Jamal turned halfway and raised his hand, signaling to the cabbie that yes, they wanted the cab, and motioned for it to come on.

Lucky was already at the BMW, cast in red from the blinking taillight, when Jamal reached him.

Jamal stopped and stood still. He heard the knocking, too.

“There’s something trapped in there,” Lucky said. “Or someone.” He moved to where he could see the car’s interior. He tried the door and found it locked “There’s nobody inside here.”

“What I said, man.”

“Noise gotta be coming from the trunk.”

Jamal could hear the knocking clearly now. Whoever or whatever was inside the trunk must have heard them on the outside. “Somethin’s alive in there, bro.”

“Let’s open it,” Lucky said.

“Can’t. No handle. And we ain’t got no key.”

The cabdriver had figured things out, a car parked in a godforsaken place, its lights blinking erratically, two curious young guys, trying to get the trunk open. He got a pry bar from the tool box he carried in the cab’s trunk and went over to them. He could go either way with the pry bar, if he had to. But these two didn’t seem dangerous. Couple of kids.

“There’s something or someone trapped in there,” Lucky said, pointing.

“I’d bet on someone,” the cabbie said, leaning close with his ear to the trunk lid. “Unless something’s learned to holler for help.” He jammed the iron pry bar’s edge beneath the lip of the trunk lid. The metal made a squealing sound.

“That’s a BMW,” Lucky noted.

“It’s an old pile of crap, too,” the cabbie said. “And some poor bastard’s trapped in the trunk and trying to get out.”

“Could be a classic,” Jamal said.

“Stand back,” the cabbie said, bearing his weight down on the pry bar. “Might be a guy with a gun in there.”

The lock gave and the trunk lid sprang open.

It wasn’t a guy with a gun. It was a woman. She was nude and bound with duct tape, including a piece over her mouth that she’d worked half off. Her hair was plastered to her face with perspiration and she looked like somebody had beat the shit out of her. Even had what look like knife cuts and cigarette burns on her nude body.

The cabbie began using his pocketknife to cut the tape away.

The woman lay still except for sucking in huge breaths of the night air.

“Bet it was stuffy as hell in there,” Jamal said, unable to look away from the abused naked woman. Despite her abysmal condition she was actually kind of—

Weaver glared at him and said, “Look in your pockets instead of at me, and see if you can find a cell phone.”

She climbed out of the trunk. She was unsteady at first, leaning on the car, then was able to stand.

“You sure ain’t got a phone in any of your pockets,” Lucky said.

“I can call in and get the cops here, lady,” the cabbie said.

“I am a cop,” she said.

Jamal and Lucky began backing away.

“Stay where you are!” Weaver said. “Please.”

They continued to backpedal. “It ain’t like you got a badge or a gun or anything proves you’re a cop,” Jamal said.

“They got a point,” the cabbie said, heading for his cab with its two-way radio.

“Why the hell are you hopping?” Weaver asked Jamal.

“He just does that,” Lucky said. “Hops around. Only sometimes.”

“There a cure for that?”

“Heavy stuff in his pockets.”

Weaver licked her fingertips, then touched them to some of the cigarette burns on her breasts.

Both boys stood still, staring, mesmerized. Jamal’s jaw was hanging open.

“Don’t run, but don’t stare at me.”

They began shifting their weight. They were made for movement.

Weaver put her hands on her hips. “Listen, you run and I’m gonna remember your faces.”

“We sure ain’t gonna remember yours,” Lucky said.

Both teenagers hooted. Jamal hopped. Then they ran like hell.

“Little pricks,” Weaver said.

The cabdriver was back. He was carrying a light blanket that looked like it had oil stains on it. “Help’s on the way,” he said. “I thought you might want this.”

“Thanks, I do, even though it’ll hurt.”

He handed her the folded blanket and looked in the direction the two teenagers had run. “They saved your life.”

“I wanted to thank them.”

“Notice how that tall one’s always hopping?”

“Yeah. He should carry something heavy in his pockets.”

A hunched-over woman pushing a two-wheeled wire grocery cart had spotted them, seen that Weaver was in trouble, and was coming toward them at a slow but steady pace.

“A good Samaritan,” the cabbie said.

“Another one,” Weaver said. “I wonder if she’s got a cell phone.”

73

Quinn pulled the Lincoln to the curb and answered his cell phone. Pearl gave him a look. Quinn said, “It’s Weaver.”

“Damned right it is,” said the voice on the phone.

“I was letting Pearl know.” He turned the volume up on the phone so Pearl could hear. “You okay, Nancy?”

Heavy breathing. Gathering herself. Quinn didn’t like this.

“Nancy—”

“The bastard worked me over, Quinn. Then he left me locked in a car trunk to die there.”

“What did he—”

“Never mind. I survived. But he made me talk. I couldn’t help it.”

Everybody talks.

“Did he believe what you told him?” Quinn asked.

“I don’t know. It might be true. I don’t think I could have convinced him otherwise, unless I at least half believed it myself. Anyway, I’m sure he’s gonna act on the information.”

“Which is?”

“I overheard a phone conversation at the restaurant. Winston Castle was talking about where Bellezza was hidden.” Weaver’s voice trailed off. Quinn wondered if she was hurt more seriously than she assumed. Was she thinking straight?

“Nancy—”

“Shut up and listen, Quinn. Information flows both ways. Winston Castle said Bellezza was hidden at the restaurant, concealed inside the birdbath near the garden maze.”

“Inside?”

“It was used as the base and core of all that fancy concrete work that even the birds weren’t happy about. You ever see a bird take a bath in that thing?”

Quinn hadn’t. He thought about the bust inside a layer of concrete, preserved as if encased in a time capsule. “You think the bust might really be there?”

“Question is, does the killer think it might be there. I don’t know for sure, but my impression was that he believed what I was saying, considering what he was doing with the burning tip of his cigarette.”

“Who was Winston talking to?”

“I never figured that one out.”

“Listen, Nancy, this might seem like a dumb question, but—”

“He enjoyed it, Quinn. The bastard loves inflicting pain.” She paused. “Is that what you wanted to hear?”

“God, no, Nancy. But it’s what I expected to hear. I had to make sure.”

In the corner of his vision, Quinn saw the muscles in Pearl’s jaw tighten. She was staring straight ahead when he spoke into the phone. “Nancy, I promise you we’ll get the—”

“Yeah, yeah. I gotta go now, Quinn. Ambulance is coming for me. And a patrol car, too.”

There was a medley of noise on the phone, none of it recognizable.

“I love all this attention.”

“Nancy—”

“You be careful, Quinn. I mean that.”

“Tell her to lie back down,” a male voice said in the background. One of the paramedics. “Ma’am, please—”

“Careful, Quinn,” she said again.

And the connection was broken.

The Lincoln didn’t have a siren, but there was an old cherry light Quinn had bought at a police memorabilia sale in New Jersey. The kind with the big magnetic base you could clamp onto the car’s metal roof. He stuck the round plug, at the end of the wire he was holding, into where the lighter used to be. Then he straightened out in his seat, opened the window, and let in a blast of humid wind and a few raindrops. He crooked his arm and stuck the flashing red light to the car’s roof, directly over his head. Then he raised the window as far as it would go without crimping the wire.