Criminal Enterprise (27 page)

T
OMLIN PEERED
UP
at the lights of his house through the windshield. He looked down the block at the buried cars, the snow in the streetlights. Then he looked at the house again.

Be realistic,
he thought.
Schultz isn’t going to kill anyone. Not a couple of kids, not over fifty grand and some drugs. He’s waiting for you to turn up, and if you don’t, he’ll get scared and run. Call in a tip. Let the police do their jobs.

He sat in the car and stared out at the house, looming out of the snow like a ghost in the fog. He looked at it and realized he was scared. He was afraid to see Becca again. Afraid to look at his daughters, now that they knew who their father really was. He was scared, most of all, that he would walk into that dream home and find them all dead.

He was scared, all right. Terrified. But he couldn’t walk away from his family, not after all that he’d done. He put his foot on the gas pedal and drove toward home.

—

S
PECIAL AGENT
Nick Singer sat up in the driver’s seat of the unmarked Crown Vic. He’d been snoozing a little, waiting out the blizzard, and now he rubbed his eyes and stared out at the brake lights in the distance.

Damn it,
he thought,
but that kind of looked like a Civic.
The car made the end of the block and turned left, away from the Tomlin house. Singer stared out the window and wondered if he should follow.

You’re dreaming,
he thought.
Too goddamned bored. Tomlin would be a fool to show up around here in that Civic tonight. He’s probably in Bermuda already.

Singer looked out at the street, but the Civic didn’t return. The snow kept falling. Nothing else moved outside. He shifted in his seat, slid down a little. Turned up the radio and tried to get comfortable.

—

T
OMLIN DROVE
the Civic down to Irvine, the long, narrow laneway that passed beneath the backyards of the Summit Hill mansions.
Stupid to park the Civic in the driveway,
he thought,
what with every cop in the state looking for it.

The snow had piled up in the alley, and the Honda struggled to find traction in the drifts, but Tomlin wrestled the car along anyway. He parked below his backyard and looked up through the driver’s-side window. Found the narrow concrete stairs the previous owners had cut into the hillside, and above them, the top of the house. One light in Madeleine’s bedroom. Otherwise, darkness. Tomlin took the assault rifle with him, and a spare magazine. Stuffed a pistol in his pocket and stepped out of the Civic and climbed up the stairs to the yard.

Someone else had been there, and recently. His big footprints were just starting to fill up with snow.
Schultz.
Tomlin crept through the backyard and stopped in the shadows. He looked out at the street and saw no movement, and he gripped his rifle tighter and steadied his breathing. Then he reached for the door handle and twisted it open.

W
INDERMERE STOOD
amid the mountains of cardboard boxes in Medic’s spare room, listening to the wind howl outside.
What the hell am I doing?
she thought.
What the hell did I do?

Stevens was gone. She’d chased him away. He’d lingered in the hallway, then out by the door, and she’d listened to him and wanted to walk out and say something, apologize, but she didn’t. She stood in Medic’s disaster-zone room until Stevens had walked out of the apartment and into the blizzard. And now she stood alone, cursing Stevens and cursing herself. Cursing Carter Tomlin for good measure.

You idiot,
she thought.
Making Stevens the bad guy because he doesn’t want to spend his whole life on a stakeout with you. Because he has a family.

Except plenty of good cops have families. And Stevens is damn good.
He’d proved it with Pender. He was proving it with Tomlin, until he’d walked off the job. So she was a little overeager. So she took Stevens personally. She’d been partnered with Bob Doughty for a month. Who could blame her?

You smothered him
.
And when he didn’t want to play, you shut down and chased him away. There’s your problem.

Still.

She wanted to smack Stevens. Grab him by the ears and yell into his face until he understood her point of view. Until he made the connection. The man was wasting his talents at the BCA. And, worst of all, Stevens
knew
it. He’d liked chasing Pender, and he’d liked chasing Tomlin. But for whatever reason, he couldn’t get his head in the game. Couldn’t accept the risks.

Become a librarian, she wanted to tell him, if you don’t like the risks. You’re the same cop your wife married. Suck it up, grow a pair, and come back to work. But of course she’d said none of this to Stevens. She’d told him to leave, and he’d left. And now she was here, in this messy shitbox room, sifting through soft-core porn and old gym socks and waiting for her big break. And meanwhile, Stevens was gone, and Tomlin probably was, too.

T
OMLIN PUSHED
the side door open, stepped back, and leveled the assault rifle at the doorway. Then he waited. Nothing moved inside the house. The building was silent. It felt empty.

He killed them already,
Tomlin thought. He stepped through the open door and onto the landing. Heard nothing, still. Then something moved, suddenly, at the base of the staircase. Tomlin swung the rifle around, his finger tense on the trigger. Then he relaxed.

Snickers. The dog came bounding up the stairs, tail swinging like a whip. He reached the landing and leapt up at Tomlin, his big tongue searching for Tomlin’s free hand. Tomlin let the dog lick his hand as he thought things through. The dog didn’t like the basement. Went downstairs only grudgingly, and only when the girls were watching TV.

There was a light on downstairs.
Shit,
Tomlin thought. He waited some. Listened. The dog nipped at his fingers. Nothing else moved in the basement.
Only one way to do this.
Tomlin raised the assault rifle and started down the stairs, slow and deliberate, avoiding the creaky spots. The dog lingered on the landing, whining a little, pawing at the door.

Tomlin reached the midpoint of the stairway and crouched, his rifle at the ready. Saw nobody lurking in the narrow hallway below. A light on, in the back, toward the rec room. He pressed against the wall and slunk forward and down, ready to shoot at anything that moved.

He reached the bottom and paused again. Heard muffled noises from down the hall. Hushed voices. The whisper of socks on the carpet. The rec room. Tomlin started for it, slowly, keeping tight to the wall and tense on the trigger. Midway down the hall, he glanced in his train room and stopped. Stared. The whole layout was ruined. Schultz had destroyed everything, crushed his vast mountains and upended his cities.

Tomlin forced himself to keep moving. Left his shattered layout behind and walked to the next doorway, the dark laundry room. He flipped on the light and swung in with the rifle, but nobody sprung out to surprise him. Tomlin flipped off the light and crept toward the rec room. Paused at the doorway, then peered in the room. Ducked out again quickly.
Where the hell did all those damn kids come from?

The room was filled with teenagers. About ten of them, boys and girls. Heather’s friends. Schultz’s hostages now.
Good Christ.
Tomlin looked in the room again. This time, Schultz himself grinned back.

He was still a big bastard. Tomlin could see the faint scar where he’d hit the man with the scrap two-by-four, saw the glint of recognition in the man’s dark eyes. Schultz was holding a gun, some kind of automatic, and he waved it at Tomlin. Tomlin ducked out of the doorway and waited for the bullets. Instead, he heard Schultz laugh from inside, a harsh, gravel-truck laugh. “Come on in, Tomlin,” he said. “Don’t be a stranger.”

N
ICK SINGER
STARED
up from the unmarked Crown Vic toward Tomlin’s house, thinking about that Civic some more. The driver had hit the end of the block and turned left. Not much to look at, unless he was taking a short cut to Ramsey Street, down toward the Interstate and the river. Not much back there, otherwise.

Singer stared up at the house. A light on in the back and upstairs, nothing moving. Everything calm. He rolled down his window and listened but heard nothing. The snow billowed around him, but the whole night was muted, the only sound the occasional crackle from the radio inside his car.
Hell of a shortcut on a night like tonight,
Singer thought.
In a little front-wheel drive car like that, too.

Singer stretched in his seat and checked the time. Nearly one in the morning, and still lights on inside. Pretty late to stay up, a mother and a couple of youngsters. Though who could blame them, a situation like this? Dad’s off robbing banks, killing people, Mom’s nowhere the wiser. Stevens said something about the guy coaching his own daughter’s basketball team.

Crazy.

Only thing down that side street besides a shortcut to Ramsey was a laneway running roughly parallel to Summit Avenue. Down about thirty feet, a little fifteen-mile-an-hour access road. Be a tough slog through the snow back there. And Christ, but that Civic had looked a lot like the one they were talking about.

Singer studied the house a bit longer. Every light that had been on when he’d started his watch had stayed on. No new lights had come on in the meantime.
Shit,
he thought.
They’re probably just watching a movie. Hanging out in the kitchen or something.

Still, better go up and have a look around, just to keep Stevens and Lesley happy. Singer stifled a yawn and turned off the ignition. Climbed out of the Crown Vic and trudged up to the house.

—

S
CHULTZ WATCHED
Tomlin’s dog’s ears perk up, watched the mutt bolt from the room, and he knew that Tomlin had arrived. He waited. Heard Tomlin creep into the basement. Saw it in his daughter’s wide eyes when her dad poked his head in the doorway. The doorway was empty by the time Schultz turned around, but he could hear Tomlin moving outside. A moment later, the bastard reappeared, and this time, Schultz was waiting for him. “Come on in, Tomlin,” he said, as Tomlin ducked away. “Don’t be a stranger.”

Tomlin stayed silent a beat. Then: “Let the kids go.”

Schultz glanced back at the teenagers, all of them silent and unmoving, huddled together as if, packed so tight, they could stop bullets. He shook his head. “Come on inside,” he said. “Join your family. We can talk this thing over like a couple human beings.”

“Let my family go,” Tomlin called. “Then we talk.”

“Give me what you stole, and they walk.”

A long pause. Then: “It’s upstairs.”

“Bullshit.”

“Secret room,” Tomlin said. “This place was built by rum-runners. Lots of hidden compartments. I’ll show you.”

Schultz felt his frustration mounting, his bullshit meter going haywire. He’d searched the whole goddamn house already. Hadn’t found any secret compartments. Son of a bitch. He looked at the teenagers again. They stared back at him, waiting. Schultz shifted his weight. “You’re feeding me a line.”

“You want your money or not?”

Schultz stared at the empty doorway. “God damn it.” He reached for Heather Tomlin, wrenched her from her mother. “If this is some kind of goose chase, I’ll start with your daughter.”

“No goose chase,” said Tomlin. “I’ll get your money.”

Schultz pulled Heather Tomlin closer to him. The girl stifled a scream. Screwed her eyes closed tight again. Schultz gritted his teeth. “Upstairs,” he told her, raising the TEC-9 to her throat. “Let’s hope your daddy’s not lying.”

T
OMLIN HAD
BEEN
at a party once, in a neighbor’s house a few blocks away. The host had taken a few of the men on a kind of grand tour. He’d showed off the dining room and the drawing room, and a little sewing room tucked into one corner. Then he’d stopped in a long hallway and slid back a wall panel, revealing a tiny alcove filled with shoe boxes and books.

“Secret compartments,” he’d said, grinning. “Useful for stashing booze. They say Capone himself spent a night in our guest room.”

The next day, Tomlin had tested every wall panel in his home for his own secret room. Eventually, he’d given up, disappointed and envious. Schultz, though, wouldn’t know that. Schultz would have to believe him.

Tomlin watched as the big man maneuvered his daughter into the hallway, his machine pistol pressed tight to Heather’s neck. Heather stared at him like he was a life raft on an empty sea. She looked like a child in the big homesteader’s arms.

Schultz followed his gaze. “You just get me my money,” he said. “Your daughter will be fine.”

Tomlin kept his eyes on Heather. Forced a wry smile, like,
What have we gotten ourselves into now?
She gave him a forced little smile back. It made his heart ache to see it.

Schultz tightened his grip on her shoulder. “Drop the rifle.”

Tomlin looked at Schultz again. There was no way he could kill the big man without risking Heather’s life. Not here. Upstairs, maybe. He could separate the man from his daughter and beat him like he’d beaten him before. Anyway, he still had his pistol.

Tomlin bent down, slowly, and placed the rifle on the floor. Then he backed down the hall, his eyes on Schultz. Schultz followed, pushing Heather ahead of him. He picked up Tomlin’s rifle and held it in one hand, the machine pistol in the other, Heather tight in the crook of his arm. “Careful,” Tomlin told him. “You shoot me and you’ll never find your money.”

Schultz grunted. “Keep moving.”

Tomlin glanced at his daughter one more time. Then he turned and started up the stairs, hoping like hell he could bullshit his way out.

S
CHULTZ GRIPPED
the girl tight and prodded Tomlin with the gun. “Hurry up,” he said. “Time’s wasting.”

Tomlin glanced back and nodded. Seemed to climb the stairs even slower.
God damn it,
Schultz thought.
I don’t have time for
this shit.

Sooner or later, the whole situation was going to unravel. The cop outside would decide to check on the house. The FBI would trace Tomlin back to his home. Something, eventually, would go wrong. Schultz didn’t want to be here when it did. “I didn’t find any secret compartments,” he told Tomlin. “This better not be some kind of game.”

“You didn’t know where to look.” Tomlin’s voice was flat calm. “They say Al Capone spent the night here, back in the day.”

Tomlin made the landing, turned, and walked up another short flight of stairs and into the kitchen, every light in the room burning bright. He turned back to Schultz with a smile on his face. Calm. Friendly. Everything easygoing. “Of course, nowadays, we just use the rooms for storage.”

I don’t care,
Schultz thought.
I just want my money.

He could still sense the bullshit. Tomlin was trying to buy time. There weren’t any compartments. There probably wasn’t any money. And that was bad news for everyone. Especially Schultz. It meant he would have to start killing people. He glanced down at Tomlin’s terrified daughter and still wasn’t sure he could shoot her. Tomlin led them out toward the front hall. “Upstairs,” he said, glancing at Schultz again. “I’ll show you.”

—

S
INGER DUCKED AWAY
from the front door when he saw Tomlin appear down the hall.
Shit,
he thought.
The bastard came home, after all.

Singer stayed crouched low, out of sight. Drew his sidearm and peered back through the window again. What he saw made him duck even lower. Tomlin’s daughter. And a monster of a man with two big machine guns. Tomlin was leading him right for the door.

What the hell is going on?

Singer pressed himself against the wall of the house, stayed as low as he could, and waited for Tomlin to open the front door.
The big guy’s the first target,
he thought.
Neutralize those machine guns, then worry about the bank robber. Just make sure you don’t hit the girl.

He waited, every muscle in his body tensed, ready to spring out the second Tomlin opened that door. Waited, and kept waiting.

Tomlin didn’t open the door.

Singer snuck another look through the window. Tomlin wasn’t there. He craned his neck higher and saw the big guy’s big ass disappear up the front stairs.

Shit.

Singer glanced at the Crown Vic across the front lawn. Knew he should dash back and call Stevens for support. He looked back in the window again. The big guy was almost gone. And no telling what he planned to do with the girl.

Singer looked at the Crown Vic again. Then he stood and shoved open the front door.
“Freeze,”
he yelled.
“Police.”

—

S
CHULTZ STOPPED ON
the stairs.
Shit,
he thought.
Game over.

“Drop your weapons,”
the cop yelled.
“Drop or I’ll shoot.”

Tomlin stared down at him from the landing above. Stared past Schultz, at the cop. His daughter broke free and dashed up the stairs. Disappeared down the hallway. A door slammed.

Schultz caught Tomlin’s eye. He gripped the TEC-9 and thought about killing the bastard. Paying him back for that cheap shot with the lumber, and all of the bullshit besides. Then he shook the thought away.

I move wrong and that cop pulls his trigger.
This piece of shit’s not worth dying over.
“I’m dropping my weapons,” he called down to the cop. “I surrender.”