drove around the block—more houses, more apartments, an Assembly of God church slanting hard like it had had a little too much to drink. All of it went on the mental map. “Park on the same street as the house? Or should we ditch the car before we get there?”
“Ditch it. If someone is there, if they maybe knew Jake, they might know this piece of shit as well,” Rufus said, tapping the dashboard.
Sam found a spot on the cross street, jiggled the wires, and let the Impala shudder and die.
“Maybe we’ll get lucky,” Sam said, staring at the broken window. “Maybe somebody’ll steal it before we get back.”
Rufus opened the passenger door and said while climbing out, “You won’t like the 7, so don’t jinx us.” He looked at Sam over the rooftop. “Although, lots of trains in Queens are above ground. If that helps.”
“The only thing that’s going to help is that this time, I wouldn’t mind having a certain redhead grind up on me on purpose and pretend it was all the train’s fault.”
Rufus’s cheeks got red and blotchy, causing his freckles to stand out in contrast. “It was the train’s fault.”
Unable to help the little scoff in his throat—or, for that matter, the little grin—Sam took off on the sidewalk. He noted the buildings around him, trying to catch a feel for this place the way Rufus had. One of the apartment buildings had a small playground, the old-fashioned kind with everything made out of steel that got screaming hot on a July day like this. A couple of kids, both under five, sat unattended on the gravel fill, both of them seemingly content, looking around seriously. But otherwise, the street was empty for the moment. As Rufus had said, it was a work day, and people had to work. It made sense; it just didn’t make Sam feel any better.
“Shit,” Sam said, his heartbeat rising, pressing his hands against his jeans. They had maybe twenty yards of sidewalk before they reached the house. Curtains drawn. No van. Nothing, in fact, that made it seem like anybody was actually in there. “Shit, do you really think it’s empty?”
Rufus removed two small lock-picking tools from his inner jacket pocket. “Only one way to find out.”
“Ok,” Sam said. “Go for the carport. Heckler’s the only one who’s seen me so far; nobody else knows me from Jesus. I’ll knock on the front door. If anybody answers, you get your ass out of there. Got a clipboard? I’m going to play the Jesus card.”
“I called you God last night—you don’t need a clipboard,” Rufus said, dead serious and without missing a beat. He kept moving forward and vanished into the carport.
Even if Sam had known how to respond, he didn’t have a chance. He kept going until he got to the walk that led to the front porch, and then he took it at a brisk pace, shoulders squared. What did people who went to church talk about? What did they want? What did they wear? Probably not white tees, inside out, bought extra-large to cover a holstered Beretta. Well, fuck, he’d seen the Assembly of God building, and he was going for it.
When he got to the door, he knocked. Then he counted down by threes from ninety-nine. Then he knocked again, harder, the door rattling in the frame. He started his count again, this time by fours from a hundred and twenty. As he raised his hand to knock a third time, though, the door swung open.
Rufus grinned up at him and waggled his eyebrows. “Whatcha sellin’, hunk?”
Something snarky flitted through Sam’s head, but then he smiled as he walked past him into the house. “That’s a good look on you, so you know.”
“What is?” Rufus asked, his voice just above a whisper. He gently shut the door and turned to Sam.
“When you’re really proud of yourself like that and trying to hide it, but you’re such a punk, you can’t keep it all inside.” Sam tried to keep a straight face, pretending to study the empty entry hall as he added, offhand, “It’s cute.”
Rufus bit his lower lip. “Ah, well, thanks. Anyway, I think the house is empty.”
“It looks empty. There’s a difference.” Sam unholstered the Beretta from under the tee and held it low, pointed at the ground. “Please don’t tell me you want to split up.”
“Against the odds, I’ve made it to thirty-three.”
Sam hemmed. “So, if I tell you, just hypothetically, that you and