Out of Sight

Karen stood up and then sat down again.

"We don't know for sure, though, do we, if it's our Buddy?"

"I called Florence-you met her one time-still one of my best sources. I said, "See if you can run an Orren Bragg for me in Dade, Broward or Palm Beach County." I called her from the club, the same as I did Gregg. I come home, both faxes are waiting. Orren Bragg has accounts with Florida Power and Light and Bell South His phone number's in there too. Buddy resides in Hallandale at the Shalamar Apartments on A1A, he's in 708."

"That's our Buddy," Karen said. She stood up again.

"My sources," her dad said, "will bill you about fifty bucks each. I'll give you the invoices when they come."

Karen stood facing him, nodding and then saying, "Why do you suppose Buddy's own sister ratted him out like that?"

Her dad said, "She felt it was for his own good. Or maybe she never liked him. He was a brat, made her life miserable when they were kids."

"Foley said she was a nun, or used to be."

"I don't know," her dad said, "I always liked nuns. They're so clean.

They never seem to sweat."

She finished her drink and saw her dad watching her.

"You're not thinking of calling, are you? Ask if your friend's there?

Please don't tell me that."

Karen said, "Okay, I won't."

It was an idea, though, she did think about. Call Buddy's number and ask for someone, a name, any name, pretty sure she'd recognize Buddy's voice, or Foley's if he answered, if he was there, and they'd tell her she had the wrong number and hang up. She was tempted, wanting to do it. But if they recognized her voice… She thought of asking her dad to call and decided no, go by the book. So she called Burdon. He was cool, wanting to know how she came about this information, and after she told him he said, "Karen, you're for real, aren't you?

You can come along if you want." He'd stop by the home of a judge friend for a warrant, get a SWAT team together and meet her at the Shalamar Apartments as soon as they could make it.

He said, "Karen"-not calling her "girl" this time" get a key from die manager, if you would, please."

Karen was aware of details she would tell her dad about later this evening.

The smell of sauerkraut in the manager's first-floor apartment His watery wide-open eyes as she assured him the residents wouldn't be disturbed. Telling him this as she imagined their reaction to the SWAT team invading the place.

The senior citizens in the lobby, mostly women, sweaters over their shoulders, bifocals shining, real fear in their eyes at the sight of black uniforms and jackboots, the helmets, the ballistic vests with FBI in yellow, big, on the backs of the vests, the automatic weapons at port arms, the SWAT team coming through the lobby like a troop of Darth Vaders.

She thought, No, these old people wouldn't think of Darth Vader, they'd see Nazi storm troopers coming in to haul them away, because it could have happened to some of them. She had seen old ladies in Miami with faded numbers on their arms.

Karen would tell her dad what she expected and then say she was surprised Burdon didn't make it a full-scale SWAT assault.

Very surprised.

He came with eight guys in jackets and wool shirts hanging out, running shoes, half of them carrying bags that could hold tennis racquets or different kinds of athletic gear. The residents did stop what they were doing, watching television, playing gin; they had to wonder what was going on, curious, but didn't seem alarmed.

Burdon posted two men outside, back and front, and sent two more up to seven to cover both ends of the hall. He said to Karen, "You ready?"

Then had to pause as a woman asked, "Are you delivering the oxygen?"

Burdon, Karen and the remaining four SWAT team agents got on the elevator. On the way up Burdon looked at them one at a time.

"You're primary, you're secondary, you're point man."

He said to the fourth, "You're gonna use a ram?"

He carried it in what looked like a navy seabag.

Karen said, "The manager's door is metal. You know what I mean? They might all be."

Burdon looked at her.

"Yeah, you've been through doors, haven't you?"

"A ram on a metal door," Karen said, "makes an awful lot of noise for what good it does."

She'd tell her dad how you grabbed the handle on top that was like a dorsal fin, and the handle at the back end and swing the ram hard against the door. If it was wood the ram would shatter it. Metal, you might only dent it. But the fourth man also had a shotgun with a "shock-lock" round in it and that would do the job.

They reached the seventh floor and the SWAT agents took off the jackets and wool shirts they'd worn over their ballistic vests, heavy ones with a ceramic plate covering the heart area. Karen handed the key to the agent with the canvas bag. He had his shotgun out now, a Remington with a three-inch strip of metal taped to the muzzle. They approached