Criminal Enterprise (15 page)

S
TEVENS SAT
AT
home in his living room, watching the Timberwolves fold to the Chicago Bulls. A waste of a basketball game, he thought, though in truth, he was hardly watching. He was thinking about Carla Windermere instead.

Stevens half wanted to call her, make sure she was okay. Apologize for the other night, outside the gymnasium, though he wasn’t sure he’d done anything wrong. She’d shut down so fast on him, like she was hiding her hurt, and he realized his former partner had staked more than she’d shown on her Carter Tomlin theory.

I let her down,
he thought.
She opened up to me, figured she had an ally. I pretty much laughed in her face.

But come on. Bank robbery?

Nancy poked her head in from the kitchen, where she’d barricaded herself behind another stack of paperwork. “You want to talk about it, Agent Stevens?”

Stevens blinked. “What, the game?”

“I bet you couldn’t even tell me the score,” she said, rolling her eyes. “What’s the matter?”

Stevens glanced at the TV, found the score. Realized she was right and shook his head, sheepish. “Bumped into Agent Windermere the other day,” he said.

Nancy frowned, just for a second. “She rejected your advances. Poor boy.”

“Well, there’s that. And she’s got a case going sour.”

“A sour case and unrequited love.” Nancy sighed. “These are the days of our lives.”

Stevens pushed himself out of his chair. Crossed the room to her and took her in his arms. “You’re catty tonight.”

She smiled up at him. “I’m not sorry.”

“You will be.” He slid his hands under her shirt and leaned down to kiss her. “You ready?”

“Don’t you dare,” she said, tensing.

“Too late.” He ran his hands up her sides, tickling her stomach, holding her tight as she shrieked and struggled against him. Finally, she wrenched free and stepped back, gasping. “Bastard.”

“You deserved it.”

She brushed her hair from her eyes. “You’re next.”

“Not ticklish.”

“Doesn’t matter.” She gave him a sideways smile. “I have my own ways.”

He followed her into the kitchen and kissed her again. Slid his hands back under her shirt and laughed as she tensed. He ran his hands across her smooth back and felt her relax into him as she returned his kiss, her eyes closed.

“She thinks Carter Tomlin’s a bank robber,” Stevens said, when he’d pulled his mouth from hers. “Like he does it as a hobby or something.”

Nancy frowned. “Heather’s dad.”

“The same guy. I thought it was crazy, at first.”

“But you don’t anymore.”

“I don’t know.” Without taking his hands from her skin, he turned her around, his hands on her stomach now. “He has a thing for Agent Windermere, anyway.”

“Who doesn’t?” she said. “How does he know her?”

“She came by his house,” he said, kissing her neck. “Apparently she connects him to a bank heist in Midway.”

Nancy sighed as he brought his hand up to her breast. “This is some weird foreplay, Agent Stevens.” She spun in his arms, kissed him hard again, pressing her body to his. “Enough talking,” she said, between kisses. “You got me riled up, now you deal with the consequences.”

—

S
HE DRAGGED HIM
upstairs and shoved him down on the bed. They undressed each other, clumsy and urgent, and then she lowered her body to his, and they kissed again and made love, hard and fast.

Afterward, they lay side by side, staring up at the ceiling, gasping and sweaty. Nancy cast one arch eye at him. “Let’s see your Agent Windermere do that.”

He rolled over and kissed her flushed cheek. “Why bother?”

She let him kiss her. “Damn right.”

He watched from the bed as she stood and dressed again, fixing her hair in the mirror. “This was fun,” she said, catching his eye. “But now I have work to do.”

“I feel so used.”

“As you should.” She blew him a kiss from the doorway. “This is why I keep you around, Agent Stevens.”

Stevens listened to her walk down the stairs. He felt sleepy, closed his eyes, let his mind wander. Found himself thinking about Tomlin again. It was a little weird that he kept bringing up Windermere. It said something. What, though, Stevens wasn’t sure. He reached for the telephone on the nightstand.
Speaking of being used,
he thought, picking up the phone and dialing Tomlin’s number.
If he wants to keep tabs on Windermere, maybe I want to keep tabs on him.

The phone rang a couple of times, and then Becca Tomlin picked up. “I’m sorry, Kirk,” she said. “Carter’s out tonight. I’ll tell him you called.”

Alert the local bank branches,
Stevens thought. “That’s all right,” he told Becca Tomlin. “I’ll try again later.”

“Okay,” she said. “Have a good night.” She paused, then came back. “Oh, Kirk—are you there?”

“Still here.”

“We’re throwing a little get-together this weekend, just a few of our friends for dinner,” she said. “It’s kind of a celebration for Carter’s new job. Do you have plans Saturday night?”

A dinner party with an alleged bank robber,
Stevens thought.
Interesting.
“I’ll have to check with Nancy,” he said, “but it sounds good to me.”

“Perfect. Carter would love to see you.”

Stevens thanked her and told her good night. Then he dressed and walked back downstairs. Found Nancy at the kitchen table, poring over a stack of briefs. “We’re partying with the bank robbers Saturday night,” he told her. “Consider yourself warned.”

D
RAGAN BACKED
the car up alongside the warehouse, pulling to a stop beside a Mercedes convertible. “This is good,” Tomlin told him. He glanced back at Tricia. “You ready?”

“Always.” Tricia picked up a pistol and chambered a round. “You’re sure you want to do this tonight?”

“Positive. Get us inside.”

Tricia glanced at him again, then out at the warehouse. She leaned forward and squeezed Dragan’s shoulder. Stuffed the pistol in her coat and stepped out of the Camry.

Tomlin twisted in his seat to watch her as she walked to the door. There was an intercom button about halfway up the wall, and he watched Tricia press the button and smile up at the camera, just an innocent girl looking for some fun.

Tomlin hid his own pistol in his pocket and picked up a duffel bag and the assault rifle. Then he stepped out of the car and crept alongside the building until he was pressed up against the garage door underneath the camera.

“I just want to party,” Tricia was saying. “Play some poker. You guys are too good for me, or what?”

There was a long pause. Tricia kept her smile pasted at the camera. Finally, the door buzzed, and Tricia pushed it open. Tomlin gripped his rifle tighter, pulled on his ski mask, and followed her into the building.

The place was just as Tricia had described. A main room about thirty feet deep, soft lighting, dark walls. A door to the back room, the light brighter: the kitchen. A bar with a few racks of alcohol and a guy in a suit behind it. Two poker tables, one empty. Six men at the other. And Tricia just inside the door, holding her pistol to the bouncer’s wide chest.

Tomlin walked into the room, holding the AR-15 like a Marine clearing city blocks. “This is a robbery,” he said. “Move and we kill you.”

Silence. The men at the poker table stared at him, then at Tricia, who was backing the guard deeper into the room. Then the guy in the suit spoke up from the bar. “So all right,” he said, slowly. “What do you want us to do?”

“Come around from the bar,” Tomlin told him. “Call everyone out from the back.”

The man nodded and poked his head through the doorway. Said something, and a woman came out, a waitress in a short skirt. She saw Tomlin and Tricia and gasped. “Good,” Tomlin said. “Now, who has a weapon?”

The guard glanced at him, then away. Tomlin walked to him and patted him down. Pulled a nickel-plated pistol from his waistband.

“Stupid.” Tomlin lifted the butt of his rifle and brought it down, hard, across the bouncer’s face. The bouncer fell to the floor. Tomlin looked around the room. “Anyone else?”

The man in the suit reached into his pocket and came out holding a revolver by the barrel. He kept his eyes on Tomlin and put the gun on the floor, slowly. Then he kicked it away. “Cool?”

“Smart,” Tomlin said. “Now everyone down on the floor.”

The men at the table didn’t move, and Tomlin fired a burst into the air. Within seconds every gambler was facedown on the carpet. Tomlin inhaled the gunpowder smoke, his whole body shaking now. “Cover these guys,” he told Tricia. He walked to the man in the suit and knelt down beside him. Put the gun in his face. “You’re Tommy?”

A pause. “Yeah.”

“Where’s the money, Tommy?”

Tommy pursed his lips. Nodded. “Over here, man. Whatever you say.”

Tommy led Tomlin around the bar and knelt in front of a medium-size safe. He began to fumble with the combination. “Sorry,” he said, wiping his hands on his pant leg. “One second.”

Tomlin glanced at Tricia where she paced between the men on the floor. She caught Tomlin’s eye and gave him a quick smile, brushing her bangs from her eyes. “Tell them empty their pockets,” Tomlin told her. “Wallets, jewelry, watches. Everything out and off.”

Tricia stopped in front of the men. “You heard him.”

Tommy had the safe open. He remained on his knees, looking up at Tomlin. “Go back and lie down,” Tomlin told him. “We’ll be out of here soon.”

Tomlin waited until the man was settled on the floor again. Then he knelt in front of the safe and peered in. Stacks of hundred-dollar bills, piled high to the back of the safe, each stack worth ten thousand dollars. Tomlin counted at least twenty.

Jackpot.

He set the duffel bag on the floor and started sliding piles of money out of the safe. “Is there money back there?” Tricia called out.

“Oh, there’s money,” he said.

“I knew it. Didn’t I fucking tell you?”

Tomlin emptied the safe. There was a lockbox on the bar, beside a bowl of cut limes, and he emptied it, too. He surveyed the bar and, satisfied, circled back around to the table and knelt beside the waitress on the floor. She was very young, around twenty. She was shaking, crying, naked with fear. Tomlin smiled through the ski mask. “Are you scared?”

The girl swallowed. “Yes.”

Tomlin touched her hair, and she flinched.
If I had but world enough, and time,
he thought. He forced himself to stand, and started back to Tricia. Midway there, he watched her eyes go wide. She looked past him. “Boss.”

Tomlin caught her look and spun around. Saw a young guy in the kitchen doorway, a scrawny kid with a pistol. “No fucking way,” the kid said. “You chose the wrong game, motherfuckers.”

T
HE KID
HELD
his gun sideways, like in the movies. Aimed it square at Tomlin’s chest. Tomlin held his rifle steady. “Just be easy,” he said.

“You be easy.” The kid’s face was screwed up with rage or false courage. “This is my house.”

Tomlin stared down the barrel of the kid’s gun and felt strangely calm. “You shoot me, my friend shoots you. Put the gun down and you live.”

The kid spat. “I ain’t putting shit down.”

“Fine.” Tomlin swung the rifle around and fired at the kid, quick. The kid squeezed off three shots, missed with each one, and then Tomlin got him. Four or five shots to the chest, rapid-fire. The impact threw the kid hard into the doorframe, and he hit it and slumped down to the floor.

The waitress screamed, and Tricia screamed, too. Tomlin advanced with the rifle, putting holes in the kid until the kid dropped his gun. Tomlin kicked the gun into the kitchen. The kid was slumped over now, his head down, his chest bloody. Tomlin stood above him, his adrenaline surging. He looked back at Tricia. “You okay?”

She was staring at the dead kid, but she nodded. Tomlin shouldered the duffel bag and walked back to Tricia. He stuffed the wallets and the watches and the rest of the guns into the bag, and then he surveyed the room, the men lying facedown on the floor, the trembling waitress, the dead kid in the back. “Try anything slick and we’ll kill you, too,” he told them. “Be happy you’re alive.”

He walked to the doorway and stood there until he was sure the whole room had seen him. Then he emptied the rifle into the ceiling, just to watch the poor bastards squirm.

T
OMLIN THREW
the duffel bag and the guns in the backseat of the Camry and slid in the passenger side. “Let’s go,” he told Dragan. “Get us out of here.”

Dragan glanced at him and pressed hard on the gas. “We make it?”

Tomlin looked back at the warehouse door as the Camry sped off. No sign of life yet. The place still looked abandoned. “We made it.”

“Big money?”

“Fucking right.” Tomlin rolled down the window and listened, the cold air and the adrenaline making him shiver in his seat. He didn’t hear any sirens. He rolled the window up again and looked back at Tricia.

She was staring out the window, breathing heavy. “Holy shit,” she was saying. She’d been saying it since they left the warehouse.

Dragan made the main road and turned south, toward Saint Paul. He drove quickly, but with little urgency, blending in to traffic. Tomlin watched the city approach in the distance. Then he glanced back at Tricia again.
All fun and games until someone loses a life.

He’d imagined he would feel horrified, the first time he killed. He’d imagined he would feel sick with remorse. Instead of remorse, though, he felt numb. Detached. Hell, if anything, he felt good.

Tomlin turned away from Tricia and stared out the window again. Felt an electric rush course through his body. He watched the night blur past and listened to Tricia hyperventilate in the backseat, and he thought about the survivors and wished he’d killed them all.

—

D
RAGAN DROVE
BACK
to the garage, parked, and shut off the engine. For a moment, nobody moved. Then Tricia opened her door and climbed out of the car. Dragan followed, and Tomlin watched as Tricia walked to him, wrapped her arms around him, pulled him close. Listened as she sobbed into his shirt. Tomlin waited, tapping a rhythm with his feet on the concrete. “We’ll divide up the money tomorrow,” he told them. “My office.”

Tricia nodded, her eyes swollen and bloodshot. She held tight to Dragan’s shirt and didn’t say anything. Tomlin watched as she climbed into Dragan’s Civic. Waited as the Civic drove off. Then he emptied the Camry, stuffed the guns and the money inside the Jaguar and drove out of the garage. Found a hard-rock station and played the music loud, speeding as fast as he dared back toward Saint Paul.

—

T
HE HOUSE WAS DARK
when he pulled into the driveway. Becca was already asleep. Tomlin lay down beside her, wide awake, the adrenaline still pumping through his body. He leaned over and nudged her, and she groaned and smiled, sleepy. “Hi, honey.”

He kissed her on the mouth, hard. Becca’s eyes opened wide. He brought a hand to her chest, and she stiffened. Tried to protest, but he kissed her again, reaching for the drawstring to her pajama pants. She struggled beneath him.
“Carter.”

“Go with it.” He kissed her again. “Let’s have fun.”

She stayed rigid as he kissed her neck, cupped her ass. Groaned as he pulled her pajama pants off. “I’m too tired, Carter.”

“Just relax,” he said. “It’s all right.”

He kissed her again. This time, after a moment, she kissed him back, soft, and he knew he had won. He grabbed her by her shoulders and flipped her onto her stomach and entered her from behind. She cried out beneath him, struggled, and he knew he was hurting her, but he didn’t stop. He pictured the dead kid at the game, the terrified waitress, heard the roar of the machine gun in his hands, imagined Tricia in his arms, naked and willing and scared.

He came within minutes, and collapsed on top of her, panting for breath. After a long minute, Becca shifted beneath him. Shrugged him away. Tomlin rolled to his side and lay beside her, listening to the blood pounding in his ears. He stared at his wife’s back, and realized she was sobbing.