Criminal Enterprise (21 page)

S
TEVENS DUCKED
a phone interview with the local CBS affiliate and called in a favor with a judge at the county courthouse. Drank bad BCA coffee and watched coverage of the Minneapolis armed robbery until mid-afternoon, when the judge faxed over Russell’s warrant.

Could be nothing,
Stevens thought, following Russell out to her Hastings PD cruiser.
Could be a coincidence. Could be I’m so eager to see Windermere again that I’ll jump on anything that sounds remotely similar. Nancy would tell you you’re pathetic
.
A lovesick teenager.

But what if there’s a connection here?
Stevens thought, climbing in beside Russell.
What if this is the break?
He studied the warrant as Russell drove into Saint Paul, trying unsuccessfully to quell his excitement.

—

T
HEY FOUND
the Internet provider’s office in a nondescript little building on University Avenue, a half mile or so west of the state capitol. Russell parked in front, and Stevens followed her to the entrance, where they cornered a short, middle-aged woman as she locked the front door.

“BCA.” Stevens showed the woman the warrant. “And Hastings Police. We need something from you.”

The woman looked at the warrant and then at Stevens, then Russell. She sighed. “I’m on break.”

“Only take a minute,” Stevens said. “Let’s go back inside.”

The woman sighed again, but she unlocked the door and led them into the building. They walked through a small reception area and into an office, where the woman dropped into her chair and switched on her computer and looked up at Stevens expectantly. Stevens glanced at Russell. “Got an IP address for you to run,” Russell told her. “One of your clients.”

The woman squinted at Russell. “We talked on the phone.”

“Claudia.” Russell nodded. “You shut me down.”

Claudia shrugged. “You didn’t have a warrant. This was a robbery, right?”

“That’s right.”

“Who got robbed?”

“Can’t tell you.” Russell smiled. “Privacy issues. You understand.”

Claudia frowned and turned back to her computer. Stevens handed her the IP address, and Claudia typed it in. She reached for a pen. “It’s a residential account,” she said. She wrote down an address and handed it to Russell. Russell looked at the paper, shrugged and handed it to Stevens, who read it and grinned. The Summit Avenue address. Carter Tomlin. Russell looked at him. “Good?”

“Makes my day.” Stevens pulled out his cell phone. Dialed Windermere’s number, his heart pounding. She picked up, and he heard wind in the background, traffic. “Windermere,” he said. “Stevens.”

“Caller ID, Stevens. What do you need?”

He paused. “You’re working that armored car thing, right?”

“Right.”

“Any leads?”

Windermere sighed. “One lead. A woman, one of the robbers. Headed back to Saint Paul to stake out her apartment. Except her face is all over the news, so she’s probably gone. Why?”

Stevens looked back at Russell and Claudia. “Swing by my office on your way.” He couldn’t keep the smile from his voice. “I have something you don’t want to miss.”

W
INDERMERE STARED
at her phone.
Damn you, Stevens,
she thought.
I don’t have time to play games right now.

Doughty watched her over the top of the Crown Vic, with one eyebrow raised. “What’s the story?”

Windermere didn’t answer. Stevens hadn’t given her much. Had been downright coy, even. But he’d promised he had something to show her. Of anyone, he wouldn’t screw her around.

“Drop me at headquarters,” she told Doughty. “I gotta chase a lead.”

Doughty frowned. “What about Henderson?”

“I’ll catch up. I have to do something real quick first.”

Doughty looked like he was about to say something. Then he sighed and shook his head. Opened the car door and disappeared inside.

This had better be worth it,
Windermere thought.
Stevens drags me all the way over there to show me his daughter’s finger paintings, I’ll shoot him.

—

D
OUGHTY DROPPED
Windermere outside the FBI office and drove off without a word. Windermere watched the big Ford disappear into traffic. Then she rode the elevator down to the garage and climbed into her Chevelle and drove it across to the BCA headquarters northeast of downtown Saint Paul.

Stevens was waiting in the doorway when she pulled up. He had a woman with him, a heavy brunette. Windermere stopped the car in front of the doors and leaned across the seat to roll down the passenger window. Stevens came over. “Carla,” he said. “Hey.”

It was good to see him again. It would be better if he had something decent. “What’s the deal, Stevens?”

Stevens glanced back at his brown-haired friend. “This is Investigator Russell,” he said. “Hastings PD. She’s got a line on a stolen AR-15.”

Windermere stared at him. “I’m in the middle of a robbery–double murder, Stevens. No time for goose chases.”

Stevens smiled. “Just listen to her story.”

Russell told her story. A robbery in Hastings before Christmas. Guns. An AR-15 assault rifle. A middle-aged assailant out of the Twin Cities. An e-mail and an alias.

“Russell traced the e-mail,” said Stevens. “Copied down the IPO—”

“IP,” Russell said. “IP address.”

“—and traced it to an Internet provider. We got ourselves a warrant and harassed them for a while, and they gave us this.” Stevens held out a scrap piece of paper. “Take a look.”

Windermere glanced at Stevens. Then she took the paper. Read it. Tomlin’s address, Summit Avenue. She looked back at Stevens. “Shit,” she said. “This is it, Stevens. This is my case.”

Stevens grinned. “Figured you could use it.”

“Oh, I’ll use it. I’ll take his ass down.” She leaned over and pushed open the passenger door. “You coming with me or what?”

T
HEY LEFT
R
USSELL
at her car. The Hastings cop begged off the big takedown. “Long drive back,” she said. “Mayor wants me working these damn downtown break-ins in the morning.”

Stevens promised he’d keep her posted. Then he climbed into the Chevelle, and he and Windermere drove though Saint Paul toward Summit Hill. Stevens watched Windermere as she drove. “Hell of a car,” he said. “Must be rough in the winter, no?”

She nodded. “I try to keep it locked up.”

“But not this time.”

“Needed a pick-me-up,” she said. “Driving this bad boy gets me going.” She pulled to a stop sign and paused. Then she slammed down on the gas. The tires squealed and the rear end fishtailed, wild, back and forth. Windermere grinned at him. “Better than sex, Stevens.”

Stevens peeled himself from the seat. “I’ll take your word for it.”

She glanced over. Laughed at him. “I missed you.”

—

T
OMLIN’S JAGUAR WAS
gone, but his wife’s Navigator remained, looking like a lost toy on Tomlin’s vast driveway. Stevens followed Windermere across the street to the sidewalk. “A bank robber’s palace,” Windermere said, staring up at the house. “Imagine.”

“After we’re done with Tomlin, maybe we start knocking on neighbors’ doors. See how everyone else pays the mortgage.” He glanced at her. “You were right about Tomlin.”

“Of course I was right, Stevens,” she said. “You think I make this crap up?”

He shrugged. “I kind of thought you were crazy.”

“You and everybody else.” An unmarked Crown Victoria pulled up behind them, and two BCA agents climbed out. Windermere straightened. “Here comes the cavalry.”

The agents joined them on the sidewalk. “Nick Singer and Greg Rotundi,” Stevens said, “meet Carla Windermere.” The agents nodded at Windermere and then followed her gaze to the house. “Doesn’t look like our suspect’s at home,” Stevens told them, “but we’re going to execute the search warrant and wait for his return.”

“Maybe park the unmarked around the block,” said Windermere. “Make it so he doesn’t see it and bolt.”

Rotundi nodded and went back to the car as Stevens led Windermere and Singer to the house. Windermere knocked on the front door. Singer held up the warrant. After a minute, Becca Tomlin appeared through the window. She smiled wide when she saw Stevens, and swung open the door.

“Kirk,” she said. Then she saw Windermere, and her smile faded.

“Afternoon, Becca,” said Stevens. “Is Carter around?”

“He’s still at work.” Becca studied Singer, then Windermere. “What’s the problem?”

“It’s serious, Becca. What time do you expect him?”

“A couple hours, I guess,” she said. “I don’t know. He just called. Told me he wanted to take the girls on a vacation.”

Stevens swapped a glance with Windermere. “Vacation,” said Windermere. “Where?”

Becca shrugged. “Anywhere we want, he said. Like a celebration.”

Windermere arched an eyebrow at Stevens. Behind them, Rotundi climbed up to the house. “Head down to Tomlin’s office,” Stevens told him. “Wait for him there. Call us if you see him.”

Rotundi nodded, and Stevens turned to Singer, who handed Becca the warrant. “Carter’s in some trouble,” Stevens told her. “I’m sorry, but we’ve gotta take a look through the house.”

T
HE HAUL
FROM
the armored truck totaled more than nine hundred thousand dollars. It was enough to make Tricia forget, eventually, about her face on the news. It was more money than Tomlin had ever seen in his life.

It wasn’t going to be enough.

Nine hundred grand divided between the three of them meant over three hundred fifty thousand for Tomlin. Added to the poker-game score, and the remains of the bank jobs he’d pulled, and Tomlin figured he had close to half a million dollars in ready cash.

A half a million dollars wouldn’t make for much of a retirement. Not for a family of four.
Hell,
Tomlin thought,
by the time we make it out of the country and set ourselves up with a home, we’ll be back in the same old situation, working to stay alive.

I need more,
he decided.
I just need a little more money.

Tricia giggled from the opposite bed. Tomlin stole a glance at her. She had Dragan on top of her, her legs locked behind his back, her arms around his neck. She let him kiss her for a while. Then she pushed him away. “Where are we going to go?” she said.

Dragan thought it over. “Mexico?”

“When?”

“Tomorrow. We leave early and drive to Chicago. Hop a plane.”

“What about the money?”

“We’ll hide it,” Dragan told her. “Wrap it up in our clothes. In a couple of days, you’ll be another rich bitch on the beach.”

Tricia laughed again, reached and pulled him down to her. Tomlin watched in disgust as they made out, a couple of horny teenagers after the prom.

Mexico,
Tomlin thought.
If I was young and carefree and single, half a million dollars would almost be enough. If I didn’t have a family to worry about.

He stood from his bed and walked to the window. Glanced outside, and then back at the kids again. He cleared his throat and they stopped fooling around, smiled at him, sheepish. Tricia sat up, fixing her hair. “What’s up?”

Tomlin looked at her, at Dragan. “One more score,” he said. “In the morning. Before we all scatter.”

Dragan glanced at Tricia. “I don’t think so. What’s the point?”

“We have enough money,” said Tricia.

“I don’t,” Tomlin told her. “Not enough for my family. Not to get us out safe.”

“Your family,” said Dragan. “What the hell do we care?”

“You care,” Tomlin told him. “You’d better fucking care. I got you this gig in the first place.”

Dragan cocked his head. “Maybe. But if you didn’t kill those guards, we wouldn’t be running. Evens out, doesn’t it?”

“I made you a shitload of money. I’m asking one favor. For my daughters.”

Tricia and Dragan shared a look. Neither said anything. Tomlin waited. He was still waiting when his cell phone began to ring.
Becca. “
Carter? Where are you?”

“Still at the office, honey,” he said. “I’ll be home soon. You all packed?”

A pause. “Where are you really?”

He walked to the window and peeled back the curtain. “I told you, the office.”

“I just called the office, Carter.”

Tomlin stared out the window. Outside, the parking lot was deserted. A train rumbled by, slowly, on the spur line beyond. “Carter?”

There was something in her voice. Tomlin didn’t answer. He turned around and saw Dragan kiss Tricia, slide his hand under her shirt.
Half a million dollars would be plenty,
Tomlin thought,
if I had a pretty girl with me on a warm sandy beach. A million dollars would be even better.

Becca made a strangled noise. “Carter?”

Tomlin eyed Dragan.
And what if we were two and not three?
He looked at Tricia again. Imagined spending the rest of his life with her on some lawless beach. That perky young body. That dirty mind. No mortgage to worry about. Sex all the time.

“Carter,
where are you?”

Tomlin ended the call. Switched his phone off and turned back to the lovers. “One more score,” he said. “Then you can go.”

Tricia pushed Dragan away. Looked at Tomlin hard. “In the morning,” she said finally. “Quick. For your family.”

Tomlin nodded. “For my family.” He lay back on the bed and stared up at the dingy ceiling. Turned up the volume on the TV as Tricia began to make out with Dragan again.
Enjoy your time with her, asshole,
he thought, listening to the rustle of their clothes over the news anchor’s monologue.
As of tomorrow, she’s mine.

W
INDERMERE HUNG
UP
the cordless extension. “Shit,” she said, looking at Stevens. “Lost him.”

On the living room couch, Becca Tomlin shook her head. “I don’t know what happened,” she said. “He just went away.”

Windermere swapped a look with Stevens. Then she took out her cell phone and disappeared into the front hall, and Stevens heard her issuing rapid-fire directions to some hapless colleague. He stood at the living room window and looked out over the front lawn. The sun was setting outside now; the shadows had encroached almost to the edge of the house, and the living room was all dark corners and dim light. Stevens looked at Becca’s reflection in the glass, her eyes red and her cheeks tracked with tears. They’d asked her to call Carter. He’d lied to his wife; Rotundi had found the office deserted. He was searching the place now.

And meanwhile, Becca Tomlin sat at home and watched her world fall apart. “Bank robbery,” she said, her eyes meeting Stevens’s. “I just don’t understand.”

He watched her eyes fill with tears again, and he passed her a box of tissues. “I’m sorry,” he told her. He sat on the edge of the couch and put his arm around her, and she leaned into him and began to sob.

Singer came into the living room. “Nothing upstairs. I’ll check the basement.”

“The model train room,” said Stevens. “If he’s hiding something, it’s there.”

“Train room. Got it.” Singer walked out again, the Tomlins’ yellow Lab trailing after him, tail wagging, oblivious.

—

T
HE FRONT DOOR
opened, and Heather Tomlin came in, her nose in her cell phone, giggling about something. “Damn,” Becca said, standing. “I just need a minute.”

“Sure.” Stevens waited while she called Madeleine downstairs and herded both girls to the kitchen. Stevens heard muffled conversation, and a few seconds later, Heather came stomping back through the living room and into the front hall, narrowly missing Windermere as the FBI agent came back into the room. In the kitchen, Madeleine Tomlin started to cry.

Windermere raised an eyebrow at Stevens. “Nothing at Henderson’s apartment,” she said. “My people are talking to the phone company. Hoping we can pinpoint Tomlin’s cell.”

“Assuming he doesn’t ditch the thing,” Stevens said.

“Which he probably does.”

“Maybe not. He’s no Pender. Maybe he forgets the phone.”

Windermere shook her head. “If he watches action movies, he’ll ditch the phone,” she said. “But we’ll try anyway.”

Stevens nodded. “Fingers crossed.”

Becca Tomlin came back into the living room and sat down heavily on the couch. She smiled at Stevens and shook her head. “I thought he was having an affair,” she said. “I guess I was thinking too small.”