Frankie was still leaning against the Cadillac. He caught Nans’ eye and tipped an imaginary hat.
Nans nodded back.
The sirens got louder.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The first cruisercame around the corner fast, lights spinning red and blue against the concrete walls of the storage facility. A second followed. Then a third — unmarked, dark, moving with the controlled urgency of someone who’d been driving angry for forty minutes.
Jack.
The SUV was gone — Crane had made it out before the sirens arrived — but Ruth’s live-stream had captured his license plate in crisp digital clarity, and careful only gets you so far when four police departments are looking for your car.
Sal and Needles had not been as quick. Crane hadn’t waited for them, which told Nans everything she needed to know about loyalty in the diamond smuggling business. Needles was already sitting on the curb, his overcoat pooled around him like a deflated parachute. “I’d like a lawyer,” he told the approaching officers. “And possibly some coffee.”
Sal let himself be cuffed without resistance. As they walked him to the cruiser, his gaze shifted to Ida — just for a second — and something moved across his face that might have been disbelief.
“That’s the one,” he said to the officer. “The one with the purse. She’s the ringleader.”
“I am not the ringleader,” Ida said indignantly. Then, to Nans: “Am I the ringleader?”
“No one is the ringleader,” Helen said firmly. “We’re a community organization.”
The cruiser door closed on whatever Sal said next.
Jack’s car skidded into the lot and parked at an angle that suggested the parking job was an afterthought. He crossed the pavement in long strides and looked at the five of them.
“You,” he said to Nans, “live-streamed a confrontation with a diamond smuggler.”
“Ruth did the streaming. I did the confronting.”
“You broke into a storage unit?—”
“We were escorted by facility staff.”
“You retrieved evidence from an active investigation?—”
“We retrieved a recipe card from a duffel bag full of flour and broken eggs. It’s a family heirloom, Jack.”
“And then you were cornered in a parking lot by Victor Crane — a man under investigation by three federal agencies — and instead of calling for help, you gave him a speech.”
“It was a very effective speech,” Ruth said.
Jack closed his eyes. Pinched the bridge of his nose. Stood very still for five seconds, which Nans recognized as his method for not saying the first four things that came to mind.
When he opened his eyes, his voice was quiet. “The boot print from Lexy’s kitchen. We matched it to Sal Baretti three hours ago. I was building a case — a proper case, with warrants and procedure. And then I got a live-stream notification from my grandmother-in-law showing me my primary suspect threatening her in a parking lot.”
“So you came,” Nans said.
“Of course I came!”
Nans softened. “Jack. We’re all right.”
Jack looked at Lexy. She stood with the recipe card pressed against her chest, the bruise on her temple dark in the flashing lights. She gave him a small, tired smile.
“Hey,” she said.
“Hey.” He put his arms around her — carefully, mindful of her head — and held on for a moment longer than protocol probably allowed at an active crime scene.
