“No car at the curb.”
The side street is one-way and the only access is a right turn from the road I’m sitting on.
“He’s out,” Quinn says.I hear keys clacking—she’s sending it to the team.
One.Two.Three.
There—he appears.I crank the Civic.He’s on the sidewalk, scanning south.A small sedan with an Uber light pulls up.I note the plate as I edge into traffic.It’s light now, but one wrong turn and the district chokes.
“He’s headed north,” I announce.
“Noah’s up,” Quinn says.
“Turning onto Ninth.He might be headed out of the city.”
“Noah’s on Tenth.If he cuts to the West Side, he’ll take point.”
I’m about five cars back.From what I can tell, Eddie’s head’s bent down, not paying attention at all to his surroundings.
“Traffic is light,” I say.If it were heavy and he stayed on the avenue, I’d suspect a close destination.Light traffic makes his route inconclusive.
I continue on with the speed of traffic, mostly hitting greens.It’s not a chase as Eddie seems to be completely unaware.It’s when we’re crossing into the twenties that it hits me.“I bet he’s going to Penn Station.He may be heading home.”
He turns right onto Thirty-fourth—Penn Station, confirmed.I hunt for parking and radio Quinn.“Drop point: Eighth.Do you have CCTV in Penn?”
“I’m working on it,” Quinn says.“It’ll be delayed—messy feeds.What’s his outfit?”
“No hat.Black sports coat, black crewneck, black trousers.”
“Does he always dress like a waiter?”
“Not always, but black seems to be the predominant color of choice for Sanctuary employees.”With a smirk, I add, “Gold chain shines.”
“So he’s not doing anything to avoid being spotted?”
“No.Appears oblivious.”Miraculously, there’s a spot to my right so I take it.“I nabbed street parking on Thirty-fourth.”
As I park, I lose sight of Eddie’s car, but I know where he’s going.And he’ll lose time exiting the car.
Within seconds, I’ve parked in a way that would make Kristof, my old driving instructor, proud and step out of the Honda, blending into the pedestrian traffic with a walk-run that matches the pace of any rushed New Yorker.
I glimpse a man in black descending into Penn Station’s maze of corridors.
Shit.
I tap my earpiece.“Lost him.He disappeared underground.”
“Head for the trains,” Quinn says.“If he took the subway, you’ll never catch him.If he’s on a platform, you might.”
She’s right.He could be anywhere—at a kiosk, grabbing coffee, blending into the crowd.
I cut past Dunkin’, Sbarro, the kiosks, scanning collars and hairlines.Plenty of black jackets—none at the right height or with the correct dark trim.
Noah catches my eye across the concourse.He tilts right; I tilt left.
Twenty minutes.Nothing.He’s gone.
As I’m headed back to retrieve my car, Quinn’s voice flows through my ear.“Did you know the senator had a meeting with Adrien?”
