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“It looks like Cameron has the third floor.”
“Yeah.” Rapp looked over Dumond’s shoulder at the screen and then checked his watch. It wasn’t yet eight. “What did you pick up on the mike?”
“Nothing on the third floor, but I got a TV on the second and some water running on the first.”
“Nothing on the garden level?”
“No.”
Rapp looked to Coleman. “What do you think?”
“I don’t think he’s there. Would you be if you were in his shoes?”
“Probably not. Let’s go take a look.” Rapp grabbed the radio. “Guys, we’re going in. Bring it over to Twenty-ninth and sit tight.”
“What’s our cover?” asked Coleman.
They were woefully unprepared for this. Both were wearing jeans, jackets, and baseball hats, and both needed a shave. If the neighbors saw them snooping around, they were apt to call the cops. Rapp looked around the van and said, “Marcus, hand me that clipboard.” Rapp took it and asked, “Can you find out who owns this place?”
“Yeap. All I have to do is access the city’s tax records.”
“Do it.”
“What do you have in mind?” asked Coleman.
“We work for Metropolitan Roofing. The owner asked us to come out and get him a bid for some work he wants done.”
“What if the owner lives here?”
“That’s why I’ve got Marcus running the check.”
On cue, Dumond announced, “You’re clear. The guy listed on the title doesn’t show up on any of the mailboxes.”
“Good.” To Coleman, Rapp said, “You got your tools?”
Coleman nodded and patted the breast pocket of his jacket.
“Marcus, give us a thirty-second head start, and then move the van in closer and give us audio surveillance. And while we’re in there, keep digging. We need to know as much about this guy as possible, and we need it quick.”
Rapp and Coleman left the van and started down the heaved cobblestone sidewalk. There was a small wrought-iron gate between the sidewalk and the tiny front yard. Rapp paused at the gate, as if not quite certain where he was. He looked at the clipboard and then the address on the house. He and Coleman continued through the gate and walked up onto the porch. Rapp stood between the bay window of the first-floor unit and the door while Coleman went to work on the lock. Rapp had his radio hooked to the top of the clipboard.
He brought it up to his mouth and said, “Marcus, bring the van around, and let me know what you can pick up from the third floor.”
Coleman twisted the lock gun, and the old, heavy door swung in. They stepped into the small foyer and looked up the staircase. They waited there listening for almost thirty seconds. When Dumond told them he was on station, they continued slowly up the stairs. They kept their weapons holstered but had their hands under their jackets ready to draw at the first sign of trouble. They made it to the second landing without incident and continued to the third. Once past the other tenants’ doorways, they pulled headsets from their jackets and plugged them into their radios
so they could communicate with their hands free. The door to Cameron’s apartment had three separate locks on it. While Coleman went to work, Rapp set the clipboard down and drew his gun, which he kept in his left hand.
“Marcus,” Rapp whispered. “Are you picking anything up?”
“Nothing, just the hum of the refrigerator.”
“Let me know the second you hear something. Guys, how does the street look?”
It was Stroble who answered. “Everything’s quiet.”
Coleman was working on the third and final lock. It was giving him the most trouble. After several frustrating minutes, he finally got it. Standing up, he put the lock pick away and grabbed his gun. He pointed to himself and then Rapp. Rapp shook his head stubbornly. This was his problem more than it was Coleman’s. He would go through the door first.
“Marcus, we’re going in.” Rapp was slightly crouched with his silenced Beretta extended. He nodded to Coleman, who had a hand on the doorknob. Coleman twisted the knob, opened the door, and stepped out of Rapp’s way. Rapp charged through the door, his heart beating a little faster than normal but not much. He heard the beep of an alarm but ignored it. It would have to wait. He moved quickly, sweeping his weapon from left to right and back again, searching for motion. Reminding himself with every step that he had to take Cameron alive, that he had to fight his training and aim for the shoulder and not the head.