Dance and Foster looked at each other. She nodded. They stepped to either side of the door--procedure, not to mention common sense--and Foster knocked. "Pedro Escalanza? Bureau of Investigation. We'd like to talk to you."
No answer.
Another rap.
"Please open the door. We just want to talk. It'll be to your advantage."
Nothing.
"Shit. Waste of time."
Dance gripped the door. Locked. "Try the back."
The cottages had small decks, which were accessed by sliding doors. Lawn chairs and tables sat on the uneven brick. No barbecue grills, of course; one lazy briquette and these hills would vanish in ten breaths. They walked around to this unit's deck and noted that the door was open, a frosty beer, half full, sat on the table. Foster, his hand on his weapon's grip, walked closer. "Pedro."
"Yeah?" a man's voice called. "I was in the john. Come on in."
They walked inside. And froze.
On the bathroom floor they could see two legs stretched out. Streak of blood on them. Puddling on the floor too.
Foster drew his gun and started to turn but the young man behind the curtain next to the sliding door quickly touched the agent's skull with his own gun.
He pulled Foster's Glock from his hand and shoved him forward, then closed the door.
They both turned to the lean Latino gazing at them with fierce eyes.
"Serrano," Dance whispered.
Chapter 88
They were back.
At last. Thank you, Lord.
The two boys from the other night. Except there were three of them at the moment.
Well, now that David Goldschmidt thought about it, there might've been three the other night. Only two bikes but, yes, there could have been another one then.
The other night.
The night of shame, he thought of it. His heart pounding even now, several days afterward. Palms sweating. Like Kristallnacht, the "Night of Broken Glass" in 1938, when the Germans rioted and destroyed a thousand homes and businesses of Jews throughout the country.
Goldschmidt was watching the boys on the video screen, which wasn't, as he'd told Officer Dance the other night, in the bedroom at all, but in the den. They were moving closer now, all three. Looking around, furtive. Guilt on wheels.
True, he hadn't exactly gotten a look at them the other day, not their faces--that's why he'd asked Dance for more details; he didn't want to make a mistake. But this was surely them. He'd seen their posture, their clothes, as they'd fled, after obscenely defacing his house. Besides, who else would it be?
They'd returned for their precious bikes.
Coming after the bait.
Which is why he'd kept them.
Bait...
Now he was ready. He'd called his wife in Seattle and had her stay a few days longer with her sister. Made up some story that he himself wanted to come up for the weekend. Why didn't she stay and he'd join her? She'd bought it.
As the boys stole closer still, looking around them, pausing from time to time, Goldschmidt looked up and saw them through the den window, the lace curtain.