Chill Factor
RAVES FOR DIXIE FLANNIGAN
“The Best new heroine to come along in years!”
—
Library Journal
“Funny, clever and entertaining.”
—
The Washington Times
“Good news for readers.”
—
San Antonio Express-News
“A rough-and-ready heroine willing to get down and dirty with the lowest of the low in order to land her man.”
—
New York Post
BITCH FACTOR
“One of the year’s most stellar debuts.”
—
Romantic Times
RAGE FACTOR
“As hard as a linebacker’s heart.”
—
The Plain Dealer,
Cleveland
Rage Factor
Bitch Factor
This book is dedicated to my family—Krystal & John, Connie & Dean, Skip & Jolly, Kelly, Lois & Rex, Nathan, Matthew, Brandon, Steven, Charlie, Jennifer, Tyler, Dorothy, Alice, Judy, Day, and Dean—for the joy they bring into my life, and to everyone at Bank United, especially Internal Audit.
I take pleasure in acknowledging the folks who made a difference:
Reverend Rosemary Behrens, for more than pecan farms;
Sylvia Bradley, for good hair;
Howard Bushart, author of
Soldiers of God
, for professional advice;
Dorothy Ruth Carter, for Ryan’s failure;
Mike Farrand, for Italia;
Mikael Gordon, for instruction in krav maga;
Leslie McCartney, for rhinestones;
Charlie Montgomery, for true belief;
Mary Rich and Carole Jose, authors of
Evil Web: A True Story of Cult Abuse and Courage;
Kelly Rogers, for sound effects;
Paul Wunsch, for ranges;
Sandra White, for rich monkeys; and
Sally Yates, for her lending library.
Margaret Anderson, Mary Armeniades, Candace Caley, Kay Finch, Glenn Gotschall, Ann Jennings, Janet Miller, Robert Miller, Linda Posey, Connie Rogers, Barbara Schwartz, Amy Sharp, Charlie Soparker, and Leann Sweeney, for their time, energy, and generous support.
It is also my sincere pleasure to acknowledge Peter Miller and Kate Miciak, for their continued interest in Dixie Flannigan.
Monday, 3:00
P.M
.
Lucy Ames, a plump fifty-five-year-old divorcee, swept into the Texas Citizens Branch Bank on a crisp May afternoon and waited her turn in silence, not chatting with other patrons as was her custom. Instead, she hummed “Bad Moon Rising” and spent the brief wait noticing the rich viridian carpet, rose marble counter, and Ms. Darlene Flores pecking away at her computer. Lucy didn’t usually bank at the Webster branch. Nevertheless, she’d come to make a withdrawal.
When the woman ahead of her, wearing an outrageously short, poppy-print dress, turned from the counter to exit through the glass doors, Lucy laid an empty book tote in the window and smiled at the teller. The tote was empty now because Lucy had removed the only item it carried, a .38 Police Special.
She pointed the gun at the teller. The young man had worked at this branch two years, Lucy recalled, long enough to know the rules and not panic, long enough to know how to act during a holdup, although this branch had never been robbed. At six-month intervals, the bank’s security officer instructed branch employees in proper robbery procedures. Lucy knew the young teller would not try to be a hero.
“I will shoot you, Jonathan,” she said amiably, “if anyone in this room makes a stupid move. Do you hear what I’m saying?”
Jonathan nodded, his Adam’s apple doing a little bob as he swallowed. He wore too much Paco Rabanne cologne, and someone had ironed his shirt without enough steam, leaving a wrinkled patch on the left shoulder.
“I don’t want anyone pushing alarm buttons.” Lucy raised her voice so the other employees would listen up. “And I don’t want any of that messy bait money smearing dye all over me.”
The murmur of speculations faded to silence.
Lucy beamed a smile around the room. Her dazzling smile was her best feature—the Shepherd had told her so repeatedly.
“What I want you to do, Jonathan, is scoop all the real money from the teller drawers—never mind the change or that clever tracking device—and stuff the bills into this bag. I want you to do this without ever blocking my view of your movements. You hear what I’m saying?”
He nodded again, Adam’s apple bob-bobbing.
“Good. That’s very good. I really don’t want to hurt anyone, but I’ve been practicing with Mr. Colt here.” She raised the .38 a tad, level with Jonathan’s nose. “I want you to know I can put ten rounds out of ten in the bull’s-eye.”
She waited for the young man’s skinny face to register that he understood. She felt certain the other employees and the two patrons would understand as well. The bank did not retain an armed guard, because an independent study had determined guards were less cost-effective than video cameras. After today, no one in this town would see Lucy’s face again, so video cameras didn’t worry her.
“But before you begin, Jonathan, I want everyone except you and Ms. Flores and Mr. Simpson over there to lie facedown on the floor, arms and fingers extended.” When no one moved, Lucy flashed her dazzling smile again. “You can do this
now
, folks.
Right now.”
The air rustled with movement.
“Excellent. Now, Ms. Flores.” Lucy flicked her gaze from assistant to manager. “I know that you and Mr. Simpson hold dual keys to the vault. I’d like you to open it and bring me the bags you’ve prepared for the Brinks pickup that’s due later this afternoon.”
Darlene Flores’ eyes widened with surprise at this insider knowledge. Brinks pickups were supposed to be randomly scheduled, but routines surfaced nonetheless, and the truck could be counted on between three and four o’clock on any Monday. The assistant manager would’ve been even more surprised to know that she herself had divulged this tidbit one morning when she and Lucy chatted over the phone.
If they’d been speaking over the phone now, Darlene would undoubtedly recognize Lucy’s voice. During the past few years they’d chatted often, usually about bank business. Lucy Ames worked in the wire room of Texas Citizens’ main office, communicating at one time or another with all the branches to verify wire transfers.
“You can omit the change bag,” Lucy told Darlene Flores. “Too heavy, and the bursitis in my shoulder has been frightful lately.” She waved the gun a fraction. “Go ahead now. Let’s get this over with so we can all relax and go home.”
The entire transaction took less than two minutes. Lucy was proud of everyone for playing their parts so well—off-the-cuff, so to speak. After all, she was the only one thoroughly rehearsed.
Three minutes after she left the bank, Lucy drove through the back parking lot of a deserted strip center and dropped four money bags out the car window to the pitted asphalt, confident that another car would follow moments later and pick them up. Back on the street, she drove toward home at a reasonable speed, singing “Proud Mary” with the radio and thinking about her neighbor’s daughter’s wedding shower later that evening. Lucy had promised to bake her famous Gin Fizz Cake. A “regrets” note, claiming a migraine, would travel with the cake by messenger, while Lucy headed to a new life. She decided to stop at the grocery and buy fresh strawberries for the frosting.
When blue-and-red lights flashed in her rearview mirror, Lucy was only mildly alarmed. She’d hoped this wouldn’t happen. But she was prepared.
A second police car turned on its siren ahead of her. A third flanked from the left, forcing her to the curb.
So many, so soon …
One of the bank personnel must have triggered an alarm, although Lucy felt certain she would’ve noticed.
She picked up the .38 she’d laid on the floor mat. Her temples dampened with perspiration. This part of the plan wasn’t nearly so well rehearsed as the actual robbery, but Lucy knew her role. The gun shook in her hand as she stepped from the car.
A wall of blue encircled her, patrol cars parked at odd angles, police officers aiming their side arms from the cover of metal doors or fenders. Despite her instructions, Lucy couldn’t bear to shoot one of those young officers. Aiming between two cars at a Rubbermaid garbage container across the street, she drew an arm-steadying breath, blew it out … then, as she had been trained, squeezed the trigger.
As the container flew backward, Lucy heard the
pop—pop—pop—pop—pop
of return fire. A thudding blow spun her sideways. Her gun hand cramped—the spasm spit another bullet from the .38.
A bolt of searing pain slammed through Lucy’s chest. Her legs buckled beneath her. She sank to her knees.
As she knelt, swaying, on the gritty concrete, Lucy’s thoughts scudded over the lonely year following her divorce, through recent months of joyous companionship, into the present moment … and she smiled. Everything had gone terribly wrong, but she had played her part exactly right. The Shepherd would be pleased.
Her gaze locked on an earnest young officer as she crumpled to the pavement, smile frozen in place: They would
not
take her alive.
Tuesday, 3:00
A.M
.
Skip tracing in Houston is a game of hide-and-seek, bail jumpers as dumb as ostriches about hiding. More often than not they could be found bending an elbow in one of their favorite haunts, vegging in front of the tube, or hanging with an old flame. Dixie Flannigan approached a bungalow at 221 Burning Oak Drive expecting the skip she was after to be no more imaginative than average. But sometimes they fooled you.
She eased her tow truck to a halt, turned off the headlights, lowered the windows, and inhaled the heavy fragrance of magnolia blossoms from a tree skirting the road. A tepid breeze flushed the remnants of air conditioning from the truck cab and ruffled her brown hair across the collar of her camp shirt. Dixie’d been growing her hair longer the past three months, and now she wondered if this was a good idea, with summer approaching.
Behind her, nocturnal traffic hummed along the Southwest Freeway. City music. In the distance ahead, the downtown skyline glittered against the spring night.
Burrowing under a handful of mail and a copy of the
Daily Law Journal
on the passenger seat, Dixie grasped a thermos of cold raspberry tea. She opened it, drank as she tuned the radio to soft jazz, then settled back to watch the house. Waiting for a
skip to poke his head up was the relaxing part of a job, a chance to sit idle without guilt nipping at her.
In a front window, a television flickered. The other houses were dark—after all, it was three
A.M
.—but the resident at 221 had only recently returned home. When Dixie drove by an hour earlier, the driveway had been empty. Now, moonlight shimmered on the roof of a shiny new Camaro: the girlfriend’s car.
Dixie’s hunch meter said Jimmy Voller was snuggled up with his girlfriend in front of that television. If not there, he could be headed for Mexico, and Dixie wanted desperately to avoid a long-distance haul to bring the skip in. Voller was the last of five she’d traced over the past two weeks. Amazingly, all five skips had surfaced in a single day, and now she was nearly thirty-six hours without sleep.
Eyes trained on the lighted window shades, she reflected on what the pair might watch at this hour. One night recently, Dixie’d settled down with her remote control and a bad case of insomnia. A few clicks had taken her from late-night hucksters to TV evangelists, sitcom reruns, and skin flicks. Nowhere had she found the cozy, classic movie she sought.
After several minutes passed with no shadow crossing the window shades, Dixie stretched, yawned, and braced the thermos on a cup holder that didn’t quite fit. She switched on her penlight to examine her mail … utility bills … check from a bail bondsman … bank statement, along with another envelope that looked suspiciously like an overdraft notice … and an invitation to The Winning Stretch, a health retreat.
