He parked the car a block from the rear of Cally’s building and pretended to be checking a tire as he looked around. No cops in sight. Even if they were watching Cally’s place, they probably didn’t know you could get to it through the boarded-up dump. As he straightened up he cursed. Damn bumper sticker. Too noticeable. WE’RE SPENDING OUR GRANDCHILDREN’S INHERITANCE. He managed to pull most of it off.

Fifteen minutes later, Jimmy had picked the flimsy lock of Cally’s apartment and was inside. Some dump, he thought, as he took in the cracks in the ceiling and the worn linoleum in the tiny entranceway. But neat. Cally was always neat. A Christmas tree in the corner of what passed for a living room had a couple of small, brightly wrapped packages under it.

Jimmy shrugged and went into the bedroom, where he ransacked the closet to find the clothes he knew would be there. After changing, he went through the place looking for money but found none. He yanked open the doors that separated the stove, refrigerator, and sink from the living room, searched unsuccessfully for a beer, settled for a Pepsi, and made himself a sandwich.

From what his sources had told him, Cally should be home by now from her job in the hospital. He knew that on the way she picked up Gigi from the baby-sitter. He sat on the couch, his eyes riveted on the front door, his nerves jangling. He’d spent most of the few dollars he found in the guard’s pockets on food from street vendors. He had to have money for the tolls on the Thruway, as well as enough for another tank of gas. Come on, Cally, he thought, where the hell are you?

At ten to six, he heard the key inserted in the lock. He jumped up and in three long strides was in the entryway, flattened against the wall. He waited until Cally stepped in and closed the door behind her, then put his hand over her mouth.