Heist 2 (16 page)

13

Isaiah

I
must get to that money.
It's the only damn thing that I can think about since that nosy, bitch-ass deputy chief rolled up in here. I don't know how in the fuck Harlem pulled a damn jailbreak off, but clearly I don't know ol' boy as well as I thought I did.
Think. Think.
I've put waaay too much into this and owe waaay too many people to fall short now. But the first day up in this halfway house joint has too many people up in my face, going over all the house rules. Add to that, the US Marshals have made me the most popular brother up in here for the moment. The attention is the last thing I need right now. It's just going to make shit harder for me to get away from this place.

The brother who runs this place finally stops bumping his gums and tells the new crew that we're free to get settled in. I rush back up to my assigned room and take a quick look out of the window. The foot traffic is a bit light outside, but I'm scanning the curbs for federal agents tryna blend. I spot the unmarked SUV parked two houses down.

“Shit.”

“Something going down out there?” a voice floats over to me.

I turn to see a tall, lanky young brother entering the room.

“Nah. Nah. Everything is cool.” I dismiss him and take another glance out of the window.

“You sure?” he asks. “Those two agents posted up out there ain't giving you heartburn?”

He wrangles back my full attention. I assess him again, this time taking special note of the number of tats sleeving his arms, the long dreads, and the single fat diamond stud blinking in his right ear. “What you know about it?”

“You shouldn't worry about my damn IQ. You need to be focused on getting Kingston West his damn money. That's why the fuck you're out now, isn't it?”

I square back around, mentally noting to never turn my back on him again. “Who are you?”

Chuckling, he leans back against one of the twin beds. “Just call me your friendly neighborhood reminder.”

“Well, Mr. Reminder, since you're aware of my new added surveillance problem, you wouldn't also happen to know of a way of me getting around it, would you?”

He studies me for a few seconds. “I might.”

Figures. Everything in the game costs. “What do you want?”

“Whatcha got?”

I shake my head and spread my hands. “Nothing. I'm fresh out the joint—unless you want to take an IOU.”

Dreadlocks laughs. “Nah, nigga. I heard your damn IOUs are a bit shaky and takes a little too long to cash in.”

My flash of anger roasts me from the inside out. How many brothers out here in the streets know my business? “Then what?”

A strange sparkle flashes in his eyes as he moves from the bed over to the room's door. When he closes the muthafucka and turns back toward me, he's clutching his balls.

It takes me no time to understand his price. My hands ball into fists at my sides. “Nigga, have you lost your fuckin' mind? I should snap your damn neck for even suggesting that gay bullshit.”

“Lower your fucking voice,” he barks back, unfazed. “You're the muthafucka looking for a goddamn handout. I ain't got to do shit but hang the fuck out and watch either those agents outside catch you trying to break out this bitch or wait for a phone call from Kingston West to shank your ass for non-payment.” The entire time he's talking, he's stroking his dick through his loose jean pants.

When it's clear that there's no negotiating from his position, my gaze shifts to the closed door.

“Don't worry,” he says. “Ain't nobody coming in here to disturb us.”

My entire stomach drops to my knees.

Dreadlocks sits down on the bed and whips out a monstrous-size dick for a man so lanky. “Hey, dude. If this is your first time, I promise that I'll be gentle.”

“So what's it going to be, nigga? I haven't got all day for you to make up your mind. You want to get your money or not?” As he continues stroking, the muthafucka gets bigger.

Twenty-five million dollars?
A knot forms in the center of my throat. I can't even swallow that shit let alone attempt to put that black dick in my mouth.

“Today, nigga,” Dreadlocks snaps, impatient.

Somehow I unglue my feet from by the window and walk over to him. Everything in me withers and dies as I sit down next to him.

“That's right, nigga. You can play my bitch for a little while.” With his right hand, he reaches up, places it on the back of my head and then guides me down toward his cock.

Completely washed in shame, I close my eyes and open wide.

14

Sam

“T
ell me something good,” the district chief, Bell, says through our vehicle's speakers. “Since I'm calling you, I take it that we don't have Mr. Harlem Banks in custody?”

“Not yet, sir,” I respond. “We're still working down the list of close contacts. There's one possibility that the grandmother is holding out on us. We got the warrant for a wiretap. It should be up right now. Plus, I put two agents out to sit on her.”

“So you believe that he's still in the state?” the chief asks.

I glance over at Greg in the passenger seat and he gives me his opinion with a short shrug. “It's fifty-fifty. He could be in the wind, but we're working to find out possible spots that he would hide.”

“Humph. It's probably the usual destination: Mexico.”

“If so, then we'll find him there, too,” I promise.

“All right. Keep me posted.”

“Will do.” I disconnect the call and sigh.

Greg pulls his attention from his laptop. “Do you
really
think that Banks is still in New York?”

“Could be. After all, he does have a sick daughter still here,” I say, referring to the information retrieved about the little girl needing heart surgery. “If he risked going to see her, like I believe he did, then I can't see him being the type of father to completely abandon her.”

“You never know. We've seen stranger stuff from these cats out here nowadays. They only think and care about themselves. Right now he's probably enjoying the sweet taste of freedom.”

“Yeah. Right now, it would really help if we can find anything on this Johnnie chick.”

“Max and Renee are on it. If her name is mentioned anywhere in his files, they'll find it.”

On cue, my cell phone rings. According to the dashboard, it's Renee. “Tell me that you got good news,” I greet.

“Definitely good
and
interesting news,” Renee says breathlessly. “How about the name Johanna Robinson? She's affectionately called Johnnie by family and friends.”

The name does have a ring of familiarity about it. “Why do I know that name?”

Greg cuts in, “Not as in Charles Robinson, the governor's daughter?”

“The one and the same,” Renee crows.

“We met her at the Governor's Ball earlier this year,” Greg reminds me.

Suddenly the image of a tall, voluptuous woman in a golden dress jumped to the front of my mind. She was absolutely stunning and set more than just the man on her arm's tongue wagging when she was introduced around the room. I, on the other hand, coveted her height. “Yeah. Yeah. I remember now. Her mother is some political hotshot too, isn't she?”

“Yeah. She once ran for Senate back in the nineties.”

“So what are you telling me?” I ask Renee. “Harlem Banks and Johnnie Robinson had a thing? In what social fantasy world did that happen?”

“We don't know the how, but get this: earlier this week, Harlem Banks had his first and only conjugal visit. Want to guess the name?”

“Wait. How in the hell did he qualify for a conjugal visit when he's not married?”

“Seems like Ms. Robinson knows what strings to pull to get what she wants.”

“Does she also know which strings could help him bust out of prison?” I ask.

“Good question,” Renee says. “Max and I will head back over to the prison and have another talk with the warden. You and Greg want to go and talk to Ms. Robinson?”

“Yeah. Give us the address.”

Renee rattles it off while Greg jots it down and then enters it into the GPS unit. After I disconnect the call, something else starts bothering me. “Weird.”

“What?” Greg asks.

“I could've sworn that night we met Johnnie Robinson that she was recently engaged. I seem to remember a boulder of a diamond on her finger.”

Greg rubs his tired eyes. I can't tell if he's warding off sleep or trying to get his memory to kick in gear. “Yeah. To the new
it
boy: Reese Singleton.”

“Right!” I remember now. “His picture has been all over the New York social scene, speculating that he's going to run for mayor—or governor. I can't remember which.”

“This damn case is getting stranger by the second.”

When we pull into the driveway of Johnnie Robinson's residence in Greenwich, Connecticut, things take another turn. Two police cars are already crammed into the drive and there's a small crowd of people outside the door hugging and crying.

“This doesn't look too good.” Greg sighs.

“You don't say.” I park the SUV and climb out. As we approach the door, I try to assess all the possible scenarios before someone actually breaks the news to me. When the crowd notices us, their open grief shifts into confusion.

“Excuse me, but where is the officer-in-charge?” I ask.

One woman, who could easily pass as Johnnie's sister, jabs a thumb over her shoulder to indicate the house. “Inside. They are still talking to the groom and my parents.”

“Thank you.” Since the door is already open, I step into the house and easily find the officers and another grieving crowd. The bright yellow
US Marshals
across our jackets catches everyone's attention, including the middle-aged officer who is taking notes.

“Uh. Can I help you folks?”

“Yes. Are you the officer-in-charge?”

He nods slowly like he's wondering whether I'm there for him.

Approaching, I launch into my introductions again and then ask to speak with him privately for a moment. Of course he agrees and we move into the adjoining kitchen for some semi-privacy.

“What's going on here?” I ask.

Again, he seems to be thrown for a loop for a couple of seconds. “Uhm, they're filing a missing person's report.”

“Missing?”

“Yes.” He clears his throat. “Apparently, Mr. and Mrs. Charles Robinson's oldest daughter has gone missing. She's supposed to be getting married today, but no one can find her.” He looks around then leans in to whisper conspiratorially, “Frankly, I think that it's probably just wedding jitters.” He beams as if proud of his conclusion, but when we don't join in, he asks us a question.

“Why are you guys here?”

“We're hunting a fugitive who we believe Ms. Robinson knows personally. He escaped from prison last night.”

There's a soft gasp from behind me.

I turn around to the Johnnie look-alike, trying to act like the noise didn't come from her and her sloppy ear hustling. I don't have time to waste, so I turn from the cop to walk over to her. “Do
you
know anything about Harlem Banks?”

Her gaze first shoots over to her wide-eyed parents before she shakes her head at me.

Another liar.
Drawing in a long, patient breath, I try again. “What is your name?”

“K-Kasey,” she stutters out nervously.

When her parents turn and edge toward us, she fidgets with her hands and shifts on her feet. She's scared that she is about to get in trouble.

“Look, Kasey. This is very important. If my suspicions are right, your sister may
not
have left here voluntarily.”

This time, the mother gasps.

“My God,” the unmistakable Reese Singleton chimes in. “Am I understanding this right? You think my fiancée may have been kidnapped by that runaway fugitive that was on the news this morning?”

From there, a ripple of gasps spreads among the crowd.

“I don't know if he took her or she went voluntarily,” I clear up. “But either is a possibility. Isn't it, Kasey?”

“That's ridiculous,” Governor Robinson thunders indignantly. “My daughter doesn't associate with known criminals! I don't know where you're getting your information, but it's absolutely wrong.”

My eyes never waver from Kasey's. “Am I wrong, Kasey?”

This time the young girl collapses into tears. “I'm not supposed to tell anybody about him,” she wails. “I promised.”

More gasping ensues while Mrs. Robinson grabs hold of her husband in order not to hit the floor.

Taking hold of Kasey's hands, I give her a sympathetic smile. “It's okay. You're doing the right thing. It'll help us find your sister.”

Like her mother, Kasey looks ready to faint.

“Can someone get her some water?” I ask.

A string of volunteers rush to fill the request, nearly running Greg over in the process.

Meanwhile, I lead Kasey over to the dining room table and instruct her to take a seat. Within seconds someone is handing her a glass of water.

Kasey thanks the woman and then downs the entire eight ounces in one gulp.

“Feel better?” I ask.

She nods.

“All right. Now tell us everything that you know about Johnnie and Harlem.”