Criminal Enterprise, page 17
Windermere glanced at Doughty. Schneider stared at them. “Is that all?”
“Good enough for me,” said Windermere.
Doughty stood. Glared at Schneider. “Don’t make us come back.”
Schneider rolled his eyes. “Wouldn’t dare,” he said, sounding dead bored again. Windermere shook her head and turned for the door. Tricia Henderson, she thought. Honey, you’re next.
70
INSTEAD OF Tuesday’s usual afternoon practice, Andrea’s basketball team played an away game in East Saint Paul that night. Stevens drove his daughter across town, barely aware of the pop music she blared from the Jeep’s radio. He was thinking about Tomlin some more.
The man was definitely hiding something. He’d looked just as guilty as Windermere had described when he’d found Stevens in the basement. He looked panicked. Hell, he looked half a minute away from murder.
Stevens parked the car and walked with Andrea into the gymnasium. Dropped Andrea at the locker room and leaned against the wall to wait. Pulled out his coaching clipboard. Stared at it, couldn’t focus. Looked up and saw Carter Tomlin walking into the gym with his daughter. He, too, looked preoccupied. Gone was the man’s preternatural confidence. Gone was his poise. His eyes were shiftier. His posture was bad. He looked like a man shrunk inside of himself.
Stevens watched him approach. Put away his clipboard and held out his hand. “Coach.”
Tomlin looked up sharply. Hesitated briefly before he shook Stevens’s hand. “Agent Stevens.”
Heather Tomlin glanced at Stevens. Blushed bright red when he met her eye. She smiled at him and disappeared into the locker room. Stevens turned back to Tomlin. “Wanted to thank you for having us over the other night,” he said. “Finest meal I’ve had in a long while.”
Tomlin avoided his eyes. “Sure,” he said. “It’s no problem.”
“Hope I didn’t step out of bounds, wandering off on my own.”
Tomlin’s blue eyes were hard. His mouth was drawn tight. “Of course not.”
Keep him talking, Stevens thought. “How’s that new job of yours working out? Must be kind of a relief to be back in the big-business world.”
Tomlin hesitated. Then he shook his head. “I don’t start for two weeks.”
“Gotta tie up your loose ends, I guess.”
Tomlin nodded.
“Say, listen.” Stevens forced a smile. “Had a bit of a tax situation spring up. Nothing serious. An issue with overtime hours. You got any time this week I could pop by the office? Maybe give me a hand?”
Tomlin stiffened. “I’m busy all week.”
“Just take a few minutes. I’d happily pay you.”
“Can’t do it, Kirk. Sorry.” Tomlin shifted his weight. “How’d that case of yours turn out? The Danzers. Any luck?”
Stevens looked at Tomlin. “Yeah,” he said, nodding, “I might have a lead. Some hitchhiker, maybe. Just random bad luck.”
Tomlin stared across the gym floor, thinking hard about something. “So they picked someone up,” he said finally. “And he killed them.”
“One more reason to steer clear of strangers, right?”
Tomlin thought a little more. Then he met Stevens’s eyes. “Sounds like Elliott,” he said. “At least from what I knew.”
“Yeah?”
“Almost too nice, that guy,” said Tomlin. “Naive. Kind of guy who’d empty his wallet for any sad sack with a story. You got the sense he’d have drowned without his wife.”
“Sylvia kept him grounded, huh?”
Tomlin nodded. “Loved him, that was obvious. She just saw through the scams. Elliott never did.”
“She was a realist.”
“She got the bills paid on time.” Tomlin paused. “How did he do it? The hitchhiker.”
“Do what?” Stevens frowned. “Kill them?”
Tomlin nodded again. “Just bad luck,” he said, his eyes brighter now. “That’s what you said, right? They just stopped and picked him up and he killed them.”
“Something like that,” said Stevens. “We’re still putting the pieces together.”
Tomlin looked primed to say something else, but just then the locker room door opened and Heather Tomlin peered out. She looked at Tomlin and Stevens and blushed again. “Coach Stevens?” she said. “Are you going to come talk to us? It’s almost game time.”
Stevens glanced at Tomlin. The man had an eerie look in his eye. Like the talk of the Danzers had sparked something in him. Carla’s right, he thought. There’s something definitely wrong here.
“Coach Stevens?”
Stevens straightened. “Yeah,” he said, turning away from Tomlin. “Here we go.”
71
STEVENS KNEW SOMETHING. That much was obvious.
Tomlin replayed his conversation with the BCA agent in his head. Stevens knew something. He’d picked up on Tomlin’s unease in the train room. Maybe he had talked to Windermere, after all. Either way, he was on the scent.
What to do?
At least he had time to consider the problem. With the BCA agent courtside, Tomlin had been reduced to a glorified water boy. The girls seemed more cohesive; they played better as a team. They scored more. They were winning more games. Even Heather looked happier with Stevens on the sidelines. Coach or cop, Tomlin thought. The big dummy’s a hero.
What to do?
The BCA agent hadn’t said anything threatening. He’d mentioned the party. Faked a cute apology for searching the basement. Asked, ever so innocently, about dropping by the office. Nothing overt. Nothing threatening. His tone, though. His tone gave him away. He was digging.
So what? Tomlin thought. Let him dig. He has nothing.
The smartest thing, Tomlin knew, would be to take the new job at North Star and forget about pulling bank robbery scores. Ease into a new life again. A new, boring life.
The final buzzer sounded. A big win for Kennedy. Tomlin watched the girls crowd Coach Stevens, their flushed faces bright and happy. Caught sight of Heather in the mix. Watched the way she looked at her coach. Hero worship.
The girls disappeared into the locker room. Tomlin watched the crowd empty the gym. Realized he didn’t want to be alone with Stevens any longer. He walked out of the gym and into the school proper. Found the men’s washroom and locked himself in a stall. You’re smarter than Stevens, he thought. You’re better than that dummy. He’s not going to outwit you.
Tomlin thought through his conversation with Stevens again. This time, he skipped over the boring stuff. He didn’t want to think about the cop anymore. He wanted to think about Elliott and Sylvia Danzer. He’d felt an electric little thrill when Stevens told him the story. A hitchhiker. Some random killer. The Danzers had stopped for him. Offered him a lift out of kindness. Their bad luck. They’d died for it. Utterly random.
Tomlin pictured the kid at the poker game. Saw his face. Courage and anger. Then fear, and the sudden realization he was dying. Tomlin wondered what the kid had thought about as he died. If he’d cursed his own shitty luck or resigned himself to fate. If he’d hated Tomlin for ending his life.
I killed him, Tomlin thought, and he suddenly knew he could never be good again. Couldn’t just jump back into some day job again, some civilian life. Not when he’d tasted the alternative.
Tomlin ducked out of the stall and checked that the bathroom was empty. Then he took out his cell phone and dialed Tricia’s number. Waited while the phone rang and felt his breath catch when she answered. “Boss,” she said. “Hi?”
“Hey.”
“Hey.” She paused. “What’s up?”
Tomlin felt like he was on a roller coaster climbing that first hill. “Let’s do it again,” he said. This was it. The first drop. He felt his adrenaline start to race. “Another score. Let’s do it. Soon.”
72
SCHULTZ WRITHED ON his living room floor. Pulled himself to his knees and spat blood. “I don’t have the money,” he said. “I don’t know what the fuck else to tell you.”
Ricky nodded to the driver. The driver kicked him again. A square shot to the stomach. Hard, steel-toed work boots. Knocked Schultz a couple feet backward and flat on the dusty floor again.
“You like to play rough?” Ricky asked him. “You like this kind of treatment?”
Schultz didn’t answer. Focused on not throwing up. Felt tears of pain in his eyes, squinted through them. Saw the driver’s Timberlands and Ricky’s Prada loafers. The Timberlands approached again. Schultz tensed again, groaning. Waited for the next kick.
But the driver didn’t kick him. He bent down instead and pulled Schultz to his feet. Gripped his shoulders, rough, and turned him toward Ricky. Held him upright as he swayed, his knees buckling.
Ricky studied him from the window. He was small, maybe five and a half feet. Skinny, too, underfed. A tiny spic with a smart-ass mouth and a big fucking friend to help back up his words.
They’d come in the morning. Broke the window in the front door and let themselves in. Schultz was still in bed, sleeping off a bad drunk. He’d listened to the driver’s heavy footsteps as he climbed up the stairs. Pulled the sheet over his eyes and pretended the big thug was part of the hangover.
He heard the driver pause at the door, staring in at the tiny bedroom, the dirty sheets on the bed. Held his breath, waiting. Maybe he’ll just leave, Schultz thought. Maybe this is a dream. Then the guy came for him. Schultz was big, but this guy was bigger. Dragged him out of bed. Dragged him downstairs to where Ricky was waiting. Kicked the shit out of him for an hour or two and then did it some more. Didn’t even have the courtesy to let Schultz get dressed.
Now he stood, propped up and half naked in his own living room, bleeding, spitting out his new teeth, probably concussed again. And Ricky watched him, a B-movie gangster, probably thought he was ten kinds of tough. “You don’t got a family,” he said.
Schultz let the driver hold him up. Didn’t reply.
“Got an ex-wife in Minneapolis,” Ricky continued. “Julie Peters. Fifteen-forty-two Argyle. What I hear, though, it was a nasty divorce. Am I right?”
Schultz said nothing. The driver shook him. Schultz blinked his eyes into focus. Thought about Julie, the bitch. “Yeah,” he said.
“No kids, though. No child-support payments.”
“Alimony,” said Schultz. “Otherwise I could pay you.”
“You’ll pay me.” Ricky walked away from the window, to the dusty easy chair in the corner. Studied it as though weighing its worth. Then he turned back to Schultz. “You got a sister.”
Schultz stiffened. “Fuck you.” The driver held him tight.
Ricky smiled at him. “Got a couple of nephews.”
The driver held him tighter.
“Robbie Montgomery,” said Ricky. “And Kyle. Pretty cute.”
“Fuck you,” said Schultz.
“Normally, we’d start taking fingers.” Ricky looked around the living room. Shrugged. “But what the fuck you need fingers for, Tony?”
Schultz struggled harder. Couldn’t budge. The driver’s fingers dug into his shoulder. Ricky watched him and laughed. “Get my money.” He nodded to the driver. The driver dropped Schultz. Schultz lay on the floor and watched Ricky and the driver walk out of the house.
73
TOMLIN WOKE UP early. Tossed and turned for an hour, then gave up and went downstairs to his train room and set an Amtrak express on a collision course against a long freight. Oil tanker cars. Diesel fuel and hazardous chemicals. A high-speed crash, devastating. He picked the pieces off the floor, and then he took the guns out from hiding, stuffed them in the duffel bag, and carried them out to the Jaguar.
He hit early-morning traffic on I-94. A thousand other rubes heading to their day jobs. Tomlin grinned to himself in the stop-and-go traffic. Turned the stereo loud. Sang along.
Tricia and Dragan were waiting by the Camry when he pulled into the parking garage. Tricia twisted in Dragan’s arms as Tomlin parked, smiled at him as he climbed from the car. “Couldn’t resist, huh?”
Tomlin shrugged. “Don’t ever get old.”
She laughed. “I don’t plan to.”
“What’s the target?” Dragan looked calm as a corpse. A lobotomy patient. “Another bank?”
“Something new,” Tomlin said. “Something we’ve never done.”
Tricia smiled. “Mr. Excitement.”
“What is it?” said Dragan.
Tomlin shook his head. “I don’t know yet.” He smiled at Tricia. “Let’s improvise.”
They climbed inside the Camry, and Dragan pulled out of the lot. Tomlin sat in the passenger seat and drummed on the dashboard. He twisted in his seat to look at Tricia. “You blow all your winnings?”
“Hell, no,” she said. “How’s that mortgage coming?”
“Still miles to go.”
“You’re really into that American Dream stuff, huh?” She smiled at him. “Wife, kids, big house, nice car?”
“I thought I was,” Tomlin said. “I’m not sure anymore.”
Tricia looked out the side window. “I’ll never get married. Why tie yourself down?” She leaned forward and wrapped her arms around Dragan’s neck, gave him a wet, sloppy kiss on the cheek. “Doesn’t mean I don’t love you.”
Dragan smiled a little, pushed her away. “You’re going to crash the car.”
Tomlin watched the kid drive. Watched him make a point of wiping her kiss from his cheek, trying to play it cool. Couldn’t hide his smile, though. Tomlin looked at him. Appraised him. A runty zit, less personality than a cereal box. “Take us east,” Tomlin told him. “Across the river.”
Dragan nodded and turned onto Central Avenue, crossed the bridge onto the East Bank. They drove northeast, away from the river and out to where the buildings got older and smaller and dirtier, where the used-car lots lining the street were all surrounded by fences topped by razor wire.
“So what’s the job, boss?” Tricia said. “You want to boost a Camaro?”
Tomlin stared out the window. Grand theft auto, he thought. Not a chance. He shook his head. “I’m still thinking.”
“So find us a job,” she said, laughing. “Let’s get started already.”
Tomlin looked at Tricia. Felt a little tremor of excitement. He stared out the window some more and tried to think.
“Armored car.” Dragan caught Tomlin’s eye and gestured out the front of the Camry at a boxy blue van with tiny pillbox windows. The van pulled up to a stoplight, signaled left. “What do you think?”
“Are you crazy?” Tricia said. “Those guards will kill us.”
Could be a million dollars in there, Tomlin thought. They’d have a couple of guards in the back, maybe three. He wondered if the assault rifle could pierce the vehicle’s slit windows. Probably not. They would have to wait for a drop. He glanced back at Tricia. “They’ll have a shitload of money.”
“You think? How much?”
“Bigger than the poker game. A few hundred thousand at least.”
The guards would put up a fight. They would be armed, and they wouldn’t hesitate to start shooting. If something went wrong, Tomlin knew, he could die. All three of them could die. The money, though. A million bucks. And the thrill.
Tomlin stared out at the big armored truck. Imagined the guards waiting inside. They wouldn’t know what was coming. And their puny pistols wouldn’t go for shit against an assault rifle. Tomlin realized he was shaking. Fear, or adrenaline. A combination of both. It was not an unpleasant sensation.
I’ll kill them. I’ll kill the guards, and we’ll walk away rich.
The light changed to green. The van rumbled left. Dragan tapped on the steering wheel, waiting for Tomlin. Tomlin looked at Tricia again. “A million bucks, maybe.”
Tricia exhaled slowly. Then she nodded. Tomlin turned to Dragan. “Let’s go.”
Dragan signaled left and cut across two lanes of traffic, horns blaring behind them as he stepped on the gas. On the road ahead, the van was turning in to a mini-mall complex. It rumbled through the lot and stopped outside a cash-advance store. “Park close by,” Tomlin told Dragan. “And make sure you’re loaded. These guys will shoot back.”
Dragan nodded. Slowed the Camry and turned in to the lot. Tomlin reached for his ski mask, his heart pounding through his chest. This is it, he thought. A fucking armored car heist. Badass.
74
THE GUARDS FOUGHT BACK.
Tomlin and Tricia waited until the armored car parked. Watched from the Camry as a big guard let himself down from the passenger door, walked around to the back of the truck, and opened the rear compartment. Another guard waited in the back with a shotgun. “Shit,” Tricia said. “You sure about this?”
Tomlin stared out at the truck. This is madness, a part of him screamed. This is above and beyond anything you’ve ever done. And you’re going in blind. Unprepared.
Tomlin gripped the assault rifle. Relished its weight, the cold steel in his hands. He could feel the rush. There was no way he was backing down now. He pulled on his ski mask. “Don’t sweat the shotgun,” he told Tricia. “Just get us the money, okay?”
Tricia stared out at the truck, her mouth tight. Outside, the guard with the shotgun slid a duffel bag to the rear of the truck. His partner shouldered the bag and turned toward the sidewalk.
Tomlin watched Tricia, waiting, until finally she nodded. Tomlin reached for the door handle. “Go time.”
—
THE PARKING LOT was half full. A couple cars parked and a few more pulled out. Tomlin lifted the rifle to his shoulder, drew a bead on the shotgun guard. The guard was watching his partner with the money. He didn’t notice Tomlin.
Tricia crossed behind Tomlin, headed for the cash. Tomlin steadied his breathing and found the guard in his sights. Felt his heart pounding as his finger tensed on the trigger. Someone screamed behind him and the guard tensed. Spun around and saw Tomlin. Tomlin pulled hard on the trigger and fired a burst into the rear of the van. The guard staggered backward, fell down.
