Criminal Enterprise (16 page)

W
INDERMERE CAME
TO
CID early. She’d slept well after her workout, woke up at dawn with a clear mind and a positive vibe.
I’m solving this case,
she thought.
Doughty and Tomlin and Jackson be damned.

Mathers was lingering around her desk. Caught her eye as she walked down the aisle. “Hey, Supercop.”

Damn right,
she thought. “Shouldn’t you be hungover somewhere?”

Mathers grimaced. “Night shift. You and Doughty are looking at Camrys, right?”

“I’m looking at Camrys. Doughty’s eating my prodigious dust.”

“My bad.” Mathers held up his hands. “You heard about that shoot-out in Saint Paul?”

She shook her head. “Tell me.”

“Some kind of poker game,” he said. “Underground, in a warehouse. Check the wire. Someone put a Camry at the scene.”

“A shoot-out.”

“Assault rifles and everything. One dead.” Mathers shrugged. “Something’s going on up there, anyway.”

“Hot damn.” Windermere reached for her phone. “That’s the power of positive thinking, my friend.”

—

T
EN MINUTES LATER,
she was peeling out of the FBI garage in the Chevelle again, her foot hard on the gas, the tires squealing and her mind doing smash cuts as she raced for the highway.

An underground poker game. Saint Paul PD hadn’t given her much, just an address and the name of the homicide cop on scene. A gold Camry and an assault rifle, though, sounded pretty damn good.

Windermere raced east on I-94, took I-35E north and out of the city. Followed the cop’s directions to an industrial district, a train yard. Cruised around until she saw flashing police lights in the distance.

It was a crummy little industrial complex, drab and anonymous. Windermere parked the Chevelle behind a Saint Paul PD cruiser, ducked under the police tape, and glanced up at the security camera above the front door. Then she walked in.

Inside, the warehouse looked like someone’s private club. Dark wood-paneled walls, carpet, solid poker tables. A bar at the back, all the liquor top-shelf. The room was crowded with cops—the medical examiner and a forensic technician and plain, nosy cops—all of them clustered around a body in back. A uniform stood guard just inside. “FBI,” Windermere told him. “Where’s Detective Parent?”

A tired-looking plainclothesman looked up from the huddle. “I’m Parent,” he said, walking over. “Who are you?”

Windermere showed him her badge. “What happened here?”

Parent glanced back at the body. Shrugged. “These guys run an underground game,” he said. “High stakes. Higher than usual, last night.”

“Who’s the body?”

“Local kid, nobody special. We found a gun in the back—there’s a kitchen back there—figure he tried to make a stand.”

“Leads on the murder weapon?”

Parent nodded. “Shells are .223s, and there’s a shitload of them. An assault rifle, and the shooter went nuts.”

Windermere looked around the place. Pockmarks in the walls. Poker chips still on the table. Cards, too. Some poor bastard had pocket aces. She turned back to the detective. “Witnesses?”

Parent snorted. “Anonymous call. Time we got here, the place was deserted.”

“Saw a security camera by the door.”

He shook his head. “Wiped.”

“Shit.”

“Guess they value their privacy.” Parent studied her face. “What’s the FBI care, anyway?”

“Bank robberies,” she told him. “We’re chasing a crew, shoots .223 Remingtons and drives a Toyota Camry. Heard there was a Camry involved.”

Parent nodded again. “Security camera across the street caught the car parked outside. Can just barely tell it’s a Camry.”

“Plates?”

He shook his head. “Like I said, pretty blurry.”

Windermere circled the poker tables. Parent followed. “You have any leads whatsoever?” she asked him.

“Just pretty much what you got,” he said. “The Camry and the rifle.”

“So not much,” she said. “Shit.”

She walked over to the body. A skinny teenager in baggy jeans and an oversized T-shirt, five or six bloody holes in his chest.
Shit.
Parent cleared his throat. “These games, they’re kind of a secret. Nobody advertises, you know?”

Windermere looked at him. “Our killers knew this place existed.”

Parent nodded. “And someone had to recognize them outside. That door’s reinforced steel. These guys walked right in. Means someone unlocked the door.”

“They had a partner inside.”

“Or someone thought they were friendly.”

“Either way, they had an inside connection.”

The crew’s first murder,
thought Windermere.
First a note, then a gun, then a team, then a body. These guys are getting bolder and bolder.

So who are they?
Where are they hiding? And where was Carter Tomlin when this whole thing went down?

T
RICIA HADN’T
ARRIVED
when Tomlin got to work the next morning. He sat in his office with the duffel bag on his desk, resisting the urge to count the money without her.

He thought about Becca as he waited for his computer to boot up. She’d spent a long time in the shower in the morning, had emerged with swollen, exhausted eyes and a tight line to her lips, and had said very little to him before he’d left for work.

Tomlin thought about her and felt a little ashamed. He’d been rougher with his wife than he’d ever imagined he could be. He felt even worse when he thought about the kid he’d murdered. He felt nauseated.

Tricia came in just before nine. He heard her unlock the door and walk in, pretended to check his e-mail as she sorted herself out in the lobby. Then she poked her head into his office. “Hey,” she said.

She was beautiful. Radiant. She’d spiked her hair up, and her eyes seemed bigger than normal. She wore a tight-fitting blouse that hugged the curves of her body, and a black pencil skirt that ended just above the knee. She caught his look and grinned at him. “I almost look legit, huh?”

He couldn’t help smiling. “Almost.” He paused. “You okay?”

She looked from his face to the bag and back again. “I’m sorry I freaked out,” she said, sighing. “I talked it over with Dragan.” She shrugged. “It was self-defense, right? You couldn’t help it.”

Tomlin nodded. “He was going to kill us.”

“Exactly. Self-defense.”

They looked at each other for a moment, and Tomlin wondered if she really believed what she was saying. If she wasn’t addicted to the same thrills, deep down.

Tricia unzipped the bag and tipped it onto the desk, spilling cash everywhere. Laughed, giddy, as the cash tumbled out. “Should we dance in it?”

Tomlin grinned at her. At the money. Reached into the pile and came out with a watch. Tricia’s eyes went wide. “Rolex,” she said. “Holy diamonds.” He took her hand, slid the watch up her delicate wrist as she watched him. It was a man’s watch, too big for her, slid up almost to her shoulder. Precocious, like she was a little girl playing dress-up. She picked up another watch. “You like Cartier?”

“Why not?” He held out his hand, and she took it in hers, strapped the leather band to his wrist. For a moment her touch lingered, something electric. Then she turned back to the money, and Tomlin watched her as she tallied the stacks, that ridiculous gold watch sliding up and down her sleeve.

There was something irresistible about her, about the grin on her face and the flush on her cheeks. He imagined taking her as he’d taken Becca last night, and he felt a thrill. Tricia looked like the kind who wouldn’t mind playing rough.

Tricia dropped the last stack of cash on the desk. “Two hundred twenty thousand, plus the wallets.” She laughed, sharp and sudden. “Didn’t I tell you?”

“You told me,” he said. “I admit. You did good.”

She put a hand on her hip. “That’s it?”

“Great. You did great.”

She held the pose. Winked at him. “I know,” she said. Then she turned back to the money and began to parcel out the cash. Tomlin watched her count out Dragan’s share, then her own, admiring her body through her tight blouse.

“What are you doing with your share?” he asked her.

Tricia cocked her head. “Maybe buy a car. A convertible. Go on a vacation somewhere. What about you?”

Mortgage,
Tomlin thought.
Kids’ college funds.
He started to answer. Then he shook his head. “I haven’t decided yet,” he said. “Something badass.”

N
ANCY STEVENS
STARED
up at Tomlin’s house through the Cherokee’s passenger window. “Wow,” she said. “What a mansion.”

Stevens parked at the curb, killed the engine. “Don’t get any ideas,” he said. “The guy’s probably swimming in debt.”

“And you think he’s a bank robber?”

“I don’t,” Stevens said, climbing out of the car. “Windermere does, and she might have a point. You’d need to rob banks to pay the heat in the winter.”

“All the same,” Nancy said, as they started up the walk to the house. “It’s a beautiful home. Very romantic.”

“Our house isn’t romantic?”

She shot him a smile. “Our house is fine, Agent Stevens. If we had a house like this, though, you might get lucky more often.”

Stevens rang the doorbell. “Fat chance,” he said. “We’d be too busy robbing banks.”

The front door swung open, Carter Tomlin behind it. He saw Stevens and hesitated. Then he smiled. “Kirk,” he said, stepping back to usher them inside. “And Nancy. Glad you could make it.”

Nancy shook Tomlin’s hand. “We were just admiring your house.”

Tomlin’s smile widened. “It’s too big,” he said, “but we like it. Everyone gets their space. Come on in.”

They followed Tomlin through the front hall. Stevens nudged Nancy as they walked. “Told you. It’s a handful. He said it himself.”

Nancy elbowed him back. “Someone’s feeling inadequate.”

“Or maybe someone else is compensating.”

She laughed, shushed him with her hand, and then they were in the vast living room. Four or five other couples milled about, drinking wine, chatting, playing with Snickers. They were all well dressed and about Tomlin’s age. Tomlin introduced Stevens and Nancy to the room, then excused himself, promising to come back with something to drink.

Almost immediately, Becca Tomlin found Nancy and brought her into a cluster of wives by the fireplace, leaving Stevens alone at the door. He looked around the room, then walked to the picture window and stared out over the dark lawn.

“You’re the guy who solved Terry Harper’s fiasco.” Stevens looked right, and found a lanky, fair-haired man beside him. The man held out his hand. “Dan Rydin.”

“Kirk Stevens.” Stevens shook Rydin’s hand. “You know Harper?”

“Work with him at North Star.” Rydin smiled. “And with Carter, too, now that the whole neighborhood accountant experiment is over.”

“Neighborhood accountant.” Stevens frowned. “I thought he was corporate.”

Rydin laughed and leaned closer. “Laid off in the summer. He’s been doing your grandmother’s taxes ever since.”

“Huh.” Stevens gestured around the room. “Guess he did okay on his own.”

Rydin shook his head. “Guess again.”

“Yeah?”

“This is all leverage, man,” Rydin said. “We’re talking copious debt. I’m amazed he kept his family intact.”

Stevens looked at Rydin. Rydin grinned back through watery eyes. There was scotch on his breath already. “Usually, these cases, the wife is the first thing to go,” Rydin continued. “Divorce, then bankruptcy. Wasn’t for me, he’d be sunk.”

Stevens smiled. “You’re the big hero, huh?”

“Got him his job, didn’t I? Saved his life.”

Stevens made to reply. Looked up and caught Tomlin’s reflection in the window. The accountant stood alone on the other side of the room, holding two tumblers and staring at Stevens and Rydin. He met Stevens’s eyes and smiled and came over. “So you’ve met my new boss.” He handed Stevens a glass. “Everything all right?”

Rydin winked at Stevens. “Everything’s fine, Carter. Relax.”

“Not while you’re around, partner.” Tomlin smiled at Stevens. “Invite an accountant to a party and you know you’re getting robbed, one way or the other.”

He looked around the room. “One way or the other,” he said again. Then he smiled again. “I’ll just check on the caterers. Excuse me.”

Rydin watched Tomlin go. Then he nudged Stevens. “Living on the edge,” he said. “Told you. I’m a hero.”

He laughed and emptied his glass. Stevens watched him.
A hero,
he thought.
Maybe. Maybe not.

T
OMLIN WATCHED
S
TEVENS
and his pretty wife throughout dinner. Watched them share jokes, laugh together, flirt when they thought nobody was watching. They looked so easy together, so comfortable.

Becca caught his eye from across the dinner table. She smiled at him. He forced himself to smile back. Raised his wineglass and winked at her. She smiled again wider, and Tomlin studied her face and was struck, suddenly and guiltily, by how she’d aged since he’d married her. She’d been a girl, fresh-faced and stunning. She was a mother now. A housewife.

Then Rydin’s wife touched Becca’s hand and asked her something about the kitchen cabinets, and Becca smiled at him one more time, then looked away. Tomlin snuck another glance at Kirk and Nancy Stevens.

They look perfect,
he thought.
Like everyone else at this table. Like they’ve never struggled to make a mortgage payment. Like they never fight, even. They’re in love, and they’re happy, and he’s barely a policeman. Probably didn’t even go to college.

And she’s some kind of Legal Aid lawyer
.
Older than Becca, but barely looks thirty-five. Miles out of her husband’s league, and she looks at him like she’d never had the thought. Laughing and smiling, and they’re probably piss-poor.

Her whole life is a waste
.
What the hell is she happy about?

—

T
HEY ATE A WONDERFUL
dinner in the Tomlins’ stately dining room, four courses, fully catered. The price of the meal, Stevens figured, would have fed his own family for a month. But then, he decided, he might willingly starve for another helping of tonight’s prime rib.

After dinner, the partiers migrated back into the Tomlins’ living room. Stevens talked to Rydin some more, and some of Rydin’s friends, all of them bankers and businessmen. Then, when the conversation turned to best accounting practices, Stevens excused himself and asked Becca Tomlin to point him to the bathroom.

“Around the corner and by the back stairs,” she told him, smiling. “Are you having a good time?”

“A great time,” he told her. “Dinner was spectacular.”

She blushed. “A little over-the-top, but Carter wanted to show off. It’s his night.”

“Might as well do it right,” Stevens said, and Becca smiled and touched his arm and pointed him down the hall to the bathroom.

After he’d finished, Stevens stepped out into the hallway again and found himself alone. Voices carried from the living room, and light, but the hall itself was deserted. Stevens stood in the darkness, thinking about Rydin’s commentary before dinner. About Tomlin, laid off. A desperate man in an oversized house. Bank robbery almost made sense.

Stevens shook his head and started back down the hall toward the party. Then he stopped.
Here’s your chance,
he thought.
They won’t miss you.

Someone laughed in the living room, loud. Glasses clinked together. Stevens turned and walked down the hall. Found himself in a bright, modern kitchen. The caterers looked up as he stuck his head through the doorway.

“Looking for the little boys’ room,” he said, backing out. To his right was a little stairway, five or six steps, then a door to the driveway. Another stairway headed down from the landing.
If I were a bank robber,
Stevens thought,
where would I hide my tools?

Stevens looked back into the kitchen again. The caterers had forgotten him, were scrubbing dishes and scraping plates, chatting with one another. Stevens turned back to the stairway. Paused on the top step.
You don’t even have a warrant. Nothing you find is admissible.

Calm down.
It’s not even your case. You find something, you let Windermere worry about procedure.

There was a long, low hallway at the bottom of the stairs. A dim yellow light and a bare concrete floor. Stevens peered into the first room, saw a new washer and dryer set, a sink, clothes hanging above. Laundry room. He backed out. Heard the sounds of the party above him, nothing else. They would start to miss him soon.
Hurry up.
Stevens crossed the hall to the next room. Felt around for a light switch and flicked it on. Then he stood in the doorway and stared.

It wasn’t going to put Tomlin in jail, anyway. Wasn’t evidence of any wrongdoing at all. Still, it was breathtaking. Stevens took a couple steps into the room, the party and Tomlin momentarily forgotten.

It was a huge toy train setup. It filled the whole room. Cities and vast mountain ranges, factories and apartment buildings and marshaling yards. Thousands of tiny trees, and hordes of detailed little people, in corner stores and waiting in the stations, living out their lives. Stevens stared at it, awed.
It must have taken Tomlin months to put this thing together,
he thought.
Almost belongs in a museum.

He walked deeper into the room, toward the control system at the center of the table. A panel of dials and levers and LED lights, complicated beyond Stevens’s comprehension. A little Amtrak train waited in front of the controls.

Stevens found the power switch on the panel. Looked at the train.
Just once around the loop,
he thought.
Then back to the party.
He reached for the power switch. Tomlin’s voice stopped him. “What the hell are you doing?”

Stevens spun. Found his host staring in at him through the doorway, his face a mask of barely contained anger.