I looked across the street and saw the tail end of the Annihilator. The front of it was, literally, in Brentwood’s. The two back doors of the SUV flung open and two men dressed entirely in black, with black hoods or ski masks pulled down over their heads, were leaping out and charging through the destroyed storefront. The Annihilator was already backing out, then screeching to a halt, turning around and backing up to the shattered window. The rear tailgate rose automatically, and in the time it had taken for the driver to conduct this maneuver, the two guys inside had evidently cleared several racks of suits and were throwing them into the back of the SUV, then leaping back into the still-open rear doors, and now the Annihilator was back in gear and screeching up Garvin.

In another few seconds, the only sound was the alarm system, wailing irrelevantly, from inside Brentwood’s.

“Lawrence,” I said softly under my breath, “where the fuck are you, man?”

Chapter 17

17

I got out my cell and called 911 first.

“I’m calling to report a robbery,” I said.

“You’ve been robbed, sir?”

“No, I’ve witnessed a robbery.” I told her the name of the store, its location, and that a huge black SUV with at least three guys in it was screaming away from the scene. “A black Annihilator, couldn’t make out the plate, but it’s heading east.”

“What is your name, sir?”

I ended the call. I knew they’d have my name sooner or later. Their call display system would have my number, and a check with my cell service would turn up my name. I’d be happy to talk to them—later.

I began running back, through the light rain, in the direction of the doughnut shop, to pick up my car and figure out what I should do next. What I didn’t want to do, right now, was hang around at the scene, and be kept there all night by cops asking a lot of questions.

Not one to give up, I tried Lawrence’s numbers again. As long as I’d had cell phones, I’d never figured out how to program in my most frequently called numbers. And I was learning right now that it was impossible to tap in numbers on a tiny keypad while jogging, so I stopped long enough, under the shelter of another store awning, to call. Still no answer at either number.

I decided, once I was back to the car, that I would go to Lawrence’s apartment and try to find him there.

As I approached the doughnut shop, winded and damp, I could see that there was still no Buick there, but a taxi had pulled in next to my Virtue. I got out my key, slipped into the car, and turned the ignition.

Whir. And that was it. Nothing more.