Criminal Enterprise, page 14
Silence. The men at the poker table stared at him, then at Tricia, who was backing the guard deeper into the room. Then the guy in the suit spoke up from the bar. “So all right,” he said, slowly. “What do you want us to do?”
“Come around from the bar,” Tomlin told him. “Call everyone out from the back.”
The man nodded and poked his head through the doorway. Said something, and a woman came out, a waitress in a short skirt. She saw Tomlin and Tricia and gasped. “Good,” Tomlin said. “Now, who has a weapon?”
The guard glanced at him, then away. Tomlin walked to him and patted him down. Pulled a nickel-plated pistol from his waistband.
“Stupid.” Tomlin lifted the butt of his rifle and brought it down, hard, across the bouncer’s face. The bouncer fell to the floor. Tomlin looked around the room. “Anyone else?”
The man in the suit reached into his pocket and came out holding a revolver by the barrel. He kept his eyes on Tomlin and put the gun on the floor, slowly. Then he kicked it away. “Cool?”
“Smart,” Tomlin said. “Now everyone down on the floor.”
The men at the table didn’t move, and Tomlin fired a burst into the air. Within seconds every gambler was facedown on the carpet. Tomlin inhaled the gunpowder smoke, his whole body shaking now. “Cover these guys,” he told Tricia. He walked to the man in the suit and knelt down beside him. Put the gun in his face. “You’re Tommy?”
A pause. “Yeah.”
“Where’s the money, Tommy?”
Tommy pursed his lips. Nodded. “Over here, man. Whatever you say.”
Tommy led Tomlin around the bar and knelt in front of a medium-size safe. He began to fumble with the combination. “Sorry,” he said, wiping his hands on his pant leg. “One second.”
Tomlin glanced at Tricia where she paced between the men on the floor. She caught Tomlin’s eye and gave him a quick smile, brushing her bangs from her eyes. “Tell them empty their pockets,” Tomlin told her. “Wallets, jewelry, watches. Everything out and off.”
Tricia stopped in front of the men. “You heard him.”
Tommy had the safe open. He remained on his knees, looking up at Tomlin. “Go back and lie down,” Tomlin told him. “We’ll be out of here soon.”
Tomlin waited until the man was settled on the floor again. Then he knelt in front of the safe and peered in. Stacks of hundred-dollar bills, piled high to the back of the safe, each stack worth ten thousand dollars. Tomlin counted at least twenty.
Jackpot.
He set the duffel bag on the floor and started sliding piles of money out of the safe. “Is there money back there?” Tricia called out.
“Oh, there’s money,” he said.
“I knew it. Didn’t I fucking tell you?”
Tomlin emptied the safe. There was a lockbox on the bar, beside a bowl of cut limes, and he emptied it, too. He surveyed the bar and, satisfied, circled back around to the table and knelt beside the waitress on the floor. She was very young, around twenty. She was shaking, crying, naked with fear. Tomlin smiled through the ski mask. “Are you scared?”
The girl swallowed. “Yes.”
Tomlin touched her hair, and she flinched. If I had but world enough, and time, he thought. He forced himself to stand, and started back to Tricia. Midway there, he watched her eyes go wide. She looked past him. “Boss.”
Tomlin caught her look and spun around. Saw a young guy in the kitchen doorway, a scrawny kid with a pistol. “No fucking way,” the kid said. “You chose the wrong game, motherfuckers.”
56
THE KID HELD his gun sideways, like in the movies. Aimed it square at Tomlin’s chest. Tomlin held his rifle steady. “Just be easy,” he said.
“You be easy.” The kid’s face was screwed up with rage or false courage. “This is my house.”
Tomlin stared down the barrel of the kid’s gun and felt strangely calm. “You shoot me, my friend shoots you. Put the gun down and you live.”
The kid spat. “I ain’t putting shit down.”
“Fine.” Tomlin swung the rifle around and fired at the kid, quick. The kid squeezed off three shots, missed with each one, and then Tomlin got him. Four or five shots to the chest, rapid-fire. The impact threw the kid hard into the doorframe, and he hit it and slumped down to the floor.
The waitress screamed, and Tricia screamed, too. Tomlin advanced with the rifle, putting holes in the kid until the kid dropped his gun. Tomlin kicked the gun into the kitchen. The kid was slumped over now, his head down, his chest bloody. Tomlin stood above him, his adrenaline surging. He looked back at Tricia. “You okay?”
She was staring at the dead kid, but she nodded. Tomlin shouldered the duffel bag and walked back to Tricia. He stuffed the wallets and the watches and the rest of the guns into the bag, and then he surveyed the room, the men lying facedown on the floor, the trembling waitress, the dead kid in the back. “Try anything slick and we’ll kill you, too,” he told them. “Be happy you’re alive.”
He walked to the doorway and stood there until he was sure the whole room had seen him. Then he emptied the rifle into the ceiling, just to watch the poor bastards squirm.
57
TOMLIN THREW the duffel bag and the guns in the backseat of the Camry and slid in the passenger side. “Let’s go,” he told Dragan. “Get us out of here.”
Dragan glanced at him and pressed hard on the gas. “We make it?”
Tomlin looked back at the warehouse door as the Camry sped off. No sign of life yet. The place still looked abandoned. “We made it.”
“Big money?”
“Fucking right.” Tomlin rolled down the window and listened, the cold air and the adrenaline making him shiver in his seat. He didn’t hear any sirens. He rolled the window up again and looked back at Tricia.
She was staring out the window, breathing heavy. “Holy shit,” she was saying. She’d been saying it since they left the warehouse.
Dragan made the main road and turned south, toward Saint Paul. He drove quickly, but with little urgency, blending in to traffic. Tomlin watched the city approach in the distance. Then he glanced back at Tricia again. All fun and games until someone loses a life.
He’d imagined he would feel horrified, the first time he killed. He’d imagined he would feel sick with remorse. Instead of remorse, though, he felt numb. Detached. Hell, if anything, he felt good.
Tomlin turned away from Tricia and stared out the window again. Felt an electric rush course through his body. He watched the night blur past and listened to Tricia hyperventilate in the backseat, and he thought about the survivors and wished he’d killed them all.
—
DRAGAN DROVE BACK to the garage, parked, and shut off the engine. For a moment, nobody moved. Then Tricia opened her door and climbed out of the car. Dragan followed, and Tomlin watched as Tricia walked to him, wrapped her arms around him, pulled him close. Listened as she sobbed into his shirt. Tomlin waited, tapping a rhythm with his feet on the concrete. “We’ll divide up the money tomorrow,” he told them. “My office.”
Tricia nodded, her eyes swollen and bloodshot. She held tight to Dragan’s shirt and didn’t say anything. Tomlin watched as she climbed into Dragan’s Civic. Waited as the Civic drove off. Then he emptied the Camry, stuffed the guns and the money inside the Jaguar and drove out of the garage. Found a hard-rock station and played the music loud, speeding as fast as he dared back toward Saint Paul.
—
THE HOUSE WAS DARK when he pulled into the driveway. Becca was already asleep. Tomlin lay down beside her, wide awake, the adrenaline still pumping through his body. He leaned over and nudged her, and she groaned and smiled, sleepy. “Hi, honey.”
He kissed her on the mouth, hard. Becca’s eyes opened wide. He brought a hand to her chest, and she stiffened. Tried to protest, but he kissed her again, reaching for the drawstring to her pajama pants. She struggled beneath him. “Carter.”
“Go with it.” He kissed her again. “Let’s have fun.”
She stayed rigid as he kissed her neck, cupped her ass. Groaned as he pulled her pajama pants off. “I’m too tired, Carter.”
“Just relax,” he said. “It’s all right.”
He kissed her again. This time, after a moment, she kissed him back, soft, and he knew he had won. He grabbed her by her shoulders and flipped her onto her stomach and entered her from behind. She cried out beneath him, struggled, and he knew he was hurting her, but he didn’t stop. He pictured the dead kid at the game, the terrified waitress, heard the roar of the machine gun in his hands, imagined Tricia in his arms, naked and willing and scared.
He came within minutes, and collapsed on top of her, panting for breath. After a long minute, Becca shifted beneath him. Shrugged him away. Tomlin rolled to his side and lay beside her, listening to the blood pounding in his ears. He stared at his wife’s back, and realized she was sobbing.
58
WINDERMERE CAME TO CID early. She’d slept well after her workout, woke up at dawn with a clear mind and a positive vibe. I’m solving this case, she thought. Doughty and Tomlin and Jackson be damned.
Mathers was lingering around her desk. Caught her eye as she walked down the aisle. “Hey, Supercop.”
Damn right, she thought. “Shouldn’t you be hungover somewhere?”
Mathers grimaced. “Night shift. You and Doughty are looking at Camrys, right?”
“I’m looking at Camrys. Doughty’s eating my prodigious dust.”
“My bad.” Mathers held up his hands. “You heard about that shoot-out in Saint Paul?”
She shook her head. “Tell me.”
“Some kind of poker game,” he said. “Underground, in a warehouse. Check the wire. Someone put a Camry at the scene.”
“A shoot-out.”
“Assault rifles and everything. One dead.” Mathers shrugged. “Something’s going on up there, anyway.”
“Hot damn.” Windermere reached for her phone. “That’s the power of positive thinking, my friend.”
—
TEN MINUTES LATER, she was peeling out of the FBI garage in the Chevelle again, her foot hard on the gas, the tires squealing and her mind doing smash cuts as she raced for the highway.
An underground poker game. Saint Paul PD hadn’t given her much, just an address and the name of the homicide cop on scene. A gold Camry and an assault rifle, though, sounded pretty damn good.
Windermere raced east on I-94, took I-35E north and out of the city. Followed the cop’s directions to an industrial district, a train yard. Cruised around until she saw flashing police lights in the distance.
It was a crummy little industrial complex, drab and anonymous. Windermere parked the Chevelle behind a Saint Paul PD cruiser, ducked under the police tape, and glanced up at the security camera above the front door. Then she walked in.
Inside, the warehouse looked like someone’s private club. Dark wood-paneled walls, carpet, solid poker tables. A bar at the back, all the liquor top-shelf. The room was crowded with cops—the medical examiner and a forensic technician and plain, nosy cops—all of them clustered around a body in back. A uniform stood guard just inside. “FBI,” Windermere told him. “Where’s Detective Parent?”
A tired-looking plainclothesman looked up from the huddle. “I’m Parent,” he said, walking over. “Who are you?”
Windermere showed him her badge. “What happened here?”
Parent glanced back at the body. Shrugged. “These guys run an underground game,” he said. “High stakes. Higher than usual, last night.”
“Who’s the body?”
“Local kid, nobody special. We found a gun in the back—there’s a kitchen back there—figure he tried to make a stand.”
“Leads on the murder weapon?”
Parent nodded. “Shells are .223s, and there’s a shitload of them. An assault rifle, and the shooter went nuts.”
Windermere looked around the place. Pockmarks in the walls. Poker chips still on the table. Cards, too. Some poor bastard had pocket aces. She turned back to the detective. “Witnesses?”
Parent snorted. “Anonymous call. Time we got here, the place was deserted.”
“Saw a security camera by the door.”
He shook his head. “Wiped.”
“Shit.”
“Guess they value their privacy.” Parent studied her face. “What’s the FBI care, anyway?”
“Bank robberies,” she told him. “We’re chasing a crew, shoots .223 Remingtons and drives a Toyota Camry. Heard there was a Camry involved.”
Parent nodded again. “Security camera across the street caught the car parked outside. Can just barely tell it’s a Camry.”
“Plates?”
He shook his head. “Like I said, pretty blurry.”
Windermere circled the poker tables. Parent followed. “You have any leads whatsoever?” she asked him.
“Just pretty much what you got,” he said. “The Camry and the rifle.”
“So not much,” she said. “Shit.”
She walked over to the body. A skinny teenager in baggy jeans and an oversized T-shirt, five or six bloody holes in his chest. Shit. Parent cleared his throat. “These games, they’re kind of a secret. Nobody advertises, you know?”
Windermere looked at him. “Our killers knew this place existed.”
Parent nodded. “And someone had to recognize them outside. That door’s reinforced steel. These guys walked right in. Means someone unlocked the door.”
“They had a partner inside.”
“Or someone thought they were friendly.”
“Either way, they had an inside connection.”
The crew’s first murder, thought Windermere. First a note, then a gun, then a team, then a body. These guys are getting bolder and bolder.
So who are they? Where are they hiding? And where was Carter Tomlin when this whole thing went down?
59
TRICIA HADN’T ARRIVED when Tomlin got to work the next morning. He sat in his office with the duffel bag on his desk, resisting the urge to count the money without her.
He thought about Becca as he waited for his computer to boot up. She’d spent a long time in the shower in the morning, had emerged with swollen, exhausted eyes and a tight line to her lips, and had said very little to him before he’d left for work.
Tomlin thought about her and felt a little ashamed. He’d been rougher with his wife than he’d ever imagined he could be. He felt even worse when he thought about the kid he’d murdered. He felt nauseated.
Tricia came in just before nine. He heard her unlock the door and walk in, pretended to check his e-mail as she sorted herself out in the lobby. Then she poked her head into his office. “Hey,” she said.
She was beautiful. Radiant. She’d spiked her hair up, and her eyes seemed bigger than normal. She wore a tight-fitting blouse that hugged the curves of her body, and a black pencil skirt that ended just above the knee. She caught his look and grinned at him. “I almost look legit, huh?”
He couldn’t help smiling. “Almost.” He paused. “You okay?”
She looked from his face to the bag and back again. “I’m sorry I freaked out,” she said, sighing. “I talked it over with Dragan.” She shrugged. “It was self-defense, right? You couldn’t help it.”
Tomlin nodded. “He was going to kill us.”
“Exactly. Self-defense.”
They looked at each other for a moment, and Tomlin wondered if she really believed what she was saying. If she wasn’t addicted to the same thrills, deep down.
Tricia unzipped the bag and tipped it onto the desk, spilling cash everywhere. Laughed, giddy, as the cash tumbled out. “Should we dance in it?”
Tomlin grinned at her. At the money. Reached into the pile and came out with a watch. Tricia’s eyes went wide. “Rolex,” she said. “Holy diamonds.” He took her hand, slid the watch up her delicate wrist as she watched him. It was a man’s watch, too big for her, slid up almost to her shoulder. Precocious, like she was a little girl playing dress-up. She picked up another watch. “You like Cartier?”
“Why not?” He held out his hand, and she took it in hers, strapped the leather band to his wrist. For a moment her touch lingered, something electric. Then she turned back to the money, and Tomlin watched her as she tallied the stacks, that ridiculous gold watch sliding up and down her sleeve.
There was something irresistible about her, about the grin on her face and the flush on her cheeks. He imagined taking her as he’d taken Becca last night, and he felt a thrill. Tricia looked like the kind who wouldn’t mind playing rough.
Tricia dropped the last stack of cash on the desk. “Two hundred twenty thousand, plus the wallets.” She laughed, sharp and sudden. “Didn’t I tell you?”
“You told me,” he said. “I admit. You did good.”
She put a hand on her hip. “That’s it?”
“Great. You did great.”
She held the pose. Winked at him. “I know,” she said. Then she turned back to the money and began to parcel out the cash. Tomlin watched her count out Dragan’s share, then her own, admiring her body through her tight blouse.
“What are you doing with your share?” he asked her.
Tricia cocked her head. “Maybe buy a car. A convertible. Go on a vacation somewhere. What about you?”
Mortgage, Tomlin thought. Kids’ college funds. He started to answer. Then he shook his head. “I haven’t decided yet,” he said. “Something badass.”
60
NANCY STEVENS STARED up at Tomlin’s house through the Cherokee’s passenger window. “Wow,” she said. “What a mansion.”
Stevens parked at the curb, killed the engine. “Don’t get any ideas,” he said. “The guy’s probably swimming in debt.”
“And you think he’s a bank robber?”
“I don’t,” Stevens said, climbing out of the car. “Windermere does, and she might have a point. You’d need to rob banks to pay the heat in the winter.”
