“My mother is Mitzie Manders. She was a comedian, starred in A Fish Out of Water, a TV show back in the early eighties.”
Mrs. Antonio’s face lit up. “A Fish Out of Water—oh, my, it was one of my favorite shows. Probably my husband’s very favorite, since he thought she was the cutest girl he’d ever seen, a funny Grace Kelly, that’s what he called her. And she’s the one responsible for making you tall and strong? How to speak such spiffy English? Did she teach you how to dress, too? Would you look at those lovely French cuffs. Very sharp. Well, I am impressed. You tell her she has a fan in Brooklyn the next time you talk to her.”
When they finished their tea, both Mike and Nicholas rose. He said, “We must be going, but we may be in touch again.” He handed her a card. “If you remember anything else, Mrs. Antonio, please call me straightaway.”
“You’ll come back and tell me what happened, won’t you?”
“We’ll circle back, absolutely.” And to himself, he made a mental note to call his mother first chance he had. They shook Mrs. Antonio’s hand, thanked her for the information and tea, and stepped out of the Laundromat in time to see a man poking around the ashes across the street. He saw them looking his way, turned on his heel, and took off running.
30
KNIGHT TAKES C3
Go, go, go,” Nicholas shouted.
Mike started after the man, her Glock in her hand. She was fast, so Nicholas knew she’d have a good chance of running him down.
Nicholas angled off at the corner even though they had no comms, no way to communicate, but he’d seen an alley across from the Chinese place when they drove up, knew he could intercept the man if he kept running straight.
He pulled out his Glock as he made a hard left on Flushing and came back out on the street in time to see their runner was trapped between them, and he knew it. Without hesitation, the guy’s arm came up and he started shooting at Nicholas.
“What the bloody hell!” Nicholas shouted, and ducked back against the building. He heard Mike returning fire, yelling at the man to stop. Nicholas looked out to see the man had whirled around toward Mike, who was nearly on him. He was fast, he was going to shoot her. Nicholas took the shot, aimed for his leg.
The man stumbled, grabbed his left knee, and went down. Got you, mate. Now at last maybe they’d get some answers, find out who this yahoo was.
To Nicholas’s surprise, the wounded knee didn’t stop him, the guy was up and going again, stumbling toward a brown Honda that was screeching around a corner and coming fast. The man grabbed his knee and jumped in the passenger side and the driver gunned the engine. Nicholas got a fleeting glance—dark hair, baseball cap, probably older than Mr. Wounded Knee.
“Get the car!” Nicholas shouted, running after the Honda, trying to make out the license plate. Moments later the Crown Vic roared up to him. Nicholas jumped in. “They turned right up there.”
“They’re going for the bridge. We have to cut them off. Call it in.” She slapped the siren on the dash and floored the gas.
Nicholas braced himself with one hand and radioed in to headquarters to get them some backup.
Mike was good, weaving in and out of traffic, ignoring curses and middle fingers and stoplights, never taking her eyes from the car in front of them, navigating to a dime.
He hung on as the Crown Vic’s wheels screeched around a corner. He saw Mike was excited, focused; no doubt she was having fun. Was she giddy? Oh, yeah. God in all his goodness had blessed him with this woman as his partner.
Nicholas was shouting into the radio for some air support. Then two NYPD cruisers joined the chase, and their cavalcade didn’t slow, scattering people and other vehicles. Nicholas saw one taxi driver’s face when the Crown Vic spun out at the Division and Bedford intersection. He looked like death was coming at him. Mike jerked the wheel and up they went, the wrong way, on Ninth Avenue, then she sped off to the right, toward Broadway.