Criminal Enterprise (19 page)

S
CHULTZ WRITHED
ON
his living room floor. Pulled himself to his knees and spat blood. “I don’t have the money,” he said. “I don’t know what the fuck else to tell you.”

Ricky nodded to the driver. The driver kicked him again. A square shot to the stomach. Hard, steel-toed work boots. Knocked Schultz a couple feet backward and flat on the dusty floor again.

“You like to play rough?” Ricky asked him. “You like this kind of treatment?”

Schultz didn’t answer. Focused on not throwing up. Felt tears of pain in his eyes, squinted through them. Saw the driver’s Timberlands and Ricky’s Prada loafers. The Timberlands approached again. Schultz tensed again, groaning. Waited for the next kick.

But the driver didn’t kick him. He bent down instead and pulled Schultz to his feet. Gripped his shoulders, rough, and turned him toward Ricky. Held him upright as he swayed, his knees buckling.

Ricky studied him from the window. He was small, maybe five and a half feet. Skinny, too, underfed. A tiny spic with a smart-ass mouth and a big fucking friend to help back up his words.

They’d come in the morning. Broke the window in the front door and let themselves in. Schultz was still in bed, sleeping off a bad drunk. He’d listened to the driver’s heavy footsteps as he climbed up the stairs. Pulled the sheet over his eyes and pretended the big thug was part of the hangover.

He heard the driver pause at the door, staring in at the tiny bedroom, the dirty sheets on the bed. Held his breath, waiting.
Maybe he’ll just leave,
Schultz thought.
Maybe this is a dream.
Then the guy came for him. Schultz was big, but this guy was bigger. Dragged him out of bed. Dragged him downstairs to where Ricky was waiting. Kicked the shit out of him for an hour or two and then did it some more. Didn’t even have the courtesy to let Schultz get dressed.

Now he stood, propped up and half naked in his own living room, bleeding, spitting out his new teeth, probably concussed again. And Ricky watched him, a B-movie gangster, probably thought he was ten kinds of tough. “You don’t got a family,” he said.

Schultz let the driver hold him up. Didn’t reply.

“Got an ex-wife in Minneapolis,” Ricky continued. “Julie Peters. Fifteen-forty-two Argyle. What I hear, though, it was a nasty divorce. Am I right?”

Schultz said nothing. The driver shook him. Schultz blinked his eyes into focus. Thought about Julie, the bitch. “Yeah,” he said.

“No kids, though. No child-support payments.”

“Alimony,” said Schultz. “Otherwise I could pay you.”

“You’ll pay me.” Ricky walked away from the window, to the dusty easy chair in the corner. Studied it as though weighing its worth. Then he turned back to Schultz. “You got a sister.”

Schultz stiffened. “Fuck you.” The driver held him tight.

Ricky smiled at him. “Got a couple of nephews.”

The driver held him tighter.

“Robbie Montgomery,” said Ricky. “And Kyle. Pretty cute.”

“Fuck you,”
said Schultz.

“Normally, we’d start taking fingers.” Ricky looked around the living room. Shrugged. “But what the fuck you need fingers for, Tony?”

Schultz struggled harder. Couldn’t budge. The driver’s fingers dug into his shoulder. Ricky watched him and laughed. “Get my money.” He nodded to the driver. The driver dropped Schultz. Schultz lay on the floor and watched Ricky and the driver walk out of the house.

T
OMLIN WOKE
UP
early. Tossed and turned for an hour, then gave up and went downstairs to his train room and set an Amtrak express on a collision course against a long freight. Oil tanker cars. Diesel fuel and hazardous chemicals. A high-speed crash, devastating. He picked the pieces off the floor, and then he took the guns out from hiding, stuffed them in the duffel bag, and carried them out to the Jaguar.

He hit early-morning traffic on I-94. A thousand other rubes heading to their day jobs. Tomlin grinned to himself in the stop-and-go traffic. Turned the stereo loud. Sang along.

Tricia and Dragan were waiting by the Camry when he pulled into the parking garage. Tricia twisted in Dragan’s arms as Tomlin parked, smiled at him as he climbed from the car. “Couldn’t resist, huh?”

Tomlin shrugged. “Don’t ever get old.”

She laughed. “I don’t plan to.”

“What’s the target?” Dragan looked calm as a corpse. A lobotomy patient. “Another bank?”

“Something new,” Tomlin said. “Something we’ve never done.”

Tricia smiled. “Mr. Excitement.”

“What is it?” said Dragan.

Tomlin shook his head. “I don’t know yet.” He smiled at Tricia. “Let’s improvise.”

They climbed inside the Camry, and Dragan pulled out of the lot. Tomlin sat in the passenger seat and drummed on the dashboard. He twisted in his seat to look at Tricia. “You blow all your winnings?”

“Hell, no,” she said. “How’s that mortgage coming?”

“Still miles to go.”

“You’re really into that American Dream stuff, huh?” She smiled at him. “Wife, kids, big house, nice car?”

“I thought I was,” Tomlin said. “I’m not sure anymore.”

Tricia looked out the side window. “I’ll never get married. Why tie yourself down?” She leaned forward and wrapped her arms around Dragan’s neck, gave him a wet, sloppy kiss on the cheek. “Doesn’t mean I don’t love you.”

Dragan smiled a little, pushed her away. “You’re going to crash the car.”

Tomlin watched the kid drive. Watched him make a point of wiping her kiss from his cheek, trying to play it cool. Couldn’t hide his smile, though. Tomlin looked at him. Appraised him. A runty zit, less personality than a cereal box. “Take us east,” Tomlin told him. “Across the river.”

Dragan nodded and turned onto Central Avenue, crossed the bridge onto the East Bank. They drove northeast, away from the river and out to where the buildings got older and smaller and dirtier, where the used-car lots lining the street were all surrounded by fences topped by razor wire.

“So what’s the job, boss?” Tricia said. “You want to boost a Camaro?”

Tomlin stared out the window.
Grand theft auto,
he thought.
Not a chance.
He shook his head. “I’m still thinking.”

“So find us a job,” she said, laughing. “Let’s get started already.”

Tomlin looked at Tricia. Felt a little tremor of excitement. He stared out the window some more and tried to think.

“Armored car.” Dragan caught Tomlin’s eye and gestured out the front of the Camry at a boxy blue van with tiny pillbox windows. The van pulled up to a stoplight, signaled left. “What do you think?”

“Are you crazy?” Tricia said. “Those guards will kill us.”

Could be a million dollars in there,
Tomlin thought.
They’d have a couple of guards in the back, maybe three.
He wondered if the assault rifle could pierce the vehicle’s slit windows. Probably not. They would have to wait for a drop. He glanced back at Tricia. “They’ll have a shitload of money.”

“You think? How much?”

“Bigger than the poker game. A few hundred thousand at least.”

The guards would put up a fight. They would be armed, and they wouldn’t hesitate to start shooting. If something went wrong, Tomlin knew, he could die. All three of them could die. The money, though. A million bucks. And the thrill.

Tomlin stared out at the big armored truck. Imagined the guards waiting inside. They wouldn’t know what was coming. And their puny pistols wouldn’t go for shit against an assault rifle. Tomlin realized he was shaking. Fear, or adrenaline. A combination of both. It was not an unpleasant sensation.

I’ll kill them.
I’ll kill the guards, and we’ll walk away rich.

The light changed to green. The van rumbled left. Dragan tapped on the steering wheel, waiting for Tomlin. Tomlin looked at Tricia again. “A million bucks, maybe.”

Tricia exhaled slowly. Then she nodded. Tomlin turned to Dragan. “Let’s go.”

Dragan signaled left and cut across two lanes of traffic, horns blaring behind them as he stepped on the gas. On the road ahead, the van was turning in to a mini-mall complex. It rumbled through the lot and stopped outside a cash-advance store. “Park close by,” Tomlin told Dragan. “And make sure you’re loaded. These guys will shoot back.”

Dragan nodded. Slowed the Camry and turned in to the lot. Tomlin reached for his ski mask, his heart pounding through his chest.
This is it,
he thought.
A fucking armored car heist. Badass.

T
HE GUARDS FOUGHT BACK.

Tomlin and Tricia waited until the armored car parked. Watched from the Camry as a big guard let himself down from the passenger door, walked around to the back of the truck, and opened the rear compartment. Another guard waited in the back with a shotgun. “Shit,” Tricia said. “You sure about this?”

Tomlin stared out at the truck.
This is madness,
a part of him screamed.
This is above and beyond anything you’ve ever done. And you’re going in blind. Unprepared.

Tomlin gripped the assault rifle. Relished its weight, the cold steel in his hands. He could feel the rush. There was no way he was backing down now. He pulled on his ski mask. “Don’t sweat the shotgun,” he told Tricia. “Just get us the money, okay?”

Tricia stared out at the truck, her mouth tight. Outside, the guard with the shotgun slid a duffel bag to the rear of the truck. His partner shouldered the bag and turned toward the sidewalk.

Tomlin watched Tricia, waiting, until finally she nodded. Tomlin reached for the door handle. “Go time.”

—

T
HE PARKING LOT
was half full. A couple cars parked and a few more pulled out. Tomlin lifted the rifle to his shoulder, drew a bead on the shotgun guard. The guard was watching his partner with the money. He didn’t notice Tomlin.

Tricia crossed behind Tomlin, headed for the cash. Tomlin steadied his breathing and found the guard in his sights. Felt his heart pounding as his finger tensed on the trigger. Someone screamed behind him and the guard tensed. Spun around and saw Tomlin. Tomlin pulled hard on the trigger and fired a burst into the rear of the van. The guard staggered backward, fell down.

More screaming now. Tomlin advanced on the van. Heard the
BOOM
as Tricia unloaded the shotgun. Heard plate glass shatter. Glanced over and saw the second guard drop the cash bag. Tricia shouted something, and the guard fell to his knees as she wrenched the bag away.

The van shifted into gear and jolted forward, its big engine roaring. Collided hard with a hatchback, bounced off, and kept going. Tomlin fired another burst and ran after the van, jumped into the rear compartment as it crashed through the lot.

“Stop the fucking van.”

The driver ignored him, safe in his bulletproof compartment. Tomlin looked out the rear of the van, saw Dragan helping Tricia with the first duffel bag. He steadied himself against the sidewall and examined the van’s contents as the driver accelerated.

Three more duffel bags, each identical to the first. Tomlin grabbed them and threw each one down to the pavement. Looked around the rest of the compartment and saw nothing he wanted. The driver was at the end of the parking lot now, barreling toward the road. Tomlin staggered to the rear of the van. Hesitated, looking down at the blurry pavement below. Then he jumped. Hit the pavement hard, fell to his knees and rolled, feeling grit on his hands, on his knees. He picked himself up and shouldered the rifle. The armored truck sped away.

People weren’t screaming anymore. Tomlin looked around and saw bystanders cowering behind parked cars. Heard the sirens in the distance. He brushed off his pants and started back to the first bag of cash where he’d thrown it.

Dragan drove the Camry to him, braked hard, the tires squealing. Tomlin threw the duffel bag into the trunk. Ran to the second, then the third bag, and threw them both in behind. Was about to climb in the car himself when he noticed Tricia’s guard in front of the cash-advance store. He paused.
“Get in!”
Tricia shouted.
“We have to go!”

The guard looked dazed, unsteady. He locked eyes with Tomlin. Tomlin raised the assault rifle. Tricia shouted something else. The sirens got closer. Tomlin could feel the blood pounding in his ears. Then it all seemed to mute. He could almost hear the guard breathing.

The guard didn’t run. He stood, waiting, his eyes locked on Tomlin’s.
Your life is over,
Tomlin thought.
Are you scared?

He pulled the trigger, and the guard went down.

D
OUGHTY PULLED
the Crown Vic into the apartment complex and parked in front of the first of three high-rise buildings. Windermere surveyed the parking lot for gold Camrys. A long shot, or maybe not; Tricia Henderson hadn’t registered any Toyota with the DMV, but Windermere wasn’t about to assume that her little armed robber did anything legal.

If Henderson parked the car here, though, she wasn’t leaving it in the open. Everything in sight was a rust-bucket American job, a Japanese SUV, or some anonymous heap buried under the snow. Doughty killed the engine, and Windermere reached for the door handle. “Wait,” Doughty said. Windermere waited. Looked at him. “Let’s play this my way,” he said.

Windermere frowned. “Sure. Okay.”

“You jumped all over Bernstein and Schneider. This time, you follow. Understand?”

Windermere stared at him. Then she shrugged and climbed out of the car. “Fine, Bob. Whatever you say.”

They walked to the front door, and Doughty buzzed the building manager. The man came to the front door in fuzzy bunny slippers, scratching his head. “FBI,” Doughty told him. “We’re looking for Tricia Henderson.”

The guy stared at him. “Tricia Henderson,” Doughty said again.

“Unit 612,” said Windermere. She felt Doughty’s eyes on her, ignored him. Focused on the manager.

The guy nodded. “The pretty girl.”

“Pink hair?”

“The pretty girl. I remember.” He led them to a graffiti-stained, grinding elevator, and they rode up six long stories. “Six-twelve,” the manager said. “Down the hall.”

They walked down the hall to Henderson’s door. Windermere knocked, called out the girl’s name. Someone down the hall peered out from her own doorway, met Windermere’s eyes, and disappeared, quickly. Windermere glanced at Doughty. “Show him the warrant.”

Doughty looked at her sideways. “Yeah,” he said. “Thanks.”

First thing in the morning, Windermere had set to work convincing Agent Harris that Tricia Henderson was a person of interest. Harris hadn’t taken much convincing. He’d dug up a judge, who’d faxed in a search-and-seizure warrant, and now Windermere watched as the manager read the thing through, disgust written plain on his face. When he’d finished, he sighed and pulled out a key ring. “Whatever.”

Windermere drew her sidearm as the manager unlocked the door and stepped back. She glanced at Doughty, who gestured “go ahead.”

Thought you wanted to lead,
she thought, gripping her pistol tighter and pushing open the door. The whole place was dark, and Windermere hesitated before reaching in and feeling for the light switch. Flipped the switch and peered in at a messy studio suite, a kitchenette, and an unmade futon bed. The apartment was empty. Tricia Henderson wasn’t home.

—

A
N HOUR OR SO LATER,
they were standing beside the Crown Vic again, having found little more than Tricia Henderson’s dirty laundry upstairs. If the girl was involved, she kept the evidence hidden.

Windermere glanced at Doughty over the roof of the sedan. “You think the building manager will tip her off we were here?”

Doughty stared back at the apartment. “Probably.”

“Maybe he thinks aiding and abetting will get him in her pants.”

“Yeah,” he said. “Maybe.”

Windermere sighed and opened her passenger door. “You want to stick around? Wait till she comes back?”

“No,” Doughty said.

She looked at him again. “You’re sulking,” she said. “I didn’t let you lead?”

He shook his head. “It’s fine.”

“I don’t get it. What’s your beef?”

“No beef.” Doughty slid into the driver’s seat. “Guess we’re staking her out.”

Windermere climbed in beside him and was about to say something else when the radio crackled in between them. Minneapolis police dispatch on the scanner, 211 in progress, an armed robbery. An armored car under fire in the northeast, near Central and Broadway. Windermere glanced at Doughty. “Could be our guys.”

Doughty shook his head. “We don’t know that.”

“Shots fired,” the dispatcher reported. “Multiple victims.”

“That’s them,” said Windermere. “Swear to God. I can feel it.”

“Could be anyone, Agent Windermere. We’re not leaving this stakeout.”

The radio crackled again. “Witnesses report automatic weaponry and a gold late-model Toyota Camry seen fleeing the scene.”

Windermere spun at Doughty. “Late-model gold Camry. What the fuck did I tell you?”

“
God damn it
.” Doughty slammed his hand on the steering wheel. Peeled out of the parking lot and hauled ass, siren blaring, down I-94. He said nothing more to Windermere, kept his dark eyes focused on the road and his mouth a thin line the whole ride into Minneapolis.