Criminal Enterprise, page 19
Singer nodded. “Uh-huh.”
Stevens snuck another glance at the woman. An AR-15, he thought. Same weapon as Windermere’s suspect used.
“Guy come down from the Twin Cities, told my victim he wanted to buy a handgun. Victim asked to see a permit and got his head nearly caved.” She looked at Singer. “You think you can help me? Only take a few minutes.”
Stevens stood and crossed the office to Singer’s desk. “You said this guy came down from the Twin Cities?” he asked the woman. “What’s he driving?”
Singer looked up and frowned. “Stevens, hey.”
The woman shook her head. “Too dark to tell. Some kind of truck, an SUV. Dark-colored.”
“Dark-colored.” Becca Tomlin drove a blue Lincoln Navigator. “Navy blue, maybe?”
She shrugged. “‘Dark-colored,’ the guy said. It was night.”
An AR-15. A dark SUV down from the Twin Cities. Could be relevant. Could be he was grasping at straws. “Your guy describe the assailant?”
“Tall, I guess. Thin. Probably in his mid-forties. Brown hair.”
“Eyes?”
“Two of ’em. Blue.” The cop thought of something and laughed. “My guy didn’t want to tell me he’d noticed. Thought I’d figure he was a fairy.”
Singer cleared his throat. “Stevens, this is Investigator Russell with Hastings PD. You two got something in common?”
“Armored truck got robbed in Minneapolis this morning,” Stevens said. “Two guards shot with an AR-15.”
Russell frowned. “Lots of those guns around.”
“Same weapon was used in a bank robbery in southern Minneapolis a couple weeks back. Suspect was tall, wore a ski mask. Blue eyes.”
“Same guy,” said Russell. “Both times.”
“Exactly,” said Stevens. “Robbery in Prospect Park, a couple months back. Suspect matches your description. Brought a pistol. Before Christmas, he was robbing banks unarmed. You said you got an e-mail from your suspect?”
“An alias. Roger Brill.”
“Came from the Twin Cities.”
She shrugged. “So he said. I’m trying to swing a warrant for this guy’s street address. Internet company’s being assholes, and so is the judge.” Russell looked at him again. “Look, what’s your big interest here? I just want an address on that e-mail and get out of here.”
“No big interest,” said Stevens. “I’m just playing a hunch. Let’s see if we can get you that warrant.”
79
TOMLIN MET DRAGAN and Tricia at the motel, a shitty no-tell affair surrounded by fast-food restaurants and low-lying warehouses. The desk clerk barely looked up from his TV as he checked Tomlin into a room in the back of the building.
The TV was set to the news. The news showed continuous coverage of the armored car robbery. As Tomlin paid the clerk, he caught a glimpse of Carla Windermere in the background, snooping around the parking lot. The reporter showed a picture of the two guards he’d killed. Then they showed a grainy picture of Tricia with blond hair. “Tricia Henderson,” the caption read. “Person of interest.”
Shit. Obviously, the Minneapolis lowlife, Jackson, was no longer a factor. Somehow, Windermere had Tricia. And if she had Tricia, she would have Tomlin soon enough.
Tomlin took the key from the clerk and drove around to the back of the motel. He watched Tricia climb from the Civic, laughing about something with Dragan, and he wondered how she’d react when she found out she’d been made. Not my problem, he decided. He picked up his cell phone and called Becca at home. “What’s up, honey?” She sounded surprised. “Everything okay?”
So the police hadn’t come to her yet. “Everything’s fine,” Tomlin said. “Just thinking about you. Everything okay at home base?”
“Snickers got loose,” she said. “The neighbor chased him down for me. Found him in the Hargreaveses’ backyard.”
“That damned dog.”
“Madeleine has dance class,” she said. “After school. Can you pick her up on your way home?”
Tomlin looked out at Tricia again. She caught his eye, looked away. “Dance class,” he said. We’ll be fugitives by then.
“She’s done at six, and honey, it would make my life so much easier. Heather has some Spirit Club thing, and I don’t know how I’ll juggle both.”
Windermere would be following up on Tricia right now. It wouldn’t take long before she made the connection. It was time to skip town. “Let’s go somewhere,” he said. “A vacation. Right now.”
Becca laughed. “What, like tomorrow?”
“Like tonight,” he said. “Maddy can skip dance class. We’ll just hop a plane, anywhere you want. Pick the girls up and we’ll go.”
“And go where?” She laughed again. “Carter—”
“I don’t start work for a week and a half,” he said. “The timing’s perfect. Why not?”
“This is crazy, Carter.”
“Spontaneous.”
“Spontaneous.” She laughed again. “Okay. A vacation. Let’s just do it.”
“Great. I’ll see you soon.” Tomlin ended the call and stepped out of the Jaguar. Pushed open the motel door. Inside was a sketchy little room with pockmarked balsa-wood furniture and two rumpled double beds. Tomlin turned to Tricia. “You want to turn on the news.”
Tricia frowned. “Why?”
Tomlin found the remote for the TV, and flipped to a news channel. “Your picture is all over it,” he told her. “Your name, too. Give it a couple of hours and we’ll all three be made.”
80
STEVENS DUCKED a phone interview with the local CBS affiliate and called in a favor with a judge at the county courthouse. Drank bad BCA coffee and watched coverage of the Minneapolis armed robbery until mid-afternoon, when the judge faxed over Russell’s warrant.
Could be nothing, Stevens thought, following Russell out to her Hastings PD cruiser. Could be a coincidence. Could be I’m so eager to see Windermere again that I’ll jump on anything that sounds remotely similar. Nancy would tell you you’re pathetic. A lovesick teenager.
But what if there’s a connection here? Stevens thought, climbing in beside Russell. What if this is the break? He studied the warrant as Russell drove into Saint Paul, trying unsuccessfully to quell his excitement.
—
THEY FOUND the Internet provider’s office in a nondescript little building on University Avenue, a half mile or so west of the state capitol. Russell parked in front, and Stevens followed her to the entrance, where they cornered a short, middle-aged woman as she locked the front door.
“BCA.” Stevens showed the woman the warrant. “And Hastings Police. We need something from you.”
The woman looked at the warrant and then at Stevens, then Russell. She sighed. “I’m on break.”
“Only take a minute,” Stevens said. “Let’s go back inside.”
The woman sighed again, but she unlocked the door and led them into the building. They walked through a small reception area and into an office, where the woman dropped into her chair and switched on her computer and looked up at Stevens expectantly. Stevens glanced at Russell. “Got an IP address for you to run,” Russell told her. “One of your clients.”
The woman squinted at Russell. “We talked on the phone.”
“Claudia.” Russell nodded. “You shut me down.”
Claudia shrugged. “You didn’t have a warrant. This was a robbery, right?”
“That’s right.”
“Who got robbed?”
“Can’t tell you.” Russell smiled. “Privacy issues. You understand.”
Claudia frowned and turned back to her computer. Stevens handed her the IP address, and Claudia typed it in. She reached for a pen. “It’s a residential account,” she said. She wrote down an address and handed it to Russell. Russell looked at the paper, shrugged and handed it to Stevens, who read it and grinned. The Summit Avenue address. Carter Tomlin. Russell looked at him. “Good?”
“Makes my day.” Stevens pulled out his cell phone. Dialed Windermere’s number, his heart pounding. She picked up, and he heard wind in the background, traffic. “Windermere,” he said. “Stevens.”
“Caller ID, Stevens. What do you need?”
He paused. “You’re working that armored car thing, right?”
“Right.”
“Any leads?”
Windermere sighed. “One lead. A woman, one of the robbers. Headed back to Saint Paul to stake out her apartment. Except her face is all over the news, so she’s probably gone. Why?”
Stevens looked back at Russell and Claudia. “Swing by my office on your way.” He couldn’t keep the smile from his voice. “I have something you don’t want to miss.”
81
WINDERMERE STARED at her phone. Damn you, Stevens, she thought. I don’t have time to play games right now.
Doughty watched her over the top of the Crown Vic, with one eyebrow raised. “What’s the story?”
Windermere didn’t answer. Stevens hadn’t given her much. Had been downright coy, even. But he’d promised he had something to show her. Of anyone, he wouldn’t screw her around.
“Drop me at headquarters,” she told Doughty. “I gotta chase a lead.”
Doughty frowned. “What about Henderson?”
“I’ll catch up. I have to do something real quick first.”
Doughty looked like he was about to say something. Then he sighed and shook his head. Opened the car door and disappeared inside.
This had better be worth it, Windermere thought. Stevens drags me all the way over there to show me his daughter’s finger paintings, I’ll shoot him.
—
DOUGHTY DROPPED Windermere outside the FBI office and drove off without a word. Windermere watched the big Ford disappear into traffic. Then she rode the elevator down to the garage and climbed into her Chevelle and drove it across to the BCA headquarters northeast of downtown Saint Paul.
Stevens was waiting in the doorway when she pulled up. He had a woman with him, a heavy brunette. Windermere stopped the car in front of the doors and leaned across the seat to roll down the passenger window. Stevens came over. “Carla,” he said. “Hey.”
It was good to see him again. It would be better if he had something decent. “What’s the deal, Stevens?”
Stevens glanced back at his brown-haired friend. “This is Investigator Russell,” he said. “Hastings PD. She’s got a line on a stolen AR-15.”
Windermere stared at him. “I’m in the middle of a robbery–double murder, Stevens. No time for goose chases.”
Stevens smiled. “Just listen to her story.”
Russell told her story. A robbery in Hastings before Christmas. Guns. An AR-15 assault rifle. A middle-aged assailant out of the Twin Cities. An e-mail and an alias.
“Russell traced the e-mail,” said Stevens. “Copied down the IPO—”
“IP,” Russell said. “IP address.”
“—and traced it to an Internet provider. We got ourselves a warrant and harassed them for a while, and they gave us this.” Stevens held out a scrap piece of paper. “Take a look.”
Windermere glanced at Stevens. Then she took the paper. Read it. Tomlin’s address, Summit Avenue. She looked back at Stevens. “Shit,” she said. “This is it, Stevens. This is my case.”
Stevens grinned. “Figured you could use it.”
“Oh, I’ll use it. I’ll take his ass down.” She leaned over and pushed open the passenger door. “You coming with me or what?”
82
THEY LEFT RUSSELL at her car. The Hastings cop begged off the big takedown. “Long drive back,” she said. “Mayor wants me working these damn downtown break-ins in the morning.”
Stevens promised he’d keep her posted. Then he climbed into the Chevelle, and he and Windermere drove though Saint Paul toward Summit Hill. Stevens watched Windermere as she drove. “Hell of a car,” he said. “Must be rough in the winter, no?”
She nodded. “I try to keep it locked up.”
“But not this time.”
“Needed a pick-me-up,” she said. “Driving this bad boy gets me going.” She pulled to a stop sign and paused. Then she slammed down on the gas. The tires squealed and the rear end fishtailed, wild, back and forth. Windermere grinned at him. “Better than sex, Stevens.”
Stevens peeled himself from the seat. “I’ll take your word for it.”
She glanced over. Laughed at him. “I missed you.”
—
TOMLIN’S JAGUAR WAS gone, but his wife’s Navigator remained, looking like a lost toy on Tomlin’s vast driveway. Stevens followed Windermere across the street to the sidewalk. “A bank robber’s palace,” Windermere said, staring up at the house. “Imagine.”
“After we’re done with Tomlin, maybe we start knocking on neighbors’ doors. See how everyone else pays the mortgage.” He glanced at her. “You were right about Tomlin.”
“Of course I was right, Stevens,” she said. “You think I make this crap up?”
He shrugged. “I kind of thought you were crazy.”
“You and everybody else.” An unmarked Crown Victoria pulled up behind them, and two BCA agents climbed out. Windermere straightened. “Here comes the cavalry.”
The agents joined them on the sidewalk. “Nick Singer and Greg Rotundi,” Stevens said, “meet Carla Windermere.” The agents nodded at Windermere and then followed her gaze to the house. “Doesn’t look like our suspect’s at home,” Stevens told them, “but we’re going to execute the search warrant and wait for his return.”
“Maybe park the unmarked around the block,” said Windermere. “Make it so he doesn’t see it and bolt.”
Rotundi nodded and went back to the car as Stevens led Windermere and Singer to the house. Windermere knocked on the front door. Singer held up the warrant. After a minute, Becca Tomlin appeared through the window. She smiled wide when she saw Stevens, and swung open the door.
“Kirk,” she said. Then she saw Windermere, and her smile faded.
“Afternoon, Becca,” said Stevens. “Is Carter around?”
“He’s still at work.” Becca studied Singer, then Windermere. “What’s the problem?”
“It’s serious, Becca. What time do you expect him?”
“A couple hours, I guess,” she said. “I don’t know. He just called. Told me he wanted to take the girls on a vacation.”
Stevens swapped a glance with Windermere. “Vacation,” said Windermere. “Where?”
Becca shrugged. “Anywhere we want, he said. Like a celebration.”
Windermere arched an eyebrow at Stevens. Behind them, Rotundi climbed up to the house. “Head down to Tomlin’s office,” Stevens told him. “Wait for him there. Call us if you see him.”
Rotundi nodded, and Stevens turned to Singer, who handed Becca the warrant. “Carter’s in some trouble,” Stevens told her. “I’m sorry, but we’ve gotta take a look through the house.”
83
THE HAUL FROM the armored truck totaled more than nine hundred thousand dollars. It was enough to make Tricia forget, eventually, about her face on the news. It was more money than Tomlin had ever seen in his life.
It wasn’t going to be enough.
Nine hundred grand divided between the three of them meant over three hundred fifty thousand for Tomlin. Added to the poker-game score, and the remains of the bank jobs he’d pulled, and Tomlin figured he had close to half a million dollars in ready cash.
A half a million dollars wouldn’t make for much of a retirement. Not for a family of four. Hell, Tomlin thought, by the time we make it out of the country and set ourselves up with a home, we’ll be back in the same old situation, working to stay alive.
I need more, he decided. I just need a little more money.
Tricia giggled from the opposite bed. Tomlin stole a glance at her. She had Dragan on top of her, her legs locked behind his back, her arms around his neck. She let him kiss her for a while. Then she pushed him away. “Where are we going to go?” she said.
Dragan thought it over. “Mexico?”
“When?”
“Tomorrow. We leave early and drive to Chicago. Hop a plane.”
“What about the money?”
“We’ll hide it,” Dragan told her. “Wrap it up in our clothes. In a couple of days, you’ll be another rich bitch on the beach.”
Tricia laughed again, reached and pulled him down to her. Tomlin watched in disgust as they made out, a couple of horny teenagers after the prom.
Mexico, Tomlin thought. If I was young and carefree and single, half a million dollars would almost be enough. If I didn’t have a family to worry about.
He stood from his bed and walked to the window. Glanced outside, and then back at the kids again. He cleared his throat and they stopped fooling around, smiled at him, sheepish. Tricia sat up, fixing her hair. “What’s up?”
Tomlin looked at her, at Dragan. “One more score,” he said. “In the morning. Before we all scatter.”
Dragan glanced at Tricia. “I don’t think so. What’s the point?”
“We have enough money,” said Tricia.
“I don’t,” Tomlin told her. “Not enough for my family. Not to get us out safe.”
“Your family,” said Dragan. “What the hell do we care?”
“You care,” Tomlin told him. “You’d better fucking care. I got you this gig in the first place.”
Dragan cocked his head. “Maybe. But if you didn’t kill those guards, we wouldn’t be running. Evens out, doesn’t it?”
“I made you a shitload of money. I’m asking one favor. For my daughters.”
Tricia and Dragan shared a look. Neither said anything. Tomlin waited. He was still waiting when his cell phone began to ring. Becca. “Carter? Where are you?”
“Still at the office, honey,” he said. “I’ll be home soon. You all packed?”
A pause. “Where are you really?”
He walked to the window and peeled back the curtain. “I told you, the office.”
