9
Jack pulled to a double-parked stop outside the Tower Diner, wondering how he was going to check out Bolton's presence or absence.
He'd already been to Work. Not that he'd expected him there after last night's performance, but you never knew. He'd walked in, looked around, walked out. No Bolton.
He couldn't help but smile when he looked at one of the front windows of the diner and saw the man himself, sitting and sipping water.
Thank you, Jeremy Bolton.
Jack gunned the car and headed for Bolton's home. Christy's directions led him on a winding course but eventually he arrived in a brand-new upscale development of attached three-story townhouses in Rego Park. He cruised around, getting the lay of the land, and not liking the well-lit streets.
Bolton's house was number 119. It sat third from the end and Jack noticed that his row backed up to some woods.
That had potential.
He exited the development and explored some more. The woods weren't really woods. They proved to be little more than a hundred-loot-deep strip of wild oaks, elms, and underbrush that formed a buffer between the townhouses and a Woodhaven Boulevard strip mall on the far side.
Potential had become possibility.
He parked in front of a dojo and wandered over to the Italian restaurant/pizza joint that occupied the end unit. He pretended to read the posted menu while he scanned the vicinity. Assured that no one was about, he slipped around the side to the rear. No one there either, so he hopped the low retaining wall and made his way toward the townhouses.