The kid crouched down hastily. So did Bose. He risked a look back. There were two men coming up the alley, wraithlike in the rain. They hadn’t seen Bose or Turk yet—the angle of the wall had hidden them—but unless they turned around they surely would.

Turk seemed reassured by Bose’s reaction. “This way,” he said.

Bose had no choice but to follow him around the corner into the back lane, where they would almost certainly be spotted … but no, there was a narrow gap between a green steel Dumpster and the ledge of a loading bay, just big enough for the two of them to squeeze into. Bose tried to get a good look around during the brief moment he was exposed. The bays of the Findley warehouse were half a block to his left. Three cars were parked in the alley and a white unmarked van had pulled up to one of the bays. The loading bay door had been rolled up, spilling a rectangle of light into the darkness. Bose tried to fix the scene in his mind, calculating relative distances and possible avenues of escape. Then he hunkered down next to Turk, who was shaking like a wet dog.

The two guards came up the alley and into the open. Bose caught a glimpse of their yellow rain jackets as they passed the Dumpster, heading back to the open loading dock. The presence of the van explained what was going on at the warehouse, Bose thought. Findley had gotten nervous and was cleansing the building of contraband. There were boxes stacked floor to ceiling in the back of the van—probably chemicals from Lebanon or Syria, bound for black-market bioreactors.

Bose decided he needed a better look. He went from a crouch to a kneeling position and then down onto his belly. The asphalt under him was wet but still warm from the heat of the day; it smelled like some kind of oil-drenched animal. He snaked forward and peered past the rim of the Dumpster. All he had for camouflage was his dark hair and dark skin.

He got a good look at the man supervising the loading, a middle-aged man with a haggard expression and a flashlight in his hand. Bose recognized him as the elder Findley. “Your father’s here,” he whispered.

After a pause the kid said, “You know my father?”

“I know him when I see him.”

“Are you going to arrest him?”

“I wish I could. But I’m not a cop anymore. I can’t arrest anybody.”

“Then what are you doing here?”

“Helping out a friend. What are you doing here?”

No answer.