Criminal Enterprise, page 20
“I just called the office, Carter.”
Tomlin stared out the window. Outside, the parking lot was deserted. A train rumbled by, slowly, on the spur line beyond. “Carter?”
There was something in her voice. Tomlin didn’t answer. He turned around and saw Dragan kiss Tricia, slide his hand under her shirt. Half a million dollars would be plenty, Tomlin thought, if I had a pretty girl with me on a warm sandy beach. A million dollars would be even better.
Becca made a strangled noise. “Carter?”
Tomlin eyed Dragan. And what if we were two and not three? He looked at Tricia again. Imagined spending the rest of his life with her on some lawless beach. That perky young body. That dirty mind. No mortgage to worry about. Sex all the time.
“Carter, where are you?”
Tomlin ended the call. Switched his phone off and turned back to the lovers. “One more score,” he said. “Then you can go.”
Tricia pushed Dragan away. Looked at Tomlin hard. “In the morning,” she said finally. “Quick. For your family.”
Tomlin nodded. “For my family.” He lay back on the bed and stared up at the dingy ceiling. Turned up the volume on the TV as Tricia began to make out with Dragan again. Enjoy your time with her, asshole, he thought, listening to the rustle of their clothes over the news anchor’s monologue. As of tomorrow, she’s mine.
84
WINDERMERE HUNG UP the cordless extension. “Shit,” she said, looking at Stevens. “Lost him.”
On the living room couch, Becca Tomlin shook her head. “I don’t know what happened,” she said. “He just went away.”
Windermere swapped a look with Stevens. Then she took out her cell phone and disappeared into the front hall, and Stevens heard her issuing rapid-fire directions to some hapless colleague. He stood at the living room window and looked out over the front lawn. The sun was setting outside now; the shadows had encroached almost to the edge of the house, and the living room was all dark corners and dim light. Stevens looked at Becca’s reflection in the glass, her eyes red and her cheeks tracked with tears. They’d asked her to call Carter. He’d lied to his wife; Rotundi had found the office deserted. He was searching the place now.
And meanwhile, Becca Tomlin sat at home and watched her world fall apart. “Bank robbery,” she said, her eyes meeting Stevens’s. “I just don’t understand.”
He watched her eyes fill with tears again, and he passed her a box of tissues. “I’m sorry,” he told her. He sat on the edge of the couch and put his arm around her, and she leaned into him and began to sob.
Singer came into the living room. “Nothing upstairs. I’ll check the basement.”
“The model train room,” said Stevens. “If he’s hiding something, it’s there.”
“Train room. Got it.” Singer walked out again, the Tomlins’ yellow Lab trailing after him, tail wagging, oblivious.
—
THE FRONT DOOR opened, and Heather Tomlin came in, her nose in her cell phone, giggling about something. “Damn,” Becca said, standing. “I just need a minute.”
“Sure.” Stevens waited while she called Madeleine downstairs and herded both girls to the kitchen. Stevens heard muffled conversation, and a few seconds later, Heather came stomping back through the living room and into the front hall, narrowly missing Windermere as the FBI agent came back into the room. In the kitchen, Madeleine Tomlin started to cry.
Windermere raised an eyebrow at Stevens. “Nothing at Henderson’s apartment,” she said. “My people are talking to the phone company. Hoping we can pinpoint Tomlin’s cell.”
“Assuming he doesn’t ditch the thing,” Stevens said.
“Which he probably does.”
“Maybe not. He’s no Pender. Maybe he forgets the phone.”
Windermere shook her head. “If he watches action movies, he’ll ditch the phone,” she said. “But we’ll try anyway.”
Stevens nodded. “Fingers crossed.”
Becca Tomlin came back into the living room and sat down heavily on the couch. She smiled at Stevens and shook her head. “I thought he was having an affair,” she said. “I guess I was thinking too small.”
85
I SHOULD HAVE suspected something,” Becca said. “I wondered how he could still have money, after the layoff, but he never let me look at the bank statements. I just assumed business was good at his new job.”
Stevens sat forward on the couch. “Did you ever see anything that looked suspicious? Guns, maybe?”
“He wouldn’t bring a gun in this house, not with the children around.” She smiled sadly at Stevens. “I guess I just didn’t see it. Carter could have an apartment in Minneapolis for all I know. A whole other life.”
“There’s no shed in your backyard?” said Windermere. “No cottage or second property?”
She shrugged. “You would know better than me at this point.”
Singer walked in from the kitchen. “Basement’s clean,” he told Stevens. “There’s a pile of old sports junk, a couple boxes of clothes. Nothing in the train room but trains.”
Stevens stared at him. “You’re sure?”
“Positive.”
“He moved it, then. Shit.”
Becca turned to look at him. “What did he move, Kirk?”
“Whatever he was hiding.” Stevens looked at Windermere. “He had something down there last week. He didn’t want me to see it.”
Becca frowned. “How do you know?”
“I went down there,” he said. “The party. Carter found me. I thought he would kill me, he looked so mad.”
Becca stared at him. “You were snooping around our house, Kirk?”
Windermere stared, too. “You went to a party here, Stevens?”
Stevens looked at Windermere first, then at Becca Tomlin. Both women held his gaze, waiting for answers. Mercifully, he felt his cell phone begin to ring. Checked it: Rotundi. “Sorry.” Stevens stood and walked into the hall. “Great timing,” he told Rotundi. “Now tell me you found something.”
“A little something. Twenty thousand in cash in his bottom desk drawer.”
“Weapons?”
“None.” Rotundi laughed. “Get this, though: The chick that’s on the news today, the punk rocker, Henderson? She’s Tomlin’s secretary. At least she was. They’re closing the office this week.”
“No kidding.” Stevens thanked Rotundi and hung up the phone. Turned around to find Windermere standing in the living room doorway.
“Anything?” she said.
“Twenty thousand in cash,” Stevens told her. “And the Tricia Henderson connection. She’s his secretary.”
Windermere pumped her fist. “Knew it. So where are they? Where are his guns?”
“Probably getting ready to run,” Stevens said. “He knows the heat’s on him. He’s not coming back.”
Windermere stared out the window and thought for a moment. “I don’t think he just runs,” she said. “Not this guy.”
Stevens frowned. “You think he sticks around? Why?”
“Just a hunch, I guess. Instincts. This guy’s a thrill-seeker.” She shook her head, grim. “I’ve followed him this far down the spiral, Stevens. I bet he doesn’t leave until he’s sure he’s reached bottom.”
86
TONY SCHULTZ PACKED a suitcase and threw a couple pictures of his nephews on top. He dragged the suitcase out to his battered old Ford, chucked it onto the passenger seat, and stood back to survey his house. The Mexicans would be back, he knew, and soon. They wouldn’t leave him alive this time.
He slammed the truck door closed and walked back to the house. The money was gone, wherever it was. The money and the drugs both. By now, Brill had spent every penny.
Schultz walked into the house and looked around the front landing. He would drive south, out of state. Somewhere he could be anonymous, start over. Forget about the Mexicans and the drugs. Do something different. Maybe he would get a real job again. Something outdoors. Build houses, or paint houses, or something. Something challenging, something honest. He stood in the landing for a while and wondered what the Mexicans would do when they figured out he was gone. Wondered if Ricky would really come for the kids.
Forget that, Schultz thought. Scotty’s a good cop. Tough. No way he lets anything happen to those boys.
Maybe it was a bad idea to drive south. The farther south you went, the closer you got to Mexico proper. Hordes of those spic bastards trying to kill you. What about north, northwest? Montana. Hide out on the great lawless plains for a while.
The phone started to ring in the kitchen.
Schultz pictured himself in Montana. A homestead like this one. A real job. A woman. No more drug dealing. No more mistakes. The phone rang again. Schultz walked to the kitchen and answered. “Yeah.”
“Carter Tomlin.” Scotty’s voice. “He’s your guy. Some geek accountant up in Saint Paul.”
Schultz stared at his reflection in the black kitchen window. Scratched his head. “The hell would an accountant want with my guns?”
“Damned if I know. But the BCA’s sure. FBI’s in it, too.”
BCA. FBI. “You kidding me?”
“Guy used your guns on about five or six bank jobs. An armored truck, too. Killed a couple guards with that AR-15.”
“Shit,” Schultz said.
“Figured you’d want to know, anyway.”
“I guess I did.” Schultz spat into the sink. “Was about to hit the road, Scotty. Shit.”
“FBI probably gets him. No sense joining in.”
Schultz scratched his head again. “No,” he said. “Probably not.” He paused. “Keep an eye on those boys of yours, would you? A good eye.”
Scotty laughed. “Two good eyes ain’t enough, brother. Not those two. Be safe.”
Schultz told him good-bye and hung up the phone. Carter Tomlin. An accountant. A bank robber. He stared at his tired reflection in the window some more.
A fool’s errand, that’s what they’d call it. Better for everyone if he just headed west. Skipped the bullshit. Fine, except what about those two goddamn kids? No way he could live with himself if Ricky came back.
Schultz replaced the phone in its cradle and walked back to the laundry room and the ruined, shot-up cabinet where he’d stashed his old guns. He dug around in his closet for the TEC-9 and a couple extra clips, stuffed the clips into his jacket pocket, and laced up his boots. Then he looked around the house one more time, locked the door, and walked out to his truck and fired up the engine. Backed out to the highway and pointed the truck north to Saint Paul.
87
TOMLIN WOKE UP Thursday morning with a splitting headache. Between Dragan’s semitruck snoring and his own racing thoughts, he’d barely been able to keep his eyes closed all night.
He stood, picking his way around the duffel bags on the floor and fumbling into the bathroom. He turned on the light and pissed, rubbing his eyes with his free hand. Today’s the day, he thought.
The idea didn’t haunt him as much as he’d feared. Today, he would abandon his family in favor of a sexy little punk rocker and a beach in the middle of nowhere. It should have made him feel rotten. After all, he’d robbed all those banks for his family, hadn’t he?
Hadn’t he?
We could have declared bankruptcy. We could have sold the house for whatever we could get, ditched the cars, moved somewhere cheaper. Becca could have looked for a full-time teaching job. He could have gone back to school, become a carpenter, done something productive. There were millions of honest, hardworking men out of work in America. Very few of them turned to bank robberies to survive.
It wasn’t about the money, though, was it? It was about something else. Power, and control, and proving to Carver and Lawson and Rydin that he wasn’t some dumb neutered fuck, that he wasn’t a failure. That even if the firm didn’t want him, he could still provide for his wife and children, like they did, like every man should. He’d proved he could do it. His family had survived. Now he would take his reward.
Tomlin flushed the toilet and splashed his face with cold water. Then he walked out of the bathroom and to the motel window, where he lifted the blackout curtain and surveyed the empty parking lot. After a moment, he flung the curtains open. Tricia groaned behind him, and Tomlin turned to watch her disentangle from Dragan, tousled and beautiful, pulling the sheet to her chest. “Rise and shine,” he told her. “Time to go.”
Dragan rolled over, rubbed his eyes. “I can’t believe we’re doing this.”
“You can sleep for the rest of your life,” Tomlin told him. “Today’s your big day. Up and at ’em.”
“Shit,” Dragan said.
“We’ll never have to work again, baby.” Tricia winked at Tomlin. Then she leaned over and pulled the sheet off of Dragan, exposing his pale skinny frame. “Tomorrow we work on your tan.”
Dragan shared a long look with Tricia. Then he groaned again. “Fine.”
—
THEY DRESSED IN silence and walked out and stood on the crumbling sidewalk, shivering in the cold. “We drive back to Minneapolis,” Tomlin told them. “Find another truck.”
“Why a truck?” Dragan asked.
“Money.” Tricia looked at Tomlin. “Right?”
“Exactly,” said Tomlin. And the guards will be armed. “We take Dragan’s Civic. Hit the truck and you can bring me back here. We split the money and bolt, understood?”
Dragan glanced at Tricia. She nodded. He nodded. “Okay, then,” said Tomlin. “Let’s go.”
They took the Interstate westbound toward Minneapolis. Got off on Hiawatha, just across the river, and cruised into Ventura Village, where they stopped at a McDonald’s down the street from a couple of check-cashing joints. They ate a greasy breakfast in the rear of the parking lot, watching the procession of cars on the street beyond.
When they were finished eating, Tomlin walked the garbage to a bin and jogged back to the Civic, trying to stay limber. He slid into the passenger seat and fiddled with the radio. Watched the cars pull in and out of the lot and tried to calm his nerves.
Hurry up and wait, he thought. Where in the hell are the trucks?
It took nearly an hour. They sat in the Civic, all three of them silent, surveying the road. Tomlin played with the radio. Couldn’t decide on a station. Finally, he gave up and turned the damn thing off. Sat back in his seat and tried to welcome the silence. Then Tricia pointed through the windshield. “There.”
Tomlin followed her gaze and saw the truck lumber by. A van like the last one, big and heavy and blue. Bingo. Tomlin glanced at Dragan. “You see it?”
Dragan was already shifting into gear. “I’m on it.”
—
TRAFFIC WAS LIGHT, and the big truck was slow. Within minutes they’d pulled up behind it.
“Follow them,” Tomlin said, reaching back for the assault rifle and a pistol. “They’ll make a drop, and we’ll take them like last time.”
Dragan stayed stuck to the rear of the truck. Tricia pulled on a ski mask. She stared at Tomlin through the eyeholes. “No killing,” she said. “Not this time, okay?”
“Only self-defense,” Tomlin said.
“Boss.” She looked into his eyes. “Only if it’s us or them. Promise.”
Us or them. Tomlin held her gaze. “I promise.”
They followed the armored truck. Dragan tapped fast on the steering wheel. Tomlin watched him, his own adrenaline pumping. The truck turned in to another dingy mini-mall. Dragan turned in behind. Tomlin pulled down his ski mask and tightened his grip on the rifle. Accidents happen, he thought. Promise or no promise.
88
STEVENS WOKE, stiff-necked, in Windermere’s Chevelle. He sat up, rubbed his eyes, and stared out the window, half-forgetting where he was. Saw Carter Tomlin’s house and remembered. The bank robber had never come home.
Windermere gave him a smirk from the driver’s seat. “I was wondering how long you were thinking you’d sleep.”
He rubbed his eyes again, blinking in the sunlight. “Sorry. You get any rest?”
“Someone had to watch the house, Stevens,” she said, shaking her head. “You should have let me take you home.”
“Damn,” he said. “What did I miss?”
Windermere shrugged. “Tomlin’s wife turned out the lights around one. You were awake for that part, I think. Since then, it’s been talk radio and your heavy breathing. No movement outside.”
“How the hell’d you stay awake?”
“Stakeout routine.” She held up a grocery bag. “Your boy Singer did a 7-Eleven run for me. Red Bull and Mountain Dew, all night long.”
“Jesus.”
“Part of the job. Except right now, I really have to pee.”
Stevens stretched, twisting in his seat, trying to loosen up. “You want to find a gas station bathroom or something? I can hang around here.”
Windermere shook her head and reached for the door handle. “Now that you’re back in the land of the lucid, why don’t we check on Becca Tomlin again?”
Stevens stepped out onto the pavement and stretched some more, rolled his neck around, tried to get to feeling like a human being again. When he turned around, Windermere was halfway to the house, her cell phone to her ear. She ended the call as he caught up alongside her. “Doughty,” she said. “My FBI partner. He’s not happy this morning.”
Stevens frowned. “What’s the problem?”
“Had him stake out Tricia Henderson’s place all night,” she said. “Guess he missed his daughter’s dance recital or something. And you can guess how the stakeout went.”
“She didn’t come home.”
“Or she came home and Doughty missed it,” she said. “Even odds, one way or the other. She’s not there now, anyway.”
“Maybe they’re gone,” Stevens said. “Like, hopped-a-plane gone.”
Windermere nodded. “I had my office put a hold on Tomlin’s credit cards while you were sleeping. If there’s any action, we’ll hear about it.”
