Criminal Enterprise, page 12
“We’re having this conversation, aren’t we?” said Doughty. “Our suspect is dead and his accomplices are at large, and instead of chasing them down, we’re arguing your conspiracy theory.”
Windermere held his gaze. “I’m talking about Jackson, Bob. Where’s your proof he’s our guy?”
Doughty glanced at Harris. Harris nodded. “Valid question, Agent Doughty.”
Doughty looked from Harris to Windermere and back again, breathing hard. Then he shook his head. “Where’s her proof, is my question.”
“You first,” said Windermere.
“No,” said Doughty. “You first. You’re so sure this accountant of yours is the guy, where’s your evidence?”
“I talked to him,” she said. “He played guilty, no question. Textbook.”
“You talked to him,” said Harris. “Anything concrete?”
“The receipt, sir,” she said. “The note from the Midway bank job. He couldn’t explain how his parking receipt turned up at the scene of the crime.”
Doughty cocked his head. “Someone broke into his car, Agent Windermere.”
She snorted. “So he said.”
“And?”
Harris looked at her, one eyebrow raised. Windermere laughed. “And he was lying. Clear as day.”
“Uh-huh.” Doughty smiled wider. Brandished a piece of paper. “You should check your faxes,” he said.
Windermere snatched the paper from him. Scanned it once, read it closer. “This is bullshit,” she said. “Obviously fabricated.”
Doughty shook his head. “It’s not bullshit,” he said. “I called and confirmed.”
“So he paid them off. What does that prove?”
Doughty grabbed the paper back and handed it to Harris. “Sir, this is a receipt for repairs done on Carter Tomlin’s Jaguar in July. Basically, it destroys Windermere’s case.”
“Bullshit,” she said. “I can think of a hundred ways he could fake it.”
“Conspiracy theories,” said Doughty.
“Facts. This proves nothing.”
Harris looked up from the paper. “Enough.” His face was half pink again. “I’ve had enough of this mess. The two of you, squabbling like children without a shred of evidence between you.” He looked at Doughty first, then Windermere. “You two are partners. I’m going to give you one shot to figure this out on your own. Then I’m reassigning you both.”
He handed Doughty the fax. “Come back to me when you have a cohesive strategy.”
Doughty nodded and turned to the door. After a moment, Windermere followed. She walked out into the hallway, closed Harris’s door. Heard the lock catch and snatched the fax out of Doughty’s hands. “You’ve got nothing,” she said, “and you know it.”
Doughty shook his head. “You can’t let it go, can you?”
She stared at him. “What?”
“You think because you’re the Supercop you’re not allowed to be wrong, is that it? You’ll ruin your reputation if you let someone else win?”
Windermere shook her head. “This has nothing to do with me, Agent Doughty,” she said. “You killed the wrong man, and you can’t let it go. It’s your ego that’s the problem, not mine.”
She turned and walked away, down the aisle toward her cubicle. “Windermere,” Doughty called. “Where the hell are you going?”
She reached her cubicle and pulled on her coat. Caught Mathers eye down the aisle. “I feel sick,” she told him. “If Harris asks, tell him I’m puking.” She caught the elevator downstairs to the parking garage and stepped out into a sea of dark, unmarked sedans. Surveyed them a moment, then turned and stepped back into the elevator.
Fuck it, she thought. She rode the elevator back up to street level and caught a cab to her apartment. Took the stairs to the garage, found her parking spot and her dusty Chevelle.
Fuck it, she thought again, sliding into the driver’s seat and firing the car up. The engine growled like a murderous dog, seemed to shake the whole building itself as she backed away from her stall and idled out to the street.
Fuck it. Windermere brushed the hair from her eyes and floored the gas pedal. The tires squealed and caught, pasting her to her seat as the Chevelle roared, speeding fast and untamed toward Saint Paul.
47
BECCA SQUEALED and hugged Tomlin. Kissed him hard on the mouth. “I’m so happy for you, honey,” she said. “This has been so tough.”
Tomlin took a drink of wine. The girls had eaten early; Madeleine was at dance practice, and Heather was upstairs getting ready for another basketball game. The dining room was empty, save Becca, Tomlin, and Snickers, who nosed about beneath the table, waiting for scraps. Tomlin slipped the dog a crust of bread. “It’s not like we’re doing so bad right now,” he said. “Things are pretty good in our lives.”
Becca sat down opposite him at the table. She brushed a stray hair from her eyes. In the light, Tomlin couldn’t tell if it was blond or gray. “You’d be making more money,” she said.
“We’re making good money right now.”
She stared at him. “I thought you said it was stressful, your job. Finding contracts and clients. I thought you missed that steady paycheck.”
Tomlin picked up his fork and wrapped it in pasta. Took a bite and chewed slowly. “I kind of like it,” he said. “It’s liberating.”
Becca looked down at her plate. “Now I feel kind of stupid.” She took a bite of pasta and chewed it in silence.
Tomlin watched her across the table. He knew he’d have to take Rydin’s offer. No way he could pull bank robberies forever. Hell, the second he pulled another score, Windermere would know she’d been wrong about Jackson. And then she’d come calling again.
Anyway, wasn’t this what he wanted? No more guns, no more getaway cars. No more laundering cash just to pay the damn mortgage. You’re looking at a second chance. A steady, secure paycheck and a good credit score and a healthy bonus at Christmas. Hell, maybe a new car.
A salary and a mortgage and a family. A normal life. Simple. Boring. The thought, all at once, made Tomlin want to put Schultz’s shotgun in his mouth now, and spare himself the slow death. He looked around the dining room instead. Didn’t move. Drank a little more wine and forced himself to keep eating. He finished his dinner in silence.
48
YOU READY TO GO?”
Stevens leaned on the front door, watching, as Andrea searched the house for her jersey, her shoes, her iPod. She raced down the stairs and ran past him toward the laundry room, late and panicked, as usual. “Just one second, Daddy,” she called back.
Stevens sighed and turned to the door. “I’ll be in the car.”
He walked out to the Cherokee, climbed in, and turned on the engine. Blasted the heater and pushed a Springsteen tape into the tape deck. My coaching debut, he thought, sitting back in his seat. And if Andrea doesn’t haul ass, we’re going to be late. He leaned on the horn. “Let’s go.”
The side door opened, and Andrea came out of the house running, her coat half on and her headphones trailing behind her. She climbed in the passenger seat. “Mom said she’ll meet us,” she said, breathless. “After she’s done with her case.”
As Stevens backed out of the driveway, Andrea took advantage of his distraction to pop out the Springsteen tape and turn on the radio, filling the Cherokee with teenybopper pop music. Stevens reached for the volume. “What’s wrong with Springsteen?”
“They’re great, Daddy. I love them,” Andrea said. “I just need something to pump me up, okay?”
The music, all synthesizers and pounding bass, set Stevens’s teeth on edge, but he endured the teenybopper and four others just like him (her?) as he drove to the high school. He dropped Andrea outside the gym doors and then parked the car. He sat alone in the Jeep for a minute or two, relishing the silence, watching the steady stream of cars into the school parking lot. Then he shook his head clear.
You’re a cop, he thought, reaching for the door. This is just high school basketball. Man up.
—
FOR ALL OF STEVENS’S pregame jitters, his coaching debut played out better than he might have expected. Not a win, but a moral victory, anyway. Stevens made a couple bonehead substitutions, nearly drew a technical foul when he lost track of his team’s timeouts, but on the whole, a good start. Carter Tomlin, meanwhile, looked lost. Stevens took him aside after the final buzzer sounded. “You looked a bit distracted tonight,” he said. “Everything okay?”
Tomlin blinked. Shook his head. “Work stuff,” he said. “Tax season. Sorry.” Then he gave Stevens a smile that looked forced. “Anyway, looked like you had things under control.”
Stevens laughed. “Made some rookie mistakes, though. Could have used you.”
“Next time,” said Tomlin. “You’ll get it.”
He turned and sort of wandered away, took a couple steps along the sidelines, his hands in his pockets and his gaze unfocused and vague. Stevens watched him, frowning. He was about to follow the man when Andrea came out of the locker room. “Hey, kiddo,” he said. “You played good tonight.”
Andrea screwed her face up. “We got killed, Dad.”
“It was that god-awful music,” Stevens told her. “Should have listened to Springsteen.”
“Not funny.” She walked past him to where Nancy stood waiting by the gym doors. “Can we go?”
Stevens glanced back at Tomlin again. Then Nancy called his name from the gym doors. Stevens straightened and turned away from the coach. Caught up with Nancy and Andrea at the doors and followed them into the dark parking lot. Nancy had parked her Taurus way in the back, and Stevens walked out with them to the shadows. “You want to ride with me or your mom?” he asked Andrea.
Andrea cocked her head. “Can we get McDonald’s?”
Nancy unlocked her door. “Not with me you can’t.”
“Then I’ll ride with you, Dad. But no Springsteens.”
Stevens was hardly listening. He was staring across the lot at a big old muscle car parked deep in the shadows. The light from the gym doors caught the front windshield at just the right angle that he could see the solitary occupant behind the wheel. Can’t be, he thought. You’re seeing things now. Andrea nudged his arm. “Nice car,” she said. “What is it?”
That driver looks a hell of a lot like Windermere.
“Dad?”
Stevens glanced at his daughter. “Ride home with your mother,” he told her. “I need to check something out.”
“What about McDonald’s?”
“Double cheeseburger and fries, right? I’ll pick it up on the way.”
“And a Diet Coke.”
“And a Diet Coke,” Stevens said. “I will deliver.” He waited as Andrea climbed into the car, and he waved at Nancy as she pulled out of her spot. Then he turned back to the muscle car in the shadows. It was a big old Chevelle. A hell of a car. And the driver looked just like Carla Windermere. But what would Carla be doing parked outside a high school in Saint Paul?
It’s dark, Stevens thought. You’re seeing things. But he walked across the lot toward the Chevelle almost unconsciously. He crossed in front of her bumper, glanced in through the windshield. Stopped walking. It was Windermere. Stevens watched as she looked away from the gym door and fixed her eyes straight on him. Watched as those big eyes got wider.
“Stevens,” she said. “Shit.”
49
WINDERMERE WATCHED Stevens appear out of nowhere. Felt her heart start to pound, felt strangely guilty. As though he’d snuck up and caught her doing something she shouldn’t.
Which, in truth, he had. She’d tailed Tomlin all afternoon, totally illegal, followed him as he drove his youngest daughter to dance class, then followed him here to the basketball game.
An everyday kind of guy. Totally boring.
She knew Tomlin was guilty. Knew his auto-body receipt was a fake. But knowing didn’t mean anything. She had hoped he’d do something foolish while she watched him, slip up, give her a glimpse of his second life. Instead, she’d spent hours on his ass and he hadn’t done so much as run a red light. And tomorrow she’d go back to the office and make nice with Doughty, try and work out a strategy before Harris fired her, if he wasn’t planning to fire her already.
Stevens peered in the window. Gestured to the door. Windermere nodded. Leaned over and opened it for him, letting in a sudden rush of cold air. He smiled at her through the open doorway. “Carla,” he said. “You here for the game?”
He looked the same as he always had. Unassuming and plain, that same twinkle in his eye. Windermere caught herself staring, looked away. “Guess I missed the game, Stevens,” she said. “You want to sit down?”
Stevens slid into the passenger seat. Closed the door and rubbed his hands together in front of the heater. “You on a job or something?”
“Yeah,” she said. “Or something.”
Stevens smiled at her. “Am I blowing your cover?”
“Not really.”
He waited a moment. “You want to talk about it?”
Windermere shook her head. “I’m living it, Stevens. I could use a break.” She forced a smile. “What the heck are you doing here, anyway? You have an old-timers’ game or something?”
He laughed. “My daughter, Andrea. I’m helping out with her basketball team.”
“What, you coach? Those poor kids. Did you win?”
He shook his head. “My first game. It showed.”
“So it’s your fault.”
“Mostly. My partner wasn’t exactly on the ball, either.”
She looked at him sideways. “Blaming your partner. You haven’t changed.”
Stevens laughed. “Not a bit.” He paused. “I was thinking about you the other day.”
“You’re still moony. I get it.”
“Bull. It’s just your picture’s in the paper damn near once a week. Then a friend mentioned your name and it got me thinking. I almost called you, in fact.”
“A friend, huh?”
“My daughter’s basketball coach. My new partner.” Stevens sat forward and pointed out the window. “Actually, that’s him right there.”
Windermere followed his gaze and felt her heart speed up again. Carter Tomlin, walking out the gym doors, his shy, coltish daughter beside him. “Tomlin,” she said. “Tomlin mentioned my name.”
Stevens frowned. “That’s right. Carter Tomlin. You know him?”
Windermere stared out the window at Tomlin in the distance. Watched as he walked his daughter to that big Jaguar of his. Watched him climb in the Jaguar and drive out of the lot. Tomlin, she thought. Carter Tomlin. Kirk Stevens.
This can’t be a coincidence.
50
STEVENS STUDIED Windermere, frowning. One mention of Carter Tomlin and she’d gone stiff as a hunting dog on a scent. Gone was the warmth he’d coaxed out of her earlier; the FBI agent was back in cop mode again. “What the hell is it, Carla?” he said.
Windermere turned and fixed him with that piercing stare of hers. “What did Tomlin say, Stevens? What were his exact words?”
Stevens shifted in his seat. “He asked if we’d stayed in contact,” he said. “Said he thought you were cute. No big deal.”
Windermere kept her eyes on him. “You’ve been friends for a while?”
“Just a week or so, maybe. He asked me to help coach.”
“And you agreed.”
“Work’s slow,” he said, shrugging. “I could use a hobby. Spend time with my daughter, that kind of thing. I don’t get the problem here, Carla.”
“You went over to his house and he asked about me.”
“Not right away,” Stevens said. “We talked about basketball for an hour. He brought up the Pender case. Mentioned you in passing.”
Windermere exhaled. Her stare softened. “This case I’m working,” she said finally. “The shoot-out in Phillips—”
“I thought you solved that.”
“So does my partner. He thinks we killed the ringleader, Jackson. Thing is, Stevens, I make Tomlin.”
Stevens started. “No way.”
“Listen,” she said. “A bank job in Midway, last fall, guy slips a bank teller a note on the back of a parking receipt. Tomlin’s parking receipt.”
“A coincidence. This guy’s an accountant. His house—”
“I’ve been to his house, Stevens. It’s very big. He’s got a beautiful family and an expensive car. Doesn’t look anything like a bank robber. But I showed him the note, just to see what he’d say.”
“And?”
“And he panicked. Fed me some bullshit line about his car getting robbed, tried to play off as cool. But he wasn’t cool. Stevens. He was scared.”
Stevens tried to picture a guy like Carter Tomlin robbing a bank. “I don’t see it,” he said. “This is my daughter’s basketball coach, Carla.”
“Yeah? Well, I’m telling you, Stevens, he’s guilty.”
“An FBI agent comes into his house, starts talking bank robberies, of course he gets nervous. Who can blame him?” Stevens smiled. “I get nervous when you start asking me questions.”
Windermere didn’t smile back. “I saw something, Stevens. I’m not crazy.”
“Of course you’re not crazy. But come on, Carla.”
She glared at him, withering. Then she reached down and turned her key in the ignition. The car rumbled to life. “All right, fine.”
“Carla—”
“I get it, Stevens.” Her voice came out hard. “I have work to do.”
Stevens made to say something else. Stopped when he caught the look on her face. Slowly, he reached for the door handle and climbed out to the cold. No sooner had he stepped out to the pavement than Windermere pulled away, the engine growling and the brake lights glaring as the car disappeared into the night.
Stevens stood alone in the empty lot, staring after Windermere and that big Chevelle. Carter Tomlin, he thought. The guy’s a little out of the ordinary, yeah. But a bank robber? Maybe he’d cheated on his taxes or something. The guy was an accountant, after all.
Windermere held his gaze. “I’m talking about Jackson, Bob. Where’s your proof he’s our guy?”
Doughty glanced at Harris. Harris nodded. “Valid question, Agent Doughty.”
Doughty looked from Harris to Windermere and back again, breathing hard. Then he shook his head. “Where’s her proof, is my question.”
“You first,” said Windermere.
“No,” said Doughty. “You first. You’re so sure this accountant of yours is the guy, where’s your evidence?”
“I talked to him,” she said. “He played guilty, no question. Textbook.”
“You talked to him,” said Harris. “Anything concrete?”
“The receipt, sir,” she said. “The note from the Midway bank job. He couldn’t explain how his parking receipt turned up at the scene of the crime.”
Doughty cocked his head. “Someone broke into his car, Agent Windermere.”
She snorted. “So he said.”
“And?”
Harris looked at her, one eyebrow raised. Windermere laughed. “And he was lying. Clear as day.”
“Uh-huh.” Doughty smiled wider. Brandished a piece of paper. “You should check your faxes,” he said.
Windermere snatched the paper from him. Scanned it once, read it closer. “This is bullshit,” she said. “Obviously fabricated.”
Doughty shook his head. “It’s not bullshit,” he said. “I called and confirmed.”
“So he paid them off. What does that prove?”
Doughty grabbed the paper back and handed it to Harris. “Sir, this is a receipt for repairs done on Carter Tomlin’s Jaguar in July. Basically, it destroys Windermere’s case.”
“Bullshit,” she said. “I can think of a hundred ways he could fake it.”
“Conspiracy theories,” said Doughty.
“Facts. This proves nothing.”
Harris looked up from the paper. “Enough.” His face was half pink again. “I’ve had enough of this mess. The two of you, squabbling like children without a shred of evidence between you.” He looked at Doughty first, then Windermere. “You two are partners. I’m going to give you one shot to figure this out on your own. Then I’m reassigning you both.”
He handed Doughty the fax. “Come back to me when you have a cohesive strategy.”
Doughty nodded and turned to the door. After a moment, Windermere followed. She walked out into the hallway, closed Harris’s door. Heard the lock catch and snatched the fax out of Doughty’s hands. “You’ve got nothing,” she said, “and you know it.”
Doughty shook his head. “You can’t let it go, can you?”
She stared at him. “What?”
“You think because you’re the Supercop you’re not allowed to be wrong, is that it? You’ll ruin your reputation if you let someone else win?”
Windermere shook her head. “This has nothing to do with me, Agent Doughty,” she said. “You killed the wrong man, and you can’t let it go. It’s your ego that’s the problem, not mine.”
She turned and walked away, down the aisle toward her cubicle. “Windermere,” Doughty called. “Where the hell are you going?”
She reached her cubicle and pulled on her coat. Caught Mathers eye down the aisle. “I feel sick,” she told him. “If Harris asks, tell him I’m puking.” She caught the elevator downstairs to the parking garage and stepped out into a sea of dark, unmarked sedans. Surveyed them a moment, then turned and stepped back into the elevator.
Fuck it, she thought. She rode the elevator back up to street level and caught a cab to her apartment. Took the stairs to the garage, found her parking spot and her dusty Chevelle.
Fuck it, she thought again, sliding into the driver’s seat and firing the car up. The engine growled like a murderous dog, seemed to shake the whole building itself as she backed away from her stall and idled out to the street.
Fuck it. Windermere brushed the hair from her eyes and floored the gas pedal. The tires squealed and caught, pasting her to her seat as the Chevelle roared, speeding fast and untamed toward Saint Paul.
47
BECCA SQUEALED and hugged Tomlin. Kissed him hard on the mouth. “I’m so happy for you, honey,” she said. “This has been so tough.”
Tomlin took a drink of wine. The girls had eaten early; Madeleine was at dance practice, and Heather was upstairs getting ready for another basketball game. The dining room was empty, save Becca, Tomlin, and Snickers, who nosed about beneath the table, waiting for scraps. Tomlin slipped the dog a crust of bread. “It’s not like we’re doing so bad right now,” he said. “Things are pretty good in our lives.”
Becca sat down opposite him at the table. She brushed a stray hair from her eyes. In the light, Tomlin couldn’t tell if it was blond or gray. “You’d be making more money,” she said.
“We’re making good money right now.”
She stared at him. “I thought you said it was stressful, your job. Finding contracts and clients. I thought you missed that steady paycheck.”
Tomlin picked up his fork and wrapped it in pasta. Took a bite and chewed slowly. “I kind of like it,” he said. “It’s liberating.”
Becca looked down at her plate. “Now I feel kind of stupid.” She took a bite of pasta and chewed it in silence.
Tomlin watched her across the table. He knew he’d have to take Rydin’s offer. No way he could pull bank robberies forever. Hell, the second he pulled another score, Windermere would know she’d been wrong about Jackson. And then she’d come calling again.
Anyway, wasn’t this what he wanted? No more guns, no more getaway cars. No more laundering cash just to pay the damn mortgage. You’re looking at a second chance. A steady, secure paycheck and a good credit score and a healthy bonus at Christmas. Hell, maybe a new car.
A salary and a mortgage and a family. A normal life. Simple. Boring. The thought, all at once, made Tomlin want to put Schultz’s shotgun in his mouth now, and spare himself the slow death. He looked around the dining room instead. Didn’t move. Drank a little more wine and forced himself to keep eating. He finished his dinner in silence.
48
YOU READY TO GO?”
Stevens leaned on the front door, watching, as Andrea searched the house for her jersey, her shoes, her iPod. She raced down the stairs and ran past him toward the laundry room, late and panicked, as usual. “Just one second, Daddy,” she called back.
Stevens sighed and turned to the door. “I’ll be in the car.”
He walked out to the Cherokee, climbed in, and turned on the engine. Blasted the heater and pushed a Springsteen tape into the tape deck. My coaching debut, he thought, sitting back in his seat. And if Andrea doesn’t haul ass, we’re going to be late. He leaned on the horn. “Let’s go.”
The side door opened, and Andrea came out of the house running, her coat half on and her headphones trailing behind her. She climbed in the passenger seat. “Mom said she’ll meet us,” she said, breathless. “After she’s done with her case.”
As Stevens backed out of the driveway, Andrea took advantage of his distraction to pop out the Springsteen tape and turn on the radio, filling the Cherokee with teenybopper pop music. Stevens reached for the volume. “What’s wrong with Springsteen?”
“They’re great, Daddy. I love them,” Andrea said. “I just need something to pump me up, okay?”
The music, all synthesizers and pounding bass, set Stevens’s teeth on edge, but he endured the teenybopper and four others just like him (her?) as he drove to the high school. He dropped Andrea outside the gym doors and then parked the car. He sat alone in the Jeep for a minute or two, relishing the silence, watching the steady stream of cars into the school parking lot. Then he shook his head clear.
You’re a cop, he thought, reaching for the door. This is just high school basketball. Man up.
—
FOR ALL OF STEVENS’S pregame jitters, his coaching debut played out better than he might have expected. Not a win, but a moral victory, anyway. Stevens made a couple bonehead substitutions, nearly drew a technical foul when he lost track of his team’s timeouts, but on the whole, a good start. Carter Tomlin, meanwhile, looked lost. Stevens took him aside after the final buzzer sounded. “You looked a bit distracted tonight,” he said. “Everything okay?”
Tomlin blinked. Shook his head. “Work stuff,” he said. “Tax season. Sorry.” Then he gave Stevens a smile that looked forced. “Anyway, looked like you had things under control.”
Stevens laughed. “Made some rookie mistakes, though. Could have used you.”
“Next time,” said Tomlin. “You’ll get it.”
He turned and sort of wandered away, took a couple steps along the sidelines, his hands in his pockets and his gaze unfocused and vague. Stevens watched him, frowning. He was about to follow the man when Andrea came out of the locker room. “Hey, kiddo,” he said. “You played good tonight.”
Andrea screwed her face up. “We got killed, Dad.”
“It was that god-awful music,” Stevens told her. “Should have listened to Springsteen.”
“Not funny.” She walked past him to where Nancy stood waiting by the gym doors. “Can we go?”
Stevens glanced back at Tomlin again. Then Nancy called his name from the gym doors. Stevens straightened and turned away from the coach. Caught up with Nancy and Andrea at the doors and followed them into the dark parking lot. Nancy had parked her Taurus way in the back, and Stevens walked out with them to the shadows. “You want to ride with me or your mom?” he asked Andrea.
Andrea cocked her head. “Can we get McDonald’s?”
Nancy unlocked her door. “Not with me you can’t.”
“Then I’ll ride with you, Dad. But no Springsteens.”
Stevens was hardly listening. He was staring across the lot at a big old muscle car parked deep in the shadows. The light from the gym doors caught the front windshield at just the right angle that he could see the solitary occupant behind the wheel. Can’t be, he thought. You’re seeing things now. Andrea nudged his arm. “Nice car,” she said. “What is it?”
That driver looks a hell of a lot like Windermere.
“Dad?”
Stevens glanced at his daughter. “Ride home with your mother,” he told her. “I need to check something out.”
“What about McDonald’s?”
“Double cheeseburger and fries, right? I’ll pick it up on the way.”
“And a Diet Coke.”
“And a Diet Coke,” Stevens said. “I will deliver.” He waited as Andrea climbed into the car, and he waved at Nancy as she pulled out of her spot. Then he turned back to the muscle car in the shadows. It was a big old Chevelle. A hell of a car. And the driver looked just like Carla Windermere. But what would Carla be doing parked outside a high school in Saint Paul?
It’s dark, Stevens thought. You’re seeing things. But he walked across the lot toward the Chevelle almost unconsciously. He crossed in front of her bumper, glanced in through the windshield. Stopped walking. It was Windermere. Stevens watched as she looked away from the gym door and fixed her eyes straight on him. Watched as those big eyes got wider.
“Stevens,” she said. “Shit.”
49
WINDERMERE WATCHED Stevens appear out of nowhere. Felt her heart start to pound, felt strangely guilty. As though he’d snuck up and caught her doing something she shouldn’t.
Which, in truth, he had. She’d tailed Tomlin all afternoon, totally illegal, followed him as he drove his youngest daughter to dance class, then followed him here to the basketball game.
An everyday kind of guy. Totally boring.
She knew Tomlin was guilty. Knew his auto-body receipt was a fake. But knowing didn’t mean anything. She had hoped he’d do something foolish while she watched him, slip up, give her a glimpse of his second life. Instead, she’d spent hours on his ass and he hadn’t done so much as run a red light. And tomorrow she’d go back to the office and make nice with Doughty, try and work out a strategy before Harris fired her, if he wasn’t planning to fire her already.
Stevens peered in the window. Gestured to the door. Windermere nodded. Leaned over and opened it for him, letting in a sudden rush of cold air. He smiled at her through the open doorway. “Carla,” he said. “You here for the game?”
He looked the same as he always had. Unassuming and plain, that same twinkle in his eye. Windermere caught herself staring, looked away. “Guess I missed the game, Stevens,” she said. “You want to sit down?”
Stevens slid into the passenger seat. Closed the door and rubbed his hands together in front of the heater. “You on a job or something?”
“Yeah,” she said. “Or something.”
Stevens smiled at her. “Am I blowing your cover?”
“Not really.”
He waited a moment. “You want to talk about it?”
Windermere shook her head. “I’m living it, Stevens. I could use a break.” She forced a smile. “What the heck are you doing here, anyway? You have an old-timers’ game or something?”
He laughed. “My daughter, Andrea. I’m helping out with her basketball team.”
“What, you coach? Those poor kids. Did you win?”
He shook his head. “My first game. It showed.”
“So it’s your fault.”
“Mostly. My partner wasn’t exactly on the ball, either.”
She looked at him sideways. “Blaming your partner. You haven’t changed.”
Stevens laughed. “Not a bit.” He paused. “I was thinking about you the other day.”
“You’re still moony. I get it.”
“Bull. It’s just your picture’s in the paper damn near once a week. Then a friend mentioned your name and it got me thinking. I almost called you, in fact.”
“A friend, huh?”
“My daughter’s basketball coach. My new partner.” Stevens sat forward and pointed out the window. “Actually, that’s him right there.”
Windermere followed his gaze and felt her heart speed up again. Carter Tomlin, walking out the gym doors, his shy, coltish daughter beside him. “Tomlin,” she said. “Tomlin mentioned my name.”
Stevens frowned. “That’s right. Carter Tomlin. You know him?”
Windermere stared out the window at Tomlin in the distance. Watched as he walked his daughter to that big Jaguar of his. Watched him climb in the Jaguar and drive out of the lot. Tomlin, she thought. Carter Tomlin. Kirk Stevens.
This can’t be a coincidence.
50
STEVENS STUDIED Windermere, frowning. One mention of Carter Tomlin and she’d gone stiff as a hunting dog on a scent. Gone was the warmth he’d coaxed out of her earlier; the FBI agent was back in cop mode again. “What the hell is it, Carla?” he said.
Windermere turned and fixed him with that piercing stare of hers. “What did Tomlin say, Stevens? What were his exact words?”
Stevens shifted in his seat. “He asked if we’d stayed in contact,” he said. “Said he thought you were cute. No big deal.”
Windermere kept her eyes on him. “You’ve been friends for a while?”
“Just a week or so, maybe. He asked me to help coach.”
“And you agreed.”
“Work’s slow,” he said, shrugging. “I could use a hobby. Spend time with my daughter, that kind of thing. I don’t get the problem here, Carla.”
“You went over to his house and he asked about me.”
“Not right away,” Stevens said. “We talked about basketball for an hour. He brought up the Pender case. Mentioned you in passing.”
Windermere exhaled. Her stare softened. “This case I’m working,” she said finally. “The shoot-out in Phillips—”
“I thought you solved that.”
“So does my partner. He thinks we killed the ringleader, Jackson. Thing is, Stevens, I make Tomlin.”
Stevens started. “No way.”
“Listen,” she said. “A bank job in Midway, last fall, guy slips a bank teller a note on the back of a parking receipt. Tomlin’s parking receipt.”
“A coincidence. This guy’s an accountant. His house—”
“I’ve been to his house, Stevens. It’s very big. He’s got a beautiful family and an expensive car. Doesn’t look anything like a bank robber. But I showed him the note, just to see what he’d say.”
“And?”
“And he panicked. Fed me some bullshit line about his car getting robbed, tried to play off as cool. But he wasn’t cool. Stevens. He was scared.”
Stevens tried to picture a guy like Carter Tomlin robbing a bank. “I don’t see it,” he said. “This is my daughter’s basketball coach, Carla.”
“Yeah? Well, I’m telling you, Stevens, he’s guilty.”
“An FBI agent comes into his house, starts talking bank robberies, of course he gets nervous. Who can blame him?” Stevens smiled. “I get nervous when you start asking me questions.”
Windermere didn’t smile back. “I saw something, Stevens. I’m not crazy.”
“Of course you’re not crazy. But come on, Carla.”
She glared at him, withering. Then she reached down and turned her key in the ignition. The car rumbled to life. “All right, fine.”
“Carla—”
“I get it, Stevens.” Her voice came out hard. “I have work to do.”
Stevens made to say something else. Stopped when he caught the look on her face. Slowly, he reached for the door handle and climbed out to the cold. No sooner had he stepped out to the pavement than Windermere pulled away, the engine growling and the brake lights glaring as the car disappeared into the night.
Stevens stood alone in the empty lot, staring after Windermere and that big Chevelle. Carter Tomlin, he thought. The guy’s a little out of the ordinary, yeah. But a bank robber? Maybe he’d cheated on his taxes or something. The guy was an accountant, after all.
