The Getaway - By Tom Barber Page 0,91

been followed, then lifted and opened his hand.

A memory card was there.

Under the police hat of the cop uniform he’d worn at the Garden heist, Archer looked at it and smiled.

It worked.

The next step was finding a drug-store, and that wasn’t too hard. There was a big Duane Reade alongside the entrance to the subway on Steinway Street, just a minute’s walk away.

Taking another look behind him, Archer headed fast down the street. It was a Sunday and Steinway was relatively quiet, but he realised that those he passed were nodding and giving him a wide berth due to his uniform. It made him smile, considering he was probably the most wanted man in the city right now. He walked swiftly down the street, and saw the Duane Reade up ahead, the other side of the street.

Minding the traffic, he crossed over, approaching the wide doorway and heading inside.

The air-conditioning system inside the store was blistering cold, and it hit him like he’d opened a freezer as the sliding doors opened. Clearly the manager preferred to stay cool over keeping his electricity bill down. Inside, he saw the place was quiet, much like the street outside, with just the occasional person wandering the aisles and browsing the shelves. The only employee he could see was a bored teenage girl behind the counter, reading a magazine and mechanically chewing on gum. She saw him enter but her eyes moved straight back to whatever article she was engrossed in.

‘Photography?’ he asked her.

She pointed a manicured nail straight ahead, not bothering to look up from the magazine.

‘Far side. By the wall.’

Archer nodded and moved down the aisle. He found the electronic machine he was after mounted on the wall. Checking he hadn’t been followed, he took off the policeman’s hat and tucked it under his arm and slid the memory stick into the slot. It loaded, and he had to press a few buttons, but suddenly the first shot appeared on the screen, asking him if he wanted to edit it before printing.

He pressed ignore and studied the photograph closely instead.

It was a surveillance shot, taken late at night. Three men and a woman, in a parking lot. One of the men was Farrell. That much was immediately clear. He was standing face-on to the camera. Ortiz was standing beside him, dressed in a white vest and black sweatpants, her arms crossed, the light from the lamp-post showing the pronounced curves of the muscles in her arms and the sharp edge of her jaw-line.

They were facing two men in what looked like a meeting. The other two had their backs turned. It was dark, so making out exact distinguishing characteristics was a challenge, but he saw a tall, gangly shape on one of them and fiery red hair in the other.

Siletti and O’Hara. Unmistakeable.

He clicked on. Siletti and O’Hara still had their backs turned. It was evidence, but Archer wanted more. A good lawyer could probably defend this in court, finding a way to get them out of it, but then again any half-decent professional in the D.C office who was familiar with photography could enhance these in seconds.

Archer clicked on. The shots continued, and he tried to decipher what had happened. Farrell didn’t look happy, the street-light above showing him frowning, his mouth open, his face angry. Farrell had mentioned that he’d severed ties with his rat in the Task Force a few weeks ago. These photos were taken in the last two weeks, when relations were gone, hence the anger on Farrell’s face. Siletti and O’Hara were probably meeting to try and re-establish their working relationship. He clicked on.

Soon enough, the meeting seemed to end and Siletti and O’Hara started to turn in the photographs. He watched in staccato as Farrell and Ortiz turned and walked away, disappearing into the night. Jim Archer hadn’t bothered to follow them with the camera. He already had them on the memory card.

Instead, the photographs showed the other two men climb into a dark Mercedes. As they moved off, James Archer had caught the perfect shot. The interior light inside the car hadn’t quite gone off yet and it lit up their faces like a beacon.

Siletti and O’Hara.

Three cherries.

The lights flashing, quarters pouring out of the bottom of the machine.

Jackpot.

He reached in his pocket, grabbing his cell phone, and pushed Katic’s number. It connected and he lifted it to his ear, looking at the damning shot.

‘Katic, it’s Archer. I’ve got great news.’

But he suddenly paused.

Something