"Did you see them clean out the cash register?"
"Yes. And one of them took a bottle of whiskey from the shelf."
"Then what?"
"They came running out. I was standing over there, to the left, over there, I'm not sure they saw me. I guess maybe they would've shot me, too, if they'd seen me."
"You were lucky," Carella said.
"Yes, I think I was."
"What'd they do then?" Meyer asked.
"They got back in the station wagon, and the woman drove them off."
"There was a woman driving the car?"
"Yes, a blonde woman."
"How old, would you know?"
"I really couldn't say. A sort of heavyset woman, she might've been in her forties."
"By heavyset…"
"Well, sort of stout."
"What was she wearing, would you remember?"
"I'm sorry."
Monroe was coming out of the liquor store.
"This the witness here?" he asked.
"A very good witness," Carella said.
"Well, thank you, young man," Mrs. Davis said, and smiled at him. She was suddenly glad she hadn't told him she'd wet her pants when she saw those little girls shooting Mr. Agnello.
"So what've we got here?" Monroe said. "An epidemic of kindergarten kids holding up liquor stores?"
"Looks that way," Carella said. "Where's your partner?"
"Who the hell knows where he is?" Monroe said. "Excuse me, lady."
"Oh, that's perfectly all right," she said. This was just like cable television, with the cursing and all. She couldn't wait to phone her daughter and tell her about it.
"Same kids, or what?" Monroe asked.
"What?" Mrs. Davis said.
"Excuse me, lady," Monroe said, "I was talking to this officer here."
"Little girls this time," Meyer said. "But it sounds like the same bunch. Same blonde driving the car."
"Nice lady, that blonde," Monroe said. "Driving kids to stickups. What kind of car, did you find out?" He turned to Carella. "What it is, the fart at the other store couldn't… excuse me, lady."
"Oh, that's perfectly all right," she said.
"A blue station wagon," Meyer said.
"You happen to know what year and make, lady?"
"I'm sorry, I don't."
"Yeah," Monroe said. "So all we got is the same big blonde driving four kids in a blue station wagon."
"That's about it," Meyer said.
"There wasn't homicides involved here, I'd turn this over to Robbery in a minute. You better give them a buzz, anyway."
"I already did," Meyer said. "After the first one."
One of the techs ambled out of the store.
"Got some bullets here," he said. "Who wants them?"
"What do they look like?" Monroe asked.
The technician showed him the palm of his hand. A white cloth was draped over it, and four spent bullets rested on it.
"Twenty-twos maybe," he said, and shrugged.
Mrs. Davis leaned over to look at the technician's palm.
"So, okay, lady," Monroe said, "you got any further business here?"
"Cool it," Carella said.
Monroe looked at him.
"I'll have one of our cars drop you home, Mrs. Davis," Carella said.
"A taxi service, they run up here," Monroe said to the air.
"Cool it," Carella said again, more softly this time, but somehow the words carried greater menace.
Monroe looked at him again and then turned to Meyer.
"Bag them bullets and get them over to Ballistics," he said. "Call Robbery and tell them we got another one."
"Sounds like good advice," Meyer said.
Monroe missed the sarcasm. He glared again at Carella, and then walked to where his car was parked at the curb.
Wait'll I tell my daughter! Mrs. Davis thought. A ride in a police car!
The patrolmen riding Charlie Four were approaching the corner of Rachel and Jakes, just cruising by, making another routine run of the sector when the man riding shotgun spotted it.
"Slow down, Freddie," he said.
"What do you see, Joe?"
"The van there. Near the corner."
"What about it?"
Joe Guardi opened his notebook. "Didn't we get a BOLO on a Ford Econoline?" He snapped on the roof light, scanned the notebook. "Yeah, here it is," he said. In his own handwriting, he saw the words "BOLO tan 79 Ford Econoline, RL 68-7210. Blue '84 Citation, DL 74-3681." The word BOLO stood for Be On the Lookout.
"Yeah," he said again. "Let's check it out."
The two men got out of the car. They flashed their torches over the van. License plate from the next state, RL 68-7210.
They tried the door closest to the curb.
Unlocked.
Freddie slid it all the way open.
Joe came around to the passenger side of the van. He slid the door open there, leaned in, and thumbed open the glove compartment.
"Anything?" Freddie asked.
"Looks like a registration here."
He took the registration out of a clear-plastic packet containing an owner's manual and a duplicate insurance slip.
The van was registered to a Frank Sebastiani whose address was 604 Eden Lane in Collinsworth, over the river.
