Criminal Enterprise (25 page)

D
RAGAN MEDIC HAD
lived in Payne-Phalen, northeast of downtown Saint Paul and close to the BCA headquarters. Windermere left her Chevelle parked in the FBI garage in Minneapolis and rode with Doughty across town.

Doughty picked his way through the blizzard, cursing every time the big Ford’s ass slid out. Ducked behind a plow for a part of the way, the windshield pelted with ice chips and salt.
Good night to leave the Chevelle home,
Windermere thought.
Baby wouldn’t make it a mile in this weather.

Medic’s place was a shitty two-story brick building on Payne, across the street from an abandoned supermarket and kitty-corner to a thriving liquor store. Doughty parked the Crown Vic under a streetlight and turned off the engine. Then he stared out through the windshield and sighed like he had something to say. Windermere watched the snow accumulate on the windshield and melt quickly on the warm hood of the car. She waited.

Doughty sighed again. He spoke in a monotone, like he was too tired for inflection. “This is my case,” he said. “I’m the senior agent.”

Windermere rolled her eyes. “Sure, Bob,” she said. “Whatever you want. Can we check out this apartment?”

“I put up with a lot of your bullshit. A lot of your disrespect.”

“We solve this case and it’s over. You never have to talk to me again.”

Doughty shook his head. “You asked Harris for BCA backup. Without my knowledge or consent.”

She looked at him. “We needed manpower. Who else was going to watch Tomlin’s house, or Tricia Henderson’s? You?”

“You brought the BCA on board because you want to work with Kirk Stevens,” said Doughty. “Don’t pretend this is a manpower issue.”

Windermere looked out the window. Watched a wino struggle past, shoving a broken-down shopping cart through the snow. “I’m just trying to solve this case, Bob,” she said. “I’m not trying to step on your toes.”

“That’s my point, Agent Windermere.” Doughty finally looked at her. “It’s not your case to solve, and it sure as hell isn’t your BCA boyfriend’s. I’m senior agent. This is my case.”

She sat silently until she couldn’t help herself. “All due respect, Bob, but Kirk Stevens has done a hell of a lot more in one week than you’ve accomplished in a very long month.”

He spun at her. “The hell does that mean?”

“Put it together,” she told him. “It wasn’t for me and Stevens, you’d still be chasing down Nolan Jackson’s grandparents. Probably shooting them, too.”

“Fuck you,” he told her.

“Forget it,” she said. “Let’s just end this thing.” She reached down and opened her door. Stepped out onto the sidewalk and leaned back into the car. Doughty hadn’t moved. “You coming?”

Doughty said nothing. Gripped the steering wheel tight. Windermere squinted in at him, the wind buffeting her from every angle with heavy gusts of snow. Then she straightened. “Guess not.” She turned away from the unmarked car and walked down the block toward Medic’s apartment. Nearly collided with Stevens coming out of an alley. “Whoa,” she said. “Where’d you come from?”

He gestured. “Parked back there.” He looked past her to Doughty in the Crown Vic. “That your partner?”

She glanced back. Doughty still hadn’t moved. “I’m not sure anymore,” she said. “You want to check out this building?”

Stevens looked at Doughty again. Then he nodded. “Let’s do it.”

A
NDREA STEVENS
LAY
on her bed, wondering why her dad had to be such a jerk. Heather was all alone, and her dad was on the run. She could use some distraction. And besides, everybody on the team was supposed to be going. Probably a lot of other kids, too. Andrea stared at the ceiling and sighed, picturing Megan and Aaron and everybody else, all of them having a good time while here she was, sitting at home like a nerd.

Her cell phone vibrated beside her. A text message from Megan. “Headed to Heather’s,” it read. “You coming?”

Andrea sighed again. “Can’t,” she typed. “My dad’s being an asshole.”

A minute later, Megan responded. “Sneak out. We all did.” Andrea read the message and glanced at her bedroom window, where the snow swirled outside in the streetlight. She’d never snuck out on her parents before. But they’d never really grounded her, either.

Another message from Megan: “Aaron’s going to be there ;-)”

That did it. Andrea picked up her cell phone again and called Megan. Megan picked up after the fourth or fifth ring, and Andrea could hear laughter in the background.
I have to be there,
she thought. “My dad called the cops,” she told Megan. “They’re going to shut everything down.”

“Relax. We just got here.” Megan laughed. “The cop’s parked out front so we snuck in the back. Heather’s mom is like catatonic, anyway. She doesn’t care.”

“What if her dad comes back?”

“Andrea, it’s Coach Tomlin. What’s he going to do?”

Andrea stretched out on the bed. “What’s he in trouble for, anyway?”

“Who cares? He’s, like, a wanted man. He’s not dumb enough to come back to the one place people know where to find him.”

“Isn’t Heather worried?”

“Of course she’s worried,” Megan said. “That’s why we have to be here. No one should have to go through this alone.”

Megan said something Andrea didn’t catch, and then she came back. “Aaron’s here,” she said, giggling. “He keeps asking about you.”

“Shut up.” Andrea stood. “I’m sneaking out.”

Megan giggled again. “See you soon.”

Andrea put down her phone.
Dad’s gone with Agent Windermere,
she thought.
Anyway, it’s like Megan said. If Heather’s dad is really in trouble, he’s not coming home.
She climbed off the bed and walked to her bedroom door. Opened it slowly and peered out. The upstairs was quiet, the only sounds a few muffled gunshots as JJ killed zombies in his room.

Andrea hesitated, her heart starting to pound, and then hurriedly changed into her new skinny jeans and her favorite black top. She checked the mirror and scraped her hair back into a ponytail.
It’ll have to do.
Shoving her phone into her back pocket, she crept into the hall and closed the door behind her. She dodged the creaky floorboards as she walked down the stairs. The kitchen light was on, and Andrea could hear her mom on the telephone.

“I’m telling you, David, they’re going to lock this guy up for no reason,” she was saying. “We need to get to him first.”

Andrea paused at the doorway. Stuck her head in the kitchen and saw her mom pacing by the table, the cordless telephone in her hand. She was looking away, pacing fast, gesturing with her hands, urgent.
Perfect.
Andrea snuck around the kitchen to the side door, slipped on her coat, and grabbed her spare house key. Then she snuck out and pulled the door closed behind her.

It was snowing harder now, definitely a blizzard.
I should have worn boots,
she thought, feeling her shoes fill with snow as she walked down the driveway. She stopped and looked back at the house.
Too late now.

Andrea put her head down and trudged through the blizzard toward Heather’s house. The Tomlins lived barely more than a mile away, but in the storm the walk seemed to take forever. An hour had passed by the time she arrived at Heather’s block.

Andrea clutched her coat tighter around her and tried to stick to the shadows as she searched for her dad’s cop friend. She saw the car about halfway down, parked by the end of Heather’s driveway, a big green car with no markings, like the one her dad sometimes drove. It was facing in her direction.

Andrea cut through the neighbors’ yard, away from the police car and onto the Tomlins’ property. The snow was ankle-deep, and her socks were soaked through by the time she reached Heather’s driveway, but the cop still hadn’t moved from the police car. It was worth it. Andrea pulled out her cell phone and called Megan. “Let me in,” she told her. “I’m freaking cold. And I really need socks.”

M
EDIC’S APARTMENT
TOOK
up half of the top floor of his apartment building. Two bedrooms, a kitchen, a bathroom, and a common area with a giant flat-screen TV. Stevens examined the TV. “That thing’s probably worth more than the building.”

Windermere shook her head. “Boys and their toys.”

The place was littered with car magazines and dirty clothing. The first bedroom was a disaster area; Medic had stacked cardboard boxes almost to the ceiling, all of them filled with movies and old clothes and video-game systems. Windermere looked in and grimaced. “Tell me we’ll find something in the other bedroom,” she said. “I don’t want to have to search through this mess.”

The second bedroom had a queen-size mattress pushed against the wall, the covers in a jumble on top. Clothes everywhere, empty glasses, a box of condoms. Stevens picked his way through the rubble. Moved a stained yellow blanket from beside the bed and unearthed a duffel bag. He glanced back at Windermere.

“Check it out,” she told him. “It’s probably not contagious.”

Stevens grimaced. Bent down and, with two fingers, slid the zipper open. Peeled back the flap and peered in. Then he smiled. Windermere cocked her head. “Jackpot?”

He tilted the bag toward her. Inside, she saw only cash. “Jackpot,” he said.

Windermere walked into the room and peered into the closet. Clothes hung haphazardly on wire hangers. More clothes strewn about the floor. Another duffel bag. It looked full. Windermere toed a pink bra on the floor. “As much women’s clothing here as men’s,” she said, looking around. “Unless our friend Mr. Medic really liked to feel pretty, I’d say he had a roommate.”

“Yeah,” Stevens said. “So where is she?”

Windermere looked down at the duffel bag by her feet. Something wedged underneath. A picture, a familiar face. Tricia Henderson and Dragan Medic on a roller coaster somewhere. Those pictures they take in the middle of the ride. Tricia was laughing, clutching onto Medic, who looked like he was trying real hard not to smile himself. She passed the picture to Stevens. “So there’s the connection with Tricia.”

“Young love,” said Stevens. “And this is where they stashed the money.”

Windermere bent down to the duffel bag. “Still haven’t got a clue where Tomlin and the girl are hiding, though.”

“None whatsoever. So what do we do?”

Windermere walked out of the room and back into the hallway.
The whole place looks like a frat house,
she thought.
Or a little boy’s messy bedroom.
She turned back to Stevens. “I guess we tackle this mess.”

Stevens stared into the disaster-zone bedroom. “You’re thinking there’s some kind of lead buried in here?”

Windermere shrugged. “They left the money here, Stevens. Maybe Tricia comes back with Tomlin.” She tugged his arm and led him into the chaos. “Let’s tear this place apart while we wait.”

S
CHULTZ SPENT
THE
evening in a shitty bar by the highway, drinking Milwaukee’s Best and hitting on the waitress, a lifer with big tits and fire-engine-red lipstick. She was a good sport, had a sense of humor, and didn’t seem to mind when he swatted her ass when she brought him his beer. The way she hung around his table, Schultz figured he might have a shot.

“Really snowing outside,” she said, as she dropped off his round. “Hope you don’t have somewhere to be.”

“Just right here with you, darling,” he told her, and he watched her put a swing in her hips as she walked back to the bar. She glanced at him over her shoulder, winked when she saw he was watching.
Yup,
he thought.
Definitely got a shot.

Schultz checked his watch. Nearly eleven o’clock now. He drank his beer slowly and wondered if he might as well just stay put. Drink until close and get cozy with the waitress, set out for Montana in the morning. The waitress sidled up again. Smiled at him. “I’m off at midnight,” she said.

Schultz smiled back, weighing the pros and cons. She looked like she’d be a half-decent lay, anyway. Probably knew her share of tricks. Still, those damn Mexicans. Tomlin. And Scotty’s goddamned sons.

Guy breaks into your home, beats you with a piece of lumber, steals your guns and your money,
Schultz thought.
You just can’t let that stand. Sure as hell can’t let two kids take the fall.
He reached around and pulled the waitress close. She laughed but let him handle her, didn’t protest. “I’m sorry, sweetheart,” he told her, his hands on her waist. “I’m late for an appointment somewhere.”

She frowned. “You’re sure, honey?”

“Wish I wasn’t.”

“Well, too bad,” she said, pulling away. “You get done soon enough, you make sure you come back. I could use the company.”

“I’ll do that.” He paid his tab and left her a decent tip, and she blew a kiss at him as he made for the door. He flashed her a smile and stepped out into the cold, the snow enveloping him almost instantly, and he walked to his truck and climbed in.
Cost me a lay, Tomlin,
he thought, as he fired up the engine
. I’ll be damn glad to be through
with your bullshit.

F
IFTEEN MINUTES
LATER
,
Schultz pulled to a stop at the end of Tomlin’s block. The snow was everywhere now, swirling beneath the streetlights and piled up on the cars parked at the curb. The unmarked sedan was still waiting outside Tomlin’s house. The cop sitting inside was trying to blend in with the rest of the block, but his engine was idling, and the hood of his Crown Vic was warm enough to melt the falling snow. Schultz cruised past him, slowly, and kept driving.

Tomlin’s house was darker now. There was a light or two on in the back, and another in a second-floor window, but the place looked asleep. The only vehicle in the driveway was that same Lincoln truck. It was time to have a look inside.

Schultz drove to the end of the block and turned at the corner. Behind Tomlin’s house, the land sloped south, down a ravine toward the Interstate and the Mississippi River, and Schultz followed the road down to a laneway running parallel to Summit Avenue. He shifted the truck into four-wheel drive and set off through the snow. A couple hundred feet down, he came to a pullout with a couple of snow-covered cars. He parked beside them and hid the TEC-9 under his coat as he stepped out of the truck and into the blizzard.

The snow was deep in the laneway, and it was a tough slog, the wind whipping his face and the slush soaking through his shoes. Midway down the alley, Schultz stopped and surveyed the hillside and the rooftops above. He walked to where he figured Tomlin’s house should be, and then he dug his hands and feet into the snow and scrabbled up the incline.

When he reached the top of the hill, muddy and winded, Schultz looked around at the monster backyards and saw what must be Tomlin’s house a couple yards down, lit up from the back and enormous. There was a gate leading onto Tomlin’s property, and Schultz let himself in and walked across the backyard to the rear deck, where a sliding glass door led into a kitchen solarium. Schultz climbed the deck carefully and tried the door. Locked.

A dog started to bark inside, and a moment later, Schultz saw the little mongrel. A yellow Lab, young and exuberant, barking its fool head off with its nose pressed to the window. Schultz stepped back from the door, but the dog wouldn’t shut up, even as he retreated into the backyard again. He walked around the side of the house to the driveway, out of the dog’s sight line, leaned against the wall, and waited for the dog to calm. He heard a door open about ten feet away, and he ducked into the shadows and forced himself to stay still.
So much for surprising the bastard,
he thought.
Shit.

Someone poked his head out. A teenager, a boy, about sixteen or so. He wore only a T-shirt and jeans, and he shivered as he squinted into the snow. “Hello?” he said. “Josh? Heather says come around to the side door.”

The kid waited there, looking around. Schultz took out the TEC-9 and walked into the light, leveling the gun at his face. “Evening.”

The kid scrambled back, his eyes wide. “Who are you?”

Schultz kept the gun steady. “Friend of the family.” He glanced down the driveway at the police car out front, the cop still inside, oblivious. “Be a pal and invite me inside.”