I think about taking their cash but realize that if the cops see this event like I do, it’s case closed and nobody knows anything about diamonds.

This is one crime scene where I’m not leaving my card.

I cross myself as my great-uncle Jack taught me to do and begin a quick prayer for the dead men. A place where ten men have just been killed has a chopped-off kind of feeling. Like frayed rope, a whole bunch of ends. I believe that God hears prayers but generally doesn’t answer.

I’m almost to Amen when I see light slowly advancing through the lobby hallway, then through the side windows.

Very faintly, over the whirring of the fans and the incessant rush of cars on the freeways, I hear a vehicle stop in the parking lot.

My heart is pounding hard as it falls, an acknowledgment of disaster.

But my plan is simple.

If it’s the Sheriffs, I’ll have a lot of explaining to do.

If it’s Asian Boyz, they’ll use a key and come through the front door and I’ll go out the side window the way I got in.

Anybody else will likely head for the nearest window for a look inside, just like I did. Which means I’ll get the door keys from one of the dead men closest to the lobby and sneak out the front door if they climb in.

I run to the lobby and crawl to the counter. There’s a side window facing the parking lot, and I see an old black Lincoln Continental parked midway between the Escalade and my Corvette. Big old thing, opera windows and fender louvers, armored with chrome, seventy-eight or nine. Mint condition. Its lights are off and there’s nothing moving inside. I can just make out the shape of someone in the driver’s seat.

Asian Boyz, I figure-the Boyz do love their rides.

I scuttle back down the hallway on my hands and knees. When I hit the high bay, I stand and run straight for the window. I’m through the opening and crouched outside on the walkway in less than ten heartbeats.