Criminal Enterprise, page 30
Behind her, the door swung open again, and Tomlin laughed and called out her name. Andrea reached the cabinet and thrust open the drawers. Stared inside. Full of junk. Cleaning solution and paper towels and clothes hangers and about a million other useless things taking up all the space.
She looked around. Damn it. She could empty the cabinet, but then he’d see the debris and know where she’d hidden. She looked back at the door. Heard Tomlin coming closer and turned to the cabinet again.
She had an idea. She emptied the cabinet as fast as she could. Scattered clothes hangers all over the bare concrete floor, the cleaning supplies, too. Then she slipped between the rows of creepy, naked mannequins, squeezed in between them, and waited.
There was a bottle of bleach lying a few feet away. Andrea looked around for Tomlin. Couldn’t see him. She knelt down and reached for the bleach, came up two inches short.
“Crap.” Andrea leaned into the aisle, stretching as far as she could, gripping one mannequin’s leg for support. Fingers outstretched, her face contorted into a grimace. She almost had the damn thing. Then Tomlin grabbed her arm.
He bent down and looked at her, smiling his nightmare smile. Wrenched her up and out of the mannequins, sending them toppling down around her. They made a noise like a bowling alley as they fell to the floor.
“Found you.” Tomlin’s breath was hot and rotten. He smiled at her like the perverts on the street. Pulled her closer.
Andrea kicked him, hard. Struggled out of his grip and scrambled backward on the concrete floor, through the pile of mannequin parts, hands searching for the bleach bottle. She found the bottle and retreated quickly, fumbling with the cap as Tomlin came after her. The cap slipped and failed to catch, and Tomlin was nearly on her again. Stupid child-safety locks, she thought. Open, god damn it.
She got the cap open just as Tomlin closed on her arm. Swung the bottle toward his face with her free hand. The bleach spilled out at him, leapt out, splashed into his eyes, and Tomlin made a noise like an animal and loosened his grip again. Andrea dropped the bottle and ran.
135
TOMLIN CLAWED AT his face. His eyes burned. Bleach. Had to be. He heard the door nearby swing open and swung around at it, forcing his eyes open through the incredible pain. Saw only blurred colors, but it was enough to see Andrea Stevens escaping.
He held the rifle like a talisman and staggered toward the door. Tripped over a mannequin and fell hard to the floor. Swore and picked himself up, fumbling for the rifle, and kept going. Forced his eyes open and felt around for the doorframe, found it and pushed through and staggered out into blinding light. Instantly, his eyes were on fire. He staggered backward, breathing hard, swearing, squinting at the wash of bright colors and firing at random. Then he saw her.
She was nothing but movement and contrast, a darker color against a light backdrop moving quickly away. Tomlin steadied the rifle and fired at her. She kept moving. He pulled the trigger again and the rifle clicked empty. Motherfuck.
Tomlin followed Andrea Stevens down the aisle. Dropped the rifle and pulled the pistol from his waistband. Steadied it in her direction and aimed at her again.
—
WINDERMERE HAD HIT the floor when Tomlin shot across the store at them. Stevens ducked down beside her. “You okay?”
“Never better,” she told him. “Keep going.”
They stayed low behind the clothing displays and covered ground quickly. Reached the last spot where they’d seen Tomlin, and Tomlin wasn’t there. Windermere raised her head above the displays and surveyed the store. Saw nothing and heard nothing. Tomlin had disappeared.
Then a tremendous crash, close. Stevens pointed to the end of the store, the wall a few aisles away. The fitting rooms and a swinging stockroom door. “In there.”
They hurried toward it. More crashing. The door swung open, and Windermere leveled her gun, finger tensed on the trigger. Relaxed as Andrea Stevens came out at full speed. Stevens called out her name, and his daughter zagged for him.
The door swung open again, and Carter Tomlin staggered out, a monster. His clothes were matted in blood, and he clawed at his face with his left hand. With his right hand, he clutched an assault rifle.
Windermere stood and took aim. Tomlin screamed something, anguished, and fired a burst with the rifle. Windermere swore and ducked down behind a bathing suit display. Heard Tomlin shoot again as he moved toward her. Crouched behind the display counter and waited for him to come closer.
—
STEVENS CALLED OUT to his daughter. His daughter ran for him. Her eyes were wide and terrified, her legs working double time. Stevens looked past her and saw Tomlin in the aisle, unsteady, aiming a pistol at Andrea through tortured eyes.
Tomlin grinned like a Frankenstein monster. “Princess.”
Stevens launched himself at his daughter. Tackled her to the ground as the bullets flew past. Heard the air whoosh from Andrea’s lungs as she landed on the tile floor, the bullets missing by inches as she scrambled for cover.
Tomlin lumbered closer. Laughing now. Andrea struggled to her feet, broke Stevens’s grip, and kept running. Stevens fought to hold her, couldn’t do it. He flipped onto his back. Fumbled for his sidearm, couldn’t draw it in time. Then the madman was on him.
Tomlin smiled something gruesome, his eyes barely slits, his clothing rank and bloody. He could barely hold the gun steady as he aimed at the girl. Stevens scrambled backward. Tried to keep his body between Andrea and Tomlin’s gun. “Don’t do it, Carter,” Stevens said. “Please.”
Tomlin grinned at him. “Kirk,” he said. “Glad you could make it.” Then he turned his ruined eyes toward Andrea again, his finger tensed on the trigger.
—
WINDERMERE HEARD TOMLIN pass her. Stood and watched him stagger after Stevens. Watched Andrea break free from her father and run off down the aisle. Tomlin saw this, somehow, through his squint-closed eyes. She watched him take aim at the girl.
Windermere took her own aim, square at Tomlin’s back. As Tomlin steadied his trigger finger, she tensed hers. Beat him to the pull by about a half second.
POW.
Tomlin went down. Andrea kept running.
136
TOMLIN PITCHED FORWARD onto the tile. Tried to put out his hands to catch his fall; nothing worked. The ground loomed, a white blur, and then he was down. He lay on the floor and watched Andrea Stevens disappear into the distance.
Windermere walked up beside him. He could feel her kick the pistol away. He forced himself to roll over. Fixed her blur with his slit eyes. “Kill me.” He sneered at her. “Kill me, you bitch.”
—
WINDERMERE STARED DOWN at Tomlin. Watched him over the barrel of her pistol. Tomlin smiled skyward, an ugly, evil smile. “Kill me,” he said again.
She could pull the trigger right now. Kill him real easy. Nobody would care. “Do it,” Tomlin said. “Pull the trigger.”
She wanted to do it. Knew it would feel good. She tensed her finger on the trigger. The metal was warm. Tomlin’s voice was ragged, desperate. “Do it,” he said. “Kill me, you bitch.”
He wants it, too, she realized. He wants to be dead. She let her finger off the trigger. Tomlin’s smile disappeared. He spat. “Fucking bitch.”
She shook her head. “I’m not killing you, Tomlin.”
Tomlin screamed, incoherent. Writhed on the tile floor, cursing, clawing at his eyes, his face a mask of frustration and hate. Like a baby without his bottle, Windermere thought. Behind that charming façade, an impotent little man.
She watched Tomlin’s tantrum. Felt the pistol in her hand and ached to pull the trigger. Don’t do it, she thought. Don’t let him off easy. Make him suffer. She put the gun away. Stood over Tomlin and waited for backup to arrive.
—
STEVENS FOUND ANDREA hiding in one of the fitting rooms, amid a pile of clothes hangers and discarded designer jeans. She was sitting on the floor, hugging her knees, when he pushed the door open. “Is it over?” she said.
Stevens felt a wave of relief so powerful it forced him backward. “It’s over.”
Andrea studied his face for a long moment. Then she pulled herself to her feet. “Are you mad?”
Stevens couldn’t help himself anymore. He rushed to her and brought her into his arms, wrapped her in a bear hug. “Daddy,” she said, but she let him hold her.
He lifted her, buried his face in her hair. “I’m not mad,” he told her. “As long as you’re okay.”
“I’m fine, Daddy.” She pulled back, her eyes wide. “Except I really, really have to pee.”
137
TWO WEEKS LATER, with Carter Tomlin recovering from his wounds and preparing to face his litany of charges, Carla Windermere drove her daddy’s Chevelle across the Twin Cities toward a greasy diner in downtown Saint Paul.
It was a beautiful day, the first hint of spring after a long, dreary winter. The sky was bright blue and sunny, the snow melting on the ground, and Windermere kept the big muscle car comfortably above the speed limit as she drove down the Interstate toward the city.
She passed Midway, the exit that led to the Bank of America where Tomlin had first tasted crime. Then she passed Summit Hill, and she lifted her foot from the gas pedal, thinking about the million-dollar dream home and the beautiful family, the fantasy life that Tomlin had abandoned.
It was hard not to dwell on the first visit she’d paid to that Summit Avenue home. She’d known he was her man within minutes, had left his house sure that she’d caught him. Instead, she’d flubbed the kick. She’d let herself be distracted, and people had died.
Tomlin’s Mall of America spree was a rampage. He’d killed the tourist from Milwaukee in the parking garage and a security guard inside the department store. There was another casualty, too, a man they’d found dead in women’s wear, and three or four other victims with serious gunshot wounds. A disaster.
Plus the dead kid from the poker game, and the armored car guards. Nick Singer and Tony Schultz. Dragan Medic, and who knew who else? All of them dead. All of them killed by Tomlin. You could have stopped him, Windermere thought. You could have saved them all.
—
STEVENS WAS ALREADY at a table when she walked into the diner. She ordered a coffee and walked to his table, and he smiled at her as she sat. “Fashionably late.”
Windermere looked around. The place was an old railroad dining car, a long counter and a couple of cramped booths. It smelled of grease and old coffee. “Just couldn’t believe this was the place,” she said. “Feels like I’m risking my life.”
Stevens laughed. “This place is a landmark,” he told her. “Figured you could use a real taste of Saint Paul.”
He still likes me, Windermere thought, studying his face, his kind eyes. Lord knows why. She shook her head and took a sip of her coffee. “How’s your daughter?”
“Andrea? She’s fine.” He laughed. “She keeps talking about she wants to be a cop.”
Windermere looked at him. “Bull.”
“An FBI agent, she said. Like you.” He winked at her. “I told her one Windermere was more than enough. Said she could be a lawyer, like her mom.”
“Law degrees make FBI agents, Stevens,” Windermere told him. “Careful what you wish for.”
“Duly noted. Guess she’ll have to be an astronaut instead.”
Windermere cocked her head. “We could use her in Minneapolis. After Carter Tomlin, I’m short a partner.”
Stevens frowned. “Doughty?”
“Filed a complaint. Put in for reassignment. As of right now, I’m flying solo.”
“Probably for the best, right?” He shrugged. “Thought you hated your partners.”
She couldn’t help but say it. “All but one.”
Stevens sipped his coffee and didn’t say anything. Windermere looked around the restaurant, cursing herself out. Stupid, she thought. Don’t push him again.
Stevens stayed quiet for a while. “I guess you’re on a new case now,” he said finally.
Windermere exhaled. She met Stevens’s eyes. “Still tying up ends,” she said. “They found Tomlin’s Jaguar at Chicago O’Hare. Long-term parking. Tricia Henderson’s fingerprints everywhere.”
“She bolted.”
“With the money, apparently. Probably living easy on some beach somewhere.”
“Shit,” Stevens said.
She nodded. “Yeah.”
They sipped their coffees in silence some more. Windermere stared down at the pockmarked table and suddenly felt very tired. “I could have stopped him,” she said, looking up. “Tomlin. Before he started killing.”
Stevens shrugged. “Maybe.”
“Not maybe, Stevens.” She met his eyes. “I knew he was guilty. He knew I knew. I let Doughty pitch that Jackson nonsense, and Tomlin went crazy. He killed ten goddamn people, and I could have stopped him.”
Stevens touched her hand. “Nothing you can do now,” he said. “It’s over.”
—
THEY FINISHED THEIR coffees, and Stevens walked Windermere back to her car. “We should do this again,” Stevens said.
She smiled at him sadly. “We said that last time, Stevens.”
“For real, this time. We’re friends now.”
They reached the Chevelle and stood on the sidewalk beside it. Windermere looked at Stevens. “You have your family,” she said. “And your BCA job. And I was such a bitch, anyway.”
“You saved my daughter’s life, Carla. I won’t question your methods.”
“I’m still sorry, Stevens.” She shook her head. “I just thought it would be fun to be partners again.”
Stevens frowned and looked away. Was silent a beat. “I’m not FBI material, Carla,” he said finally. “I’m a pretty good state policeman with an excellent goddamn partner. We did good work with Pender and even better with Tomlin, but I’m just not cut out for this hero stuff all the time.”
Windermere didn’t answer. Yes, you are, she wanted to say. Ask Pender and Tomlin just how good you are. You belong in the Bureau and you know it.
“I’m happy, Carla. I am.”
That’s bull, she thought. You’d be happier working with me. Then she stopped herself. Forced a smile and punched Stevens lightly on the arm. “Probably too much flying for you, anyway, the cases I work.”
He grinned back. “Not enough airsickness bags in the world.”
She wanted to smack him and kiss him and scream all at once. Instead, she made herself turn away. “Keep in touch, you big dummy,” she said. Then she climbed into the Chevelle and settled behind the wheel. Turned the key in the ignition, and the engine howled to life.
Stevens stood on the sidewalk and watched her. Before she could speed off, he walked over and tapped on her window. Windermere rolled it down. Stevens looked in at her, cocked his head. “You have plans for dinner?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “Why?”
“We’re going to try and have a barbecue,” he said. “You could come over. Try some famous Kirk Stevens charbroil. Emphasis on the charred.”
She hesitated a moment. Then she smiled at him. “I have plans,” she said, lying. “Anyway, I doubt Nancy wants to see any more of the woman who’s always putting her man’s life in danger.”
“Andrea’s back safe. You’re more than welcome.”
Windermere shook her head. Wanted to tell him no thanks and step on the gas, peel off back to Minneapolis and her empty apartment, and get drunk, alone. “Andrea would love to see you,” said Stevens. “Like I said, you’re her hero.”
Just one twitch of her right foot and she’d be halfway down the block. Gone. Free to drive off and kill a six-pack and wallow over Tomlin and Stevens and whatever else she could think of. But she didn’t really want to go home, she realized. She didn’t want to let Stevens go, not this time. Not again. “What do you think?” Stevens asked her. “You feel like a burger or what?”
Windermere looked at Stevens. Felt her heart start to race, and tried to play nonchalant. “Yeah, okay, Stevens,” she said. “Maybe I’ll stick around for a while.”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I remain ever grateful to Stacia Decker, my agent, and Neil Nyren, my editor, for all of their wisdom and encouragement. I’m exceedingly fortunate to have landed with such a Hall of Fame team, and this book owes much to their patience and dedication.
Thanks also to the fine people at Putnam whose hard work would otherwise go unheralded, including (but certainly not limited to) Alexis Welby, Katie Grinch, Lydia Hirt, Margot Stamas, Kate Stark, Chris Nelson, Sara Minnich, Marilyn Ducksworth, and Ivan Held.
Thanks to my home team at Penguin Canada, in particular Steve Myers and Beth Lockley. And a million thanks to the copy editors and proofreaders who’ve saved me from embarrassments both minor and major altogether too often.
Steve Berry, C. J. Box, Alafair Burke, Lee Child, Jonathan Kellerman, John Lescroart, Thomas Perry, and John Sandford lent their names and kind words to my cause. I’m still pinching myself. Thanks to you all.
Thanks to Ilsa Brink, who built me a stunning website and who works tirelessly to maintain it.
Thanks to Kristi Belcamino, Alex Kent, Mickie Turk, and Officer Lynn Cronquist and Sergeant Michael Young of the Minneapolis Police Department for dedicating their time and expertise to showing me around the Twin Cities, and for giving me plenty of excuses to come back to Minnesota.
Thanks to the booksellers whose enthusiasm for The Professionals inspired me as I wrote this second installment in the Stevens and Windermere saga, and to the readers who tore through The Professionals and came back demanding more.
Thanks to my friends, old and new, whose extraordinary love and support continues to overwhelm me. Truly the best part of publishing is sharing my success with you all.
