Buddy said, "She'll see the elevator's going up to seven-that ought to give us some time."

They were leaving the building now, turning out into traffic.

"She saw us," Foley said, "so she'll know we got off."

Buddy said, "Well, if they know where I live, I guess they know what I drive. Should we pick up another car? This one's still got California plates on it. Or take 'em off and pick us up a Florida plate. I got a screwdriver in the glove box. They only use one license plate in Florida. I guess other states too. Stop off and lift one before we get on 95. There's a Wal-Mart over on Hallandale Beach Boulevard, has a big lot always full of cars. What do you think?"

"She looked right at me," Foley said.

"She didn't yell or get excited. She didn't move."

They were on A1A in northbound traffic, a two-lane street full of headlights.

"We got one thing going for us," Buddy said, keeping an eye on his rearview mirror, "it's dark out."

"She just sat there," Foley said, "looking right at me."

Her dad said, "He waved to you?"

"I won't swear to it," Karen said, "but I'm pretty sure he did. He raised his hand about as high as his head and it looked like, just as the elevator door closed, he waved."

It was Saturday now, seven in the evening. They had both been away from the house all day and were in the kitchen now, having a drink before going out to dinner.

"Maybe he was scratching his head."

"He was looking right at me the whole time."

"He knew you recognized him?"

"I'm sure he did. That's why I think he waved, he had nothing to lose.

You know what I mean? He couldn't pretend to be someone else, I'd already seen him in that dumb beach outfit."

Karen smiled just a little.

"He's a pretty cool guy. You know it?"

Her dad had to be cool, too, when he was with her.

"You wave back?"

"I didn't have time. The door closed."

"I imagine you would've though." Saying it in a matter-of fact way, going along straight-faced, not sure if he was serious or if Karen was, his darling little girl who tracked fugitives and took them to federal court.

"So what did you do next?"

"I used the radio to call Burdon. I told him Foley saw me, so he and Buddy were sure to get off the elevator. Burdon left one guy in the apartment and came down the stairs with the rest of his people to check the floors."

"What did you do?"

"Burdon told me to stay where I was. I radioed his guys outside and told them to get to the garage entrance. At that time, though, we didn't know if Buddy had a car, or if he did, what land and where it was registered."

"They might've still been in the building."

"It's possible, but they did get out and the chances are they made it before the two outside guys got to the garage. Burdon called the Broward sheriff's office and they contacted I think Autotrak and they made Buddy's car, an eight-nine Olds registered in California to Orren Bragg. It was too late by then to lay out a grid and have local police cover it. Burdon did send out an all-points, but was sure they'd already switched plates or picked up another car."

"Burdon leave surveillance on the building?"

"Yeah, but took it off this afternoon. I stopped by DEA to look at Glenn Michaels' case file again. They had him on possession with intent but couldn't make it stick. The interesting part of Glenn's statement, he said he went up to Detroit to visit a friend and look into job opportunities-if you can believe that. They wanted to know where he stayed and who the friend was. Glenn said a guy named Maurice Miller, also known as Snoopy, a former prizefighter. I looked him up, Maurice was at Lompoc the same time Glenn was. In fact they walked out of the prison camp together-for some reason I see them holding hands.

They were picked up and sent to USP Lompoc, the max prison, where Glenn met Buddy and Jack Foley. It ties in with Glenn telling me, when we were in the car together, he had a big score lined up. Then from something else he said, it had to be in Detroit. I called Burdon-you know what he said?"

"You'll have to tell me."

"

"What's this have to do with our bank robbers?" He says they're on their way to California because 'they always run to familiar ground to hide out."

" Her dad said, "They do, huh?"

"Buddy's phone bill was in the apartment. It shows he called a number in Los Angeles at least once a week. Guess whose it is."

"His sister."

"How did you know?"

"You said guess, I guessed."

"His sister Regina Mary Bragg, the ex-nun who turned him in. Burdon called her this morning, five a.m. in Los Angeles.

She said her brother was in Florida visiting a friend, but didn't know his name or have a phone number for Buddy. What I want to know," Karen said, "is why he calls his sister every week after she turned him in."

Her dad said, "Well, he doesn't seem to hold a grudge."

"I think he's basically a nice guy, does it out of kindness."

"Or maybe," her dad said, "she has some kind of nervous disorder from years of celibacy and his phone calls keep her stable."

"Foley said she drinks."

Her dad thought about it and said, "But not at five o'clock in the morning, when you say Burdon called her. If she's any kind of alcoholic she'd have been hung over and trying to think straight, careful about what she's saying."

"I guess the time to talk to her," Karen said, nodding, "is when she's into the sauce."

Now her dad was nodding.

"Sometime in the evening, but not too late."

They went to Joe's Stone Crab for dinner.

When they got back Karen stayed in the kitchen to call Regina Mary Bragg. Eight p.m. in Los Angeles.

Her dad went to his chair in the screened-in room to watch television, a cognac next to him on the lamp table. He moved through channels with the remote, looking, until he came to Robert Redford and Max von Sydow in the library of someone's home, the man seated at the desk. Redford is pointing what looks like a Colt.45 at him. But Max, with a Walther PPK, a much more intelligent gun, has the drop on Redford and tells him to put his gun on the desk. It reminded him of Karen having lost the Sig Sauer he gave her three Christmases ago. The day she spent in the hospital he told her if she was a good girl she might get another one for her birthday, in April. She said, "I'll get my gun back when I find Jack Foley. What I need are shoes. But don't get me anything, okay? Really." Which was what she said every year. And every year she would be his little girl again unwrapping presents, eager, taking great pleasure in it, while his pleasure was watching her. Watching Max von Sydow now walk over to the seated man and shoot him in the right temple, to Redford's amazement, and place the Walther in the man's hand. Forty years as a private investigator Marshall Sisco had never carried a gun or kept one in his office or home. None of his investigators did either, or Karen when she worked surveillance jobs for him: the cute girl following slip-and-fall and whiplash cheaters looking for insurance payoffs. They had talked about those times at dinner, Marshall trying to sell his little girl on the idea of returning to private investigating, run the office, make some real money representing big companies being sued-supermarkets and restaurants, hospitals, bike and car manufacturers… She wouldn't have to carry a gun or load her trunk with all that law enforcement stuff. She'd meet lawyers, doctors-nothing wrong with them necessarily if they were divorced. Why settle for some cowboy cop who drank too much and cheated on his wife? That's the way those hotshots were, all of them. Karen was a nice girl, well behaved in her own way; she listened to him at dinner, nodding a few times while picking her crab claws clean, and asked him if he thought Buddy and Foley would stick together.