Criminal Enterprise, page 7
I could be finding that out right now, Windermere thought. “I was going to check him out before Doughty called me in. The guy lives in Saint Paul, has a Summit Avenue address.”
Doughty laughed. “Summit Avenue. So he’s got a million-dollar home and he’s out robbing banks.”
“Could be a credit card issue,” Windermere told Harris. “Or our suspect got his hands on the receipt somehow. I thought I should talk to Tomlin, see if he could tell us anything.”
“Agent Hill already worked the Midway case,” said Doughty. “She didn’t find much. These guys are lowlifes from the south. We knock on enough doors and we’ll find them.”
“You keep knocking on doors,” said Windermere. “See where it gets you. I have six previous robberies to dig through. And I have Tomlin.”
“You have a tattered receipt, Carla. It’s not exactly the smoking gun.”
“Enough.” Harris waited until Windermere and Doughty turned to face him. “You guys are partners,” he said, his features drawn tight. “I expect a certain degree of professionalism.”
Doughty nodded. “Yes, sir.”
Windermere said nothing.
“Agent Doughty, you’re running this case,” Harris continued. “If you’re sold on the southern angle, you keep working it. Ride those city cops and keep knocking on doors. Agent Windermere, I expect you to work with Agent Doughty, not against him.”
Windermere stared at him. “And Carter Tomlin?”
“Tomlin’s your baby,” said Harris. “If you think you’ve got something, you follow it up on your own. But you make damn sure you respect Agent Doughty’s seniority. If he asks you for help, his request takes priority. Understood?”
Windermere could see the end in sight. “Yes, sir,” she said.
Harris nodded. “Dismissed.”
22
ONE DAY AFTER meeting with Ernie Saint Louis in the federal pen in Waseca, Kirk Stevens packed up his Cherokee, kissed his wife good-bye, and drove the three hundred miles north to International Falls on the Canadian border. He checked himself into an empty motel alongside Route 53, and then drove to the town courthouse, where he found a young sheriff’s deputy waiting.
The deputy’s name was Waters, and he shivered as he climbed out of his vehicle, a county Chevy Suburban with two snowmobiles strapped to the trailer behind. He pulled his coat tight around him and looked sideways at Stevens. “Would be a lot easier if you wanted to wait for the thaw.”
Stevens surveyed the parking lot. It was cold, barely ten degrees, and the wind seemed to cut right through his heavy goose-down parka. The town was bleak, grim, and gray, and Stevens knew the woods would be worse. In a couple months, though, the weather would warm and the snow would melt away, making the Thunderbird a hell of a lot easier to find.
Still, Stevens thought, there would be black flies.
In his head, he pictured Sylvia Danzer’s photograph. The wry smile. He knew he didn’t want to wait a couple of months to see if Saint Louis’s sugar-high lead panned out. He cinched his coat tighter and looked at Waters. “We do this quick enough, we get back before the Timberwolves tip off.”
Waters looked at him for a beat. Then he shrugged and turned back to the Suburban. “Your call.”
—
WATERS DROVE WEST out of town on Route 71, running parallel to the Rainy River and the Canadian border. Stevens rode shotgun and stared down at the crude map Saint Louis had drawn, then out into the desolate bush. He looked over at Waters. “You get many people trying to hop the border, this part of the world?”
Waters glanced at him and shrugged. “Who knows?” he said. “Not like we can stop them when the river freezes over.”
Stevens nodded. “Sure.”
“Don’t know where you’d go if you did cross,” Waters said. He looked at Stevens again. “It’s as empty over there as it is over here.”
Waters drove west a while longer, over the top of the Smokey Bear State Forest, the highway almost at the riverbank now. On the other side, Canada was a formless mass of trees, deep-green and black where the land wasn’t covered in snow. Waters pulled the truck over at the head of a narrow snowbound road. “Guess this is as far as we get with the truck.”
They unloaded the snowmobiles from the trailer. Waters gave Stevens a helmet and a quick tutorial, and then climbed on his own machine, revved the engine, and sped off down the trail. Stevens watched him disappear, the snow like a rooster tail behind the machine. Then he gunned his own engine and started in pursuit.
The cold was unreal. Stevens gripped the handlebars tight and bent low, the bitter wind buffeting him through his parka, his borrowed ski pants covered in ice and slush. Waters rode fast as the road wound through the bush, and Stevens pushed hard to keep up. After a half hour or so of hard riding, Stevens rounded a corner and found Waters pulled to a stop by the tree line.
The road had narrowed into more of a trail now, the ground beneath the snow rocky and uneven, the naked trees encroaching. Waters flipped up his helmet and gestured farther. “Used to be a logging road,” he said. “Nobody uses it but hunters and four-wheelers anymore.”
And fugitives, Stevens thought. He flipped up his own helmet and sucked in the cold air. He realized he was sweating.
Waters gave it a moment. Then he flipped his helmet down and was off again, his snowmobile revving high-pitched and hysterical as he took off down the slim path. Stevens caught his breath and then bent down to his machine again.
The bush had taken over the terrain here. The trees seemed to close in on him over the trail, their loose branches clawing at his helmet and his parka as he sped between them after Waters. There was no room for any vehicle larger than an ATV, certainly not enough space for a T-Bird.
Twenty minutes through the trees and the trail started to widen again. Gradual, imperceptible, until it was probably wide enough to slide a Jeep through. Waters slowed his snowmobile to a stop, and Stevens stopped behind. His legs ached when he stood; he was thirsty. The woods were silent around them.
Waters took off his helmet and ran his hand through his hair. Looked at Stevens, and then around the forest. “I’m guessing this is the general area,” he said. “Going to take some searching, though.”
Stevens pulled Saint Louis’s map from his pocket. “A fork in the road,” he said. “Just after the trail opens up again.”
Waters pointed. “Just down there.”
They walked down the trail about a hundred yards. Stevens peered in through the trees as they walked, searching for red paint. The forest was dense, inscrutable. Anything beyond ten or fifteen feet would be invisible.
A hundred yards down, and the trail joined with another bearing from the northeast. Stevens walked to the fork and peered up the new trail. A wall of trees, impassable. Still, as he walked forward, his boots sinking deep in the snow, Stevens could see something half-lodged in the tree line, a snow-covered hulk hidden around a brief corner.
He walked closer. The hulk was buried in snow. It looked angular, though, geometric and unnatural. Stevens looked back to where Waters waited at the fork and then pressed forward, his heart starting to pound.
It was a car. He could see that from about ten feet away. It lay wedged between two young birch trees, as though the driver had tried to force her way through. Stevens covered the last distance quickly. He brushed the snow from the rear bumper and stared down at rust and red paint. A Ford logo.
He looked back at Waters again. Saint Louis wasn’t lying. A red Thunderbird, lost in the woods. Now, where the hell was the driver?
23
TOMLIN STOOD IN his model train room, watching a long freight wind its way through the mountains. It was long past midnight by now; the house was silent above him. The little electric motors in the model locomotives sounded like diesel engines as the train rolled across the layout.
Tomlin’s body was tired. His mind, though, couldn’t slow down. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw the Eat Street robbery, a few days ago now but still fresh. He could feel the big assault rifle explode in his hands as he fired that burst into the ceiling. Could still see the pretty young teller trembling as she emptied her till, her eyes pleading with him not to shoot her.
The money’s good, Tomlin thought. The money buys the whole family a couple months, worry-free. The bank teller, though, and the gun?
Tomlin shivered.
He parked the freight train in the Minneapolis yard and started up a passenger express for another loop. Thought about Tricia as the train picked up speed. For all of his misgivings, his spiky-haired punk-rock princess had come through as advertised. Brought him to her apartment a few days after the deal with Javier, introduced him to Dragan, a quiet Serbian kid with acne scars and a close-cropped haircut. He looks like a basketball player, Tomlin thought. Or a rebel soldier in some woebegone Baltic state.
“How do you know him?” Tomlin had asked her, when Dragan had ducked out, his mother on the phone.
Tricia shrugged. “I just know him,” she said. “You ask so many questions.”
“I’m hiring him to rob banks,” Tomlin told her. “I’m allowed to ask questions.”
Tricia glanced after Dragan. Then she sighed. “We went to the same high school,” she said. “He used to drive for his big brother’s crew. They took down a bunch of liquor stores in my neighborhood before they got caught. Dragan was young, so they let him out early. He’s cool, boss. You can trust him.”
“Are you two together?”
She gave him her funny smile. “Sometimes,” she said.
He’d watched her eyes go wide when he’d brought out the guns. Frowned when she picked up the shotgun. “Careful with that,” he told her.
Tricia scoffed. “You be careful,” she said. “I’m no virgin.”
“It’s a big gun.”
“My dad’s a gun freak,” she said. “Used to take me hunting. You ever want any pointers with this baby, let me know.”
He let her keep the shotgun—or, rather, she claimed it, leaving Tomlin to get used to the rifle. The thing made his stomach churn, its purpose explicit and its menace undisguised. He’d stared at it for hours, almost afraid to hold it. Then he’d carried the gun into the First Minnesota branch and fired that first burst through the ceiling, and instantly his misgivings vanished. The building seemed to shake on its foundation. The bank tellers cowered, and he felt like a god. A god with a really big gun.
Tomlin watched the passenger train come speeding out of the mountains, toward the city. It passed the munitions factory, where he’d hidden the shotgun shells, and slowed for a stop at the big Saint Paul station.
Tomlin parked the train and turned off the engines. He shut off the lights and went upstairs and slipped into bed beside Becca, listening to his wife’s breathing and forcing himself to wipe the robbery from his mind. Forcing himself to stop thinking about the money and Tricia and the terrified bank teller. He imagined he was on a train somewhere, in a sleeping car speeding through the night, and soon he was drifting off, picturing in his mind a late-night station stop, the clatter of the wheels on the tracks, a munitions factory dark in the distance.
24
STEVENS STARED AT the snow-covered hulk. Brushed more snow from the trunk, his gloves coming back rusty. The car had been here awhile.
He pulled off one glove and reached into his pocket and came out with a photocopy from the Danzers’ case file. Glanced at their Thunderbird’s registration and then knelt at the rear bumper and brushed the snow from the license plate. The plate was still there. He glanced at the photocopy again. The license plate matched.
Stevens stared at the car, his mind spinning with questions. Then he looked back to where Waters stood by the fork in the trail. “This is it,” he called back. His voice seemed to echo for miles. “This is my car.”
Waters stared at him a moment. Then he started toward the Thunderbird. Stevens turned back to the hulk and studied it again. Sylvia Danzer’s car, marooned in the wilderness. How in the hell did it get here?
Waters arrived beside him. “Not the best road for a T-Bird.”
“The plates match,” Stevens said. “This is my fugitive’s car.”
Waters leaned forward and brushed snow from the bodywork. “So where’s your fugitive?”
Stevens looked beyond the car and into the vast woods. “Could be anywhere.”
“Probably long gone,” said Waters. “Crashed the car here and set out on foot. Bummed a ride on the highway and disappeared again, right?”
“Maybe.” Stevens studied the snow-covered windows again. “Or maybe not.”
He stepped through the snow to the driver’s-side door. Wiped the snow from the window and peered into the dark car. He squinted and looked closer. Waters watched him. “You see something?”
Stevens looked in through the window one more time. “We’re going to want to call forensics,” he told Waters. “It doesn’t look like my fugitive got very far.”
25
TOMLIN WOKE WITH the sun shining bright through the bedroom windows and the bed empty beside him. He sat up, rubbing his eyes, and glanced at the clock on the bedside table. Ten after eight. He’d be late for work, he knew, but he didn’t care. He stared up at the ceiling and felt himself drifting off again.
Then Becca came into the bedroom, a strange look on her face. “Time to get up,” she said. “Someone’s at the door.”
Tomlin opened his eyes. “Who?”
“A woman.” Becca shrugged. “She’s asking for you.”
Tomlin rubbed his eyes again. Tricia, probably. “Tell her one minute.” He sat up and pulled on his clothes from the day before. Brushed his teeth quickly, splashed cold water on his face, and examined himself in the mirror. Dark circles under his eyes. Maybe a couple new wrinkles. Otherwise, he looked normal. Likable. He buttoned his shirt and walked out to the hallway.
She was waiting in the front landing as he walked down the stairs. About halfway down, he knew it wasn’t Tricia. Tricia was short and white and skinny and dressed like a punk rocker. This woman wore dressy low heels and slacks. She was taller than Tricia, and in her thirties, but just, with smooth coffee-brown skin and long black hair and piercing hazel eyes that watched him as though they already knew every one of his secrets. Tomlin felt a sudden chill as her eyes met his.
“Carter Tomlin,” she said. “Carla Windermere. Got a couple questions to ask you.”
She showed him a badge. FBI. Tomlin looked at the woman and then at her badge again, fighting the sudden, intense urge to start running.
26
TOMLIN STARED AT the young FBI agent in his doorway, his mouth suddenly very dry. She knows, he thought. She knows everything. He cleared his throat. “Questions,” he said. “What’s the problem?”
Windermere smiled, apologetic. “Sorry to bother you so early,” she said. “Looks like you had a late night.”
Tomlin forced a laugh. “Just busy,” he said. “Tax season’s coming. Everybody and their dog wants their refund tomorrow.”
“You’re an accountant.”
“I try to be,” he said. “Come on in.”
He led her into the living room, and they sat as Becca came in from the kitchen. “Everything all right?”
Sure, honey. The nice FBI lady is just going to arrest me and take away all of your stuff. Tomlin pasted a smile on his face. “Everything’s fine.”
Becca looked at Windermere. “Would you like some coffee?”
“I’m fine,” Windermere replied, her eyes still on Tomlin.
“Maybe I’ll have a coffee.” Tomlin stood. “Back in a second.”
“Actually, Mr. Tomlin, this will only take a minute.”
Tomlin stopped and looked back at the agent. She gave him the same apologetic smile. “I just need a few answers, and then you can get back to your business.”
Tomlin looked at Becca, then back to the agent, wondering how fast he could cover the distance to the basement and his guns. Becca touched his shoulder, and he flinched. “I’ll make you some coffee,” she said.
Tomlin hesitated. Then he sat down again and looked at Windermere. “What did you say was the problem, exactly?”
“Bank robberies. Maybe you’ve heard about them. The one on Eat Street a couple of days ago. I’m trying to follow up on a lead.”
“You’re not going to tell me I’m a suspect.”
Windermere smiled. “To be honest, Mr. Tomlin, we don’t have any suspects. Not yet.”
“Good.” Tomlin held her gaze for a second or two before he had to look away. He laughed. “I mean, not good for you guys, but, you know. Good that I’m not a suspect.”
Shut up. He turned away from those hypnotic eyes and stared out the front window instead, across the lawn to where Windermere’s dark sedan sat parked by the curb. He tented his fingers. “So what does this all have to do with me?”
Windermere reached into her pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper. She unfolded it and slid it across the coffee table toward Tomlin. “Take a look,” she said. “Tell me what you think.”
Tomlin picked up the paper. A photocopy of another piece of paper, smaller, both sides. A receipt; he recognized it. His shaky handwriting. Two sentences. He remembered scribbling out the words on the Jaguar’s cherry dash in that Walmart parking lot in Midway. Tomlin steadied his breathing. “From the robbery?”
“Not Eat Street. A Bank of America in Midway. You see the flip side?”
Tomlin nodded, aware of how intently she studied his face. The parking receipt had been the only scrap of paper he could find.
“I talked to the attendants at that parking garage,” said Windermere. “They pointed me here. Said you paid for that receipt with your credit card.”
Tomlin nodded again. Think carefully, now. He glanced back toward the kitchen. Where the hell was Becca with that coffee?
