, you’re wanted at Homan,” the dispatcher said. “See Sergeant Bloome at SIS.”

? ? ?

Mason waited about ten minutes before three men came out of the laundromat. The two men on either side were big enough to remind Mason of Darius Cole’s prison bodyguards. Both wore black T-shirts. One man had black track pants on, the other baggy blue jeans.

The man in the middle was Tyron Harris. Mason could see that in a second without having to pull out the mug shot. Dwarfed by the other two men, he wore a white summer dress shirt, untucked, over gray dress pants. He had a laptop bag looped over his shoulder.

This is the man I’m going to kill, Mason thought. It surprised him how easily he could say that to himself. But it was a cold, simple fact. Tyron Harris was walking down the street with no idea that his life was already over.

It would be good to know why he’s the target, Mason said to himself. Do a little detective work on my own, for my own benefit, maybe start to figure out how many others are on the list.

They went to the car and one of the two big men got in the backseat with Harris. The other big man-got in front on the passenger’s side. The car pulled out onto the street. Mason waited a few moments, then pulled out and did a U-turn. He stayed a half block behind as they drove south.

When they arrived at the mini-grocery in Washington Heights, Mason figured he was about to see the same loop in reverse. He waited and watched while Harris and the two big men went inside. Harris was still carrying his laptop bag. He walked with an easy, confident manner like a man who owned things. Which was probably true in this case. The other men were all business, looking up and down the street for anything resembling a threat.

They stayed only a few minutes. When they came out, Mason took a good look at the first bodyguard. The way his shirt hung off his body, that slight bulge on the right side. There was an automatic in that man’s belt.

Mason couldn’t get a good sight line on the second man yet. He’d have to wait for the next stop.

The car was pulling out into traffic and Mason was about to follow when he happened to see the manager come out of the grocery. Black, rail-thin, with receding white hair, he pulled out a cigarette and stood there, breathing in the hot air from the street. He lit the cigarette and his hand shook as he took his first drag of smoke.

The car headed down toward Roseland. Mason was guessing they were headed down to the liquor store, but instead they hit another laundromat. As they got out of the car this time, Mason finally got a clear look at the second bodyguard and the large crease running all the way down from his shirt into the left leg of his pants.

Fuck me, he said to himself. That’s a sawed-off shotgun.

The two men stayed on either side of Harris, who apparently never let go of that laptop bag. He was a twenty-first-century entrepreneur, and from everything Cole had told Mason about Harris’s history, it was clear to Mason that this man Harris was following the exact same blueprint, right down to the bodyguards. Get yourself in legitimate businesses that turn over a lot of cash. Build your base. Start with the places you know, the neighborhoods where you’re welcome. Then expand from there.

He was starting to understand why this man was a target.

The only surprise was why Harris was being driven around and doing much of this collection work himself. It seemed like something you’d let your men do for you. Maybe he didn’t trust them enough. Maybe he was just that kind of man, hands-on all the way.

Or maybe there was something else going on here. Maybe he was getting back out on the streets, trying to find out if anybody was hearing things.

As he settled in behind the car again, Mason called Quintero.

“I expected to hear from you already,” Quintero said.

“Took a while to find him,” Mason said. “Now I’m tailing him.”

“You see your shot yet?”

“You’re f*cking kidding me, right? He’s got two bodyguards with him at all times, both armed. One with a sawed-off. There’s a third man in the car. He might have a f*cking bazooka, for all I know.”

“Keep watching him,” Quintero said.

Then the call ended.

Mason flipped the phone onto the seat and kept driving.

He was back on familiar ground. Sitting in a car, keeping his eyes open. Waiting. Watching. Not getting bored because boredom distracts you. It’s all part of what you do when you’re setting up a job.

Only now, the job was killing a man. And the waiting and watching were all about the angles. About the numbers. He knew he’d have to take out the shotgun first. That left the other man with the automatic. If you’re lucky enough to get them both, then the third man steps out of the car. Or Harris could be carrying himself. Something small and light. Be a big surprise if he wasn’t.

There’s no shot here, Mason told himself. Not unless I can get him alone.

? ? ?

The Homan Square police facility, or simply “Homan” to every cop in the city, was once a Sears warehouse. It was renovated in the nineties, along with the rest of the old Sears headquarters, and it was the biggest police building in the city, a redbrick fortress that housed all of the Bureau of Organized Crime units—Narcotics, Vice, Gang Enforcement, Asset Forfeiture—as well as Forensics and the Evidence and Recovered Property Section. Sandoval had been there many times, but usually just to drop off evidence, either for storage until a court date or else to be sent out to the Illinois State Police lab.