AT EXACTLY 9:14 A.M.
Joyce was driving along the deserted avenue.
Just ahead on a side street, Cribbins checked t
he second hand of his watch for the last time. He swung the heavy Cadillac around the corner. He had a rendezvous with an armored car and a quarter of a million dollars; he had a tommy gun to make sure it all went off smoothly. Everything was timed, everything was planned down to the most insignificant detail—except for Joyce Sherwood and her eight-year-old Chevy, which crashed deep into the side of Cribbins’ stolen car.
That’s how they met—the housewife and the hoods. And terror took over.