Criminal Enterprise, page 25
Tomlin forced himself to keep moving. Left his shattered layout behind and walked to the next doorway, the dark laundry room. He flipped on the light and swung in with the rifle, but nobody sprung out to surprise him. Tomlin flipped off the light and crept toward the rec room. Paused at the doorway, then peered in the room. Ducked out again quickly. Where the hell did all those damn kids come from?
The room was filled with teenagers. About ten of them, boys and girls. Heather’s friends. Schultz’s hostages now. Good Christ. Tomlin looked in the room again. This time, Schultz himself grinned back.
He was still a big bastard. Tomlin could see the faint scar where he’d hit the man with the scrap two-by-four, saw the glint of recognition in the man’s dark eyes. Schultz was holding a gun, some kind of automatic, and he waved it at Tomlin. Tomlin ducked out of the doorway and waited for the bullets. Instead, he heard Schultz laugh from inside, a harsh, gravel-truck laugh. “Come on in, Tomlin,” he said. “Don’t be a stranger.”
109
NICK SINGER STARED up from the unmarked Crown Vic toward Tomlin’s house, thinking about that Civic some more. The driver had hit the end of the block and turned left. Not much to look at, unless he was taking a short cut to Ramsey Street, down toward the Interstate and the river. Not much back there, otherwise.
Singer stared up at the house. A light on in the back and upstairs, nothing moving. Everything calm. He rolled down his window and listened but heard nothing. The snow billowed around him, but the whole night was muted, the only sound the occasional crackle from the radio inside his car. Hell of a shortcut on a night like tonight, Singer thought. In a little front-wheel drive car like that, too.
Singer stretched in his seat and checked the time. Nearly one in the morning, and still lights on inside. Pretty late to stay up, a mother and a couple of youngsters. Though who could blame them, a situation like this? Dad’s off robbing banks, killing people, Mom’s nowhere the wiser. Stevens said something about the guy coaching his own daughter’s basketball team.
Crazy.
Only thing down that side street besides a shortcut to Ramsey was a laneway running roughly parallel to Summit Avenue. Down about thirty feet, a little fifteen-mile-an-hour access road. Be a tough slog through the snow back there. And Christ, but that Civic had looked a lot like the one they were talking about.
Singer studied the house a bit longer. Every light that had been on when he’d started his watch had stayed on. No new lights had come on in the meantime. Shit, he thought. They’re probably just watching a movie. Hanging out in the kitchen or something.
Still, better go up and have a look around, just to keep Stevens and Lesley happy. Singer stifled a yawn and turned off the ignition. Climbed out of the Crown Vic and trudged up to the house.
—
SCHULTZ WATCHED Tomlin’s dog’s ears perk up, watched the mutt bolt from the room, and he knew that Tomlin had arrived. He waited. Heard Tomlin creep into the basement. Saw it in his daughter’s wide eyes when her dad poked his head in the doorway. The doorway was empty by the time Schultz turned around, but he could hear Tomlin moving outside. A moment later, the bastard reappeared, and this time, Schultz was waiting for him. “Come on in, Tomlin,” he said, as Tomlin ducked away. “Don’t be a stranger.”
Tomlin stayed silent a beat. Then: “Let the kids go.”
Schultz glanced back at the teenagers, all of them silent and unmoving, huddled together as if, packed so tight, they could stop bullets. He shook his head. “Come on inside,” he said. “Join your family. We can talk this thing over like a couple human beings.”
“Let my family go,” Tomlin called. “Then we talk.”
“Give me what you stole, and they walk.”
A long pause. Then: “It’s upstairs.”
“Bullshit.”
“Secret room,” Tomlin said. “This place was built by rum-runners. Lots of hidden compartments. I’ll show you.”
Schultz felt his frustration mounting, his bullshit meter going haywire. He’d searched the whole goddamn house already. Hadn’t found any secret compartments. Son of a bitch. He looked at the teenagers again. They stared back at him, waiting. Schultz shifted his weight. “You’re feeding me a line.”
“You want your money or not?”
Schultz stared at the empty doorway. “God damn it.” He reached for Heather Tomlin, wrenched her from her mother. “If this is some kind of goose chase, I’ll start with your daughter.”
“No goose chase,” said Tomlin. “I’ll get your money.”
Schultz pulled Heather Tomlin closer to him. The girl stifled a scream. Screwed her eyes closed tight again. Schultz gritted his teeth. “Upstairs,” he told her, raising the TEC-9 to her throat. “Let’s hope your daddy’s not lying.”
110
TOMLIN HAD BEEN at a party once, in a neighbor’s house a few blocks away. The host had taken a few of the men on a kind of grand tour. He’d showed off the dining room and the drawing room, and a little sewing room tucked into one corner. Then he’d stopped in a long hallway and slid back a wall panel, revealing a tiny alcove filled with shoe boxes and books.
“Secret compartments,” he’d said, grinning. “Useful for stashing booze. They say Capone himself spent a night in our guest room.”
The next day, Tomlin had tested every wall panel in his home for his own secret room. Eventually, he’d given up, disappointed and envious. Schultz, though, wouldn’t know that. Schultz would have to believe him.
Tomlin watched as the big man maneuvered his daughter into the hallway, his machine pistol pressed tight to Heather’s neck. Heather stared at him like he was a life raft on an empty sea. She looked like a child in the big homesteader’s arms.
Schultz followed his gaze. “You just get me my money,” he said. “Your daughter will be fine.”
Tomlin kept his eyes on Heather. Forced a wry smile, like, What have we gotten ourselves into now? She gave him a forced little smile back. It made his heart ache to see it.
Schultz tightened his grip on her shoulder. “Drop the rifle.”
Tomlin looked at Schultz again. There was no way he could kill the big man without risking Heather’s life. Not here. Upstairs, maybe. He could separate the man from his daughter and beat him like he’d beaten him before. Anyway, he still had his pistol.
Tomlin bent down, slowly, and placed the rifle on the floor. Then he backed down the hall, his eyes on Schultz. Schultz followed, pushing Heather ahead of him. He picked up Tomlin’s rifle and held it in one hand, the machine pistol in the other, Heather tight in the crook of his arm. “Careful,” Tomlin told him. “You shoot me and you’ll never find your money.”
Schultz grunted. “Keep moving.”
Tomlin glanced at his daughter one more time. Then he turned and started up the stairs, hoping like hell he could bullshit his way out.
111
SCHULTZ GRIPPED the girl tight and prodded Tomlin with the gun. “Hurry up,” he said. “Time’s wasting.”
Tomlin glanced back and nodded. Seemed to climb the stairs even slower. God damn it, Schultz thought. I don’t have time for this shit.
Sooner or later, the whole situation was going to unravel. The cop outside would decide to check on the house. The FBI would trace Tomlin back to his home. Something, eventually, would go wrong. Schultz didn’t want to be here when it did. “I didn’t find any secret compartments,” he told Tomlin. “This better not be some kind of game.”
“You didn’t know where to look.” Tomlin’s voice was flat calm. “They say Al Capone spent the night here, back in the day.”
Tomlin made the landing, turned, and walked up another short flight of stairs and into the kitchen, every light in the room burning bright. He turned back to Schultz with a smile on his face. Calm. Friendly. Everything easygoing. “Of course, nowadays, we just use the rooms for storage.”
I don’t care, Schultz thought. I just want my money.
He could still sense the bullshit. Tomlin was trying to buy time. There weren’t any compartments. There probably wasn’t any money. And that was bad news for everyone. Especially Schultz. It meant he would have to start killing people. He glanced down at Tomlin’s terrified daughter and still wasn’t sure he could shoot her. Tomlin led them out toward the front hall. “Upstairs,” he said, glancing at Schultz again. “I’ll show you.”
—
SINGER DUCKED AWAY from the front door when he saw Tomlin appear down the hall. Shit, he thought. The bastard came home, after all.
Singer stayed crouched low, out of sight. Drew his sidearm and peered back through the window again. What he saw made him duck even lower. Tomlin’s daughter. And a monster of a man with two big machine guns. Tomlin was leading him right for the door.
What the hell is going on?
Singer pressed himself against the wall of the house, stayed as low as he could, and waited for Tomlin to open the front door. The big guy’s the first target, he thought. Neutralize those machine guns, then worry about the bank robber. Just make sure you don’t hit the girl.
He waited, every muscle in his body tensed, ready to spring out the second Tomlin opened that door. Waited, and kept waiting.
Tomlin didn’t open the door.
Singer snuck another look through the window. Tomlin wasn’t there. He craned his neck higher and saw the big guy’s big ass disappear up the front stairs.
Shit.
Singer glanced at the Crown Vic across the front lawn. Knew he should dash back and call Stevens for support. He looked back in the window again. The big guy was almost gone. And no telling what he planned to do with the girl.
Singer looked at the Crown Vic again. Then he stood and shoved open the front door. “Freeze,” he yelled. “Police.”
—
SCHULTZ STOPPED ON the stairs. Shit, he thought. Game over.
“Drop your weapons,” the cop yelled. “Drop or I’ll shoot.”
Tomlin stared down at him from the landing above. Stared past Schultz, at the cop. His daughter broke free and dashed up the stairs. Disappeared down the hallway. A door slammed.
Schultz caught Tomlin’s eye. He gripped the TEC-9 and thought about killing the bastard. Paying him back for that cheap shot with the lumber, and all of the bullshit besides. Then he shook the thought away.
I move wrong and that cop pulls his trigger. This piece of shit’s not worth dying over. “I’m dropping my weapons,” he called down to the cop. “I surrender.”
112
TOMLIN WATCHED AS Schultz’s whole body seemed to deflate. The big man sighed. “I surrender.”
He bent down and put the assault rifle on the stairs, then the machine pistol beside it. Straightened again, and held his hands high. Turned around slow to face the cop at the bottom. Tomlin looked past the big man to the front hall, where the cop stood, a young guy, his service weapon drawn. There were no other cops. Just the one. The night watchman, Tomlin thought. Probably called for backup already. Time’s wasting.
Schultz walked down the stairs, slow and deliberate. Tomlin started down after, just as slow. Hoped the cop hadn’t noticed him yet. As he walked down the stairs, he pulled the pistol from his waistband, very slowly.
—
SINGER WATCHED THE big man descend the stairs. The guy had a look on his face like a death-row inmate, like he’d always known it would end this way. Singer kept his gun on him. “Easy,” he told the guy. “Take it easy.”
“I’m not going to do nothing,” the guy said. “It’s Tomlin you have to worry about.”
Singer reached for his handcuffs. Police instincts, he thought. I knew something was up. He pictured Tim Lesley’s face when he came into HQ with the two of these assholes. Wondered what Stevens would say.
The big guy was nearly at the bottom of the stairs. Singer backed up a step. Readied his handcuffs. Deal with this guy first, he thought. Then worry about Tomlin. He looked past the guy as he went to apply the cuffs. Just for a brief second, but that’s all it took. He realized he’d made a terrible mistake.
Tomlin stood on the stairs, halfway up. He was holding a polished black pistol. He was aiming it straight down at Singer.
Singer swore. Then the shooting started.
—
SCHULTZ WAS NEARLY at the bottom of the stairs, wrists out and ready for the cuffs, when he saw the cop’s eyes go wide.
“Shit.” The cop fumbled with his pistol. Dropped the handcuffs to the floor. Then the whole world exploded as Tomlin started shooting.
Schultz pitched down to the hardwood. Ducked his head, his ears ringing, half deaf. When he looked up again, the explosions had stopped, and the room smelled of cordite and blood. The young cop lay on the floor a few feet from Schultz, his eyes open, not moving.
Schultz rolled onto his back. Looked up the stairs at Tomlin and his pistol, the same pistol Schultz had tried to sell him a week before Christmas. Tomlin descended the stairs, slow now, his eyes moving from Schultz to the dead cop and back again. Schultz stared up at Tomlin. At the pistol. A .45 Sig Sauer P250. An online classified ad. A goddamn concussion and a mouth full of broken teeth. And now this.
Tomlin’s blue eyes were icy cold and malevolent. “Guess I should have done this the first time around,” he said. Then he pulled the trigger.
113
STEVENS’S CELL PHONE began to vibrate. He took the phone from his pocket and glanced at it. Rotundi. “You on the radio, Kirk?” Rotundi’s voice was urgent. “You following this?”
“No,” Stevens said, straightening in his seat. “What’s up?”
“Saint Paul police dispatch just put out a call for available Summit Hill units. Shots fired. Summit Avenue.”
Stevens felt his stomach flip. “That’s Tomlin. Where’s Singer?”
“Tried him on the radio,” said Rotundi. “His phone, too. Can’t reach him.”
“Let me try him,” said Stevens. “I’ll call you back.” He ended the call, and dialed Singer’s number. Waited as the phone rang, then a click, and Singer’s voice mail. “Shit.”
Stevens was sitting in his Cherokee in a Payne-Phalen alley, a block or so down from Dragan Medic’s apartment. He’d been trying to decide whether or not to go home. Whether he should go back into Medic’s apartment and apologize to Windermere. Whether an apology was what she was after.
Shots fired on Summit Avenue. Singer’s unreachable. Whatever Carla’s after, it’s going to have to wait. He turned the Jeep’s engine over and pulled out of the alley. Drove onto Payne and parked in front of Medic’s building. Called Windermere. “Something’s going down at Tomlin’s house,” he said. “We need to get over there.”
A long pause. Then: “I’m coming.”
Two minutes later, Windermere opened the passenger door and climbed inside the Cherokee. Stevens hit the gas and pulled away from the curb. Drove as fast as he dared through the snow.
Windermere watched him. “What’s the situation?”
“Shots fired,” Stevens said. “Singer’s AWOL.”
Windermere looked at him some more. Then she shook her head and sat back in her seat. “Shit,” she said. “Connect the dots.”
114
TOMLIN HELD HIS daughter close. “It’s over, honey,” he told her, guiding her around the bodies in the hall. “You’re safe now.”
It was no use. Heather buried her face in his shirt and sobbed. Tomlin rubbed her back and guided her downstairs to the basement, where Becca and Maddy and the rest of the kids were still huddled together in the rec room. They shrunk back when Tomlin walked in. “It’s okay,” he told them. “It’s all over.”
Nobody said anything. Nobody met his eyes. Slowly, warily, they picked themselves off the couches and carpet. Kept their distance as they drifted out of the room. Tomlin crossed to Becca. “Everyone’s okay.” He reached out to pull her to him. “Everyone’s fine.”
Becca stiffened when he touched her. She said nothing. “The police will be here any minute,” he told her. “We have to go.”
She shrugged out of his grasp. “I’m not going anywhere.”
“Honey.” Tomlin could hear sirens in the distance. “It’s time to go.”
“Don’t call me honey.” She spun at him, shoved him backward. “I’m not your fucking honey, you liar. You fucking murderer.”
He ducked back. “I did this for us,” he said. “For you and the kids, believe me.”
“Bullshit. Bullshit.” She was crying now. “You killed those people for us? Those armored truck guards? You did that for us?” She shoved him backward again, harder. “Bullshit, Carter. Bullshit.”
The sirens were definitely out there, getting louder. Tomlin felt like he was drowning. “Becca,” he said. “We all had to eat.”
“Fuck you,” she said. “You could have found a real job.”
“I tried.”
“You tried,” she said. “You’re a failure. You’re a weak little man.”
The sirens were everywhere. “Becca—”
“That’s why you robbed those banks,” she said. “Why you killed all those people. You had to pretend to rape me just to get hard, you—”
He slapped her. Fucking bitch. Becca staggered back, her eyes wide. “Yeah, hit me,” she said, sneering. “You’re a big fucking man. Hit me again, you son of a bitch.”
Maddy burst into fresh tears in the corner. A couple of Heather’s friends lingered nearby, staring at him, shocked. The whole room suddenly felt foreign. Even Becca looked like a stranger. Tomlin heard her sink to the floor, sobbing, as he turned away. He walked out of the rec room and glanced in at his ruined model trains one more time, and then he flicked off the light and climbed the stairs to where Snickers still sat at the door, whining. Tomlin opened the door and the dog hesitated. Glanced back at him once and then dashed off, disappearing into the blizzard.
