Targets of Deception by Jeffrey Stephens Read Free Book Online Page B

make a call. As he reached for the telephone, he saw the line had been cut.
    “Sonuvabitch,” he said.  
    EIGHT
    Rahmad’s assassin, Tafallai, was strolling down 76 th Street. It was a quiet street by New York City standards, rows of brownstones lining both sides, trees planted in pavement cutouts, circled by short, wrought-iron grating. He moved at an unhurried pace, alert to any movement around him, as he approached Sandor’s building.
    When he received the call informing him that his target had returned home, he had stopped at a Korean market and purchased the largest bunch of flowers they had.
    He stopped and had a look up and down the street. There was nothing to make him suspicious, no indication that the police had responded to a call about the break-in. He resumed walking until he was directly in front of Sandor’s building, then he turned and headed up the stairs.
    Jordan had packed his black leather overnight bag with a few articles of clothing and most of the contents he retrieved from the hidden compartment in his closet, including the Smith & Wesson .45. The smaller handgun, a Walther PPK .380, was already tucked into the back of his waistband.
    He needed to make a couple of calls before he left town and, although he had a clean cell in the bag that he had never used before, he didn’t want to use that line. Not yet.
    Florence Carter was an attractive black woman who lived directly below him, an actress of stage and screen whenever she could get the work, a waitress the rest of the time.
    It was not yet noon, and she was home.
    Jordan told her he was having phone problems. She let him in and said he should make himself comfortable.
    “You need some privacy?” she asked.
    “No, I don’t think so. But thanks.”
    She offered him something to drink, but he passed.
    “Say, Florence, you didn’t hear anything going on upstairs last night? Or early this morning?”
    She shook her head. “I was working last night. What sort of thing you mean?”
    “I was away overnight. Thought someone might have been in my apartment.”
    “In your apartment?”
    “It’s nothing. Just my phones are out. Service guy might have come by or something.”
    “No. Not that I know of. My phone is fine.”
    “Good. Well, I’ll just be a couple of minutes.”
    “Take your time,” she told him.
    Jordan sat on the couch and picked up the cordless telephone. When he checked his answering service, there were several messages, including a voicemail from Reynolds in the past hour.
    His first call was to Sternlich.
    “How bad?” he asked after Jordan had told him about his apartment.
    “Like a small tornado ran through my place.”
    “Call the police, Jordan.”
    “No. Not yet, at least.”
    “What are you waiting for?”
    “I had enough of the gendarmes yesterday.”
    “And what happens when these intruders make a return visit?”
    “Maybe I’ll ask them to clean up.”
    “I think you ought to make yourself scarce for a while.”
    “The idea had crossed my mind. What’ve you found out for me?”
    “Nothing yet. I’m a reporter, not a magician.”
    “You’re not even a reporter anymore. You’re an editor, remember? Use your connections and get me some answers.”
    “I’ll work on it. Please call the police.”
    “First I’m going to see Beth,” Jordan told him.
    “Beth?”
    “We have a lunch date. Thought maybe I should keep it.”
    “Why not?” Sternlich said in frustration. “Give her my best.”
    “I will. Just call me when you have something.”
    Jordan hung up and began dialing a new number.
     “I owe you a buck, Florence. I’ve got to call upstate.”
    “Don’t be silly,” she said as she answered a buzz from the front door of their small building.
    Jordan was transferred three times before he finally got through to Captain Reynolds. “I have some news for you from down here,” he said, then described what he had found when he returned home. “Please don’t tell me to call the locals.