The Heist (17 page)

Tom turned up the police band radio under the dash, tuning in to the constant stream of dispatch orders and cop chatter. “Are you listening to the police band?” he asked Nick. “They’re after us. One of the neighbors reported gunshots and gave a description of the van to the police. Black-and-whites and a chopper are on their way.”

“It’s okay,” Nick said. “We have an escape plan.”

“I’ve never been chased by the police before,” Tom said.

“You aren’t being chased,” Nick said. “The van is.”

“I’m in the van,” Tom said.

“They don’t know that,” Nick told him.

Willie drove west on Sunset, skirting the northern perimeter of the UCLA campus, and Chet pulled off his bloodied shirt and
removed the exploded blood bags that were taped to his chest. They were crossing the intersection of Sunset and Stone Canyon Road when they heard the dispatcher notifying patrol cars in the area that a van matching the description of the one reported by Burnside’s neighbor had been spotted by the chopper heading west on Sunset toward Westwood Plaza Drive. Willie made a hard left into the UCLA campus and sped down the long ramp into the parking structure beneath the athletic field. A soccer game was going on and there were thousands of fans in the stands.

No one was talking now. Tom and Chet were hanging on to their seats with white knuckles, listening to the dispatcher announce that patrol cars were seconds away. Willie was in the zone, concentrating on executing turns in the cumbersome van. Nick was watching his crew, confident in the outcome, knowing they would sail through the garage entrance because he’d purchased a parking permit in advance.

Willie parked at an angle in a loading zone. It was a spot Nick picked so the van would block the surveillance camera aimed at the elevator and stairwell. Everyone grabbed a gym bag, burst out of the van, ran to the stairwell, and stuffed themselves into UCLA Bruins shirts, sweats, and hats. They dumped the bags in the trash, bolted up the stairs, split up, and disappeared into the crowd watching the game just as police cars drove into the parking structure and the chopper circled overhead.

Topanga Canyon runs through the Santa Monica Mountains between the San Fernando Valley and the beach. It’s a secluded, deeply wooded enclave that became known in the 1960s as a bohemian hideaway for artists, poets, actors, beatniks, hippies, lesbians, communists, and anyone else who delighted in being cast
as a rebel, radical, or outsider. And for the most part, that was how Topanga Canyon had remained, a place where the sound of tinkling wind chimes drowned out the birds, where the air was redolent with incense, and where you could still find braless women wearing tie-dye shirts and flowers in their hair driving VW Beetles.

Kate drove Burnside deep into the canyon toward a cabin that was at the end of a dirt trail, far from any neighbors, even farther from a paved road, and surrounded by tall trees and dry, overgrown brush.

The one-bedroom cabin was a fire waiting to happen. And if it did, it would be history repeating itself. The cabin had been badly damaged in the Malibu fire a decade ago and abandoned ever since, mired in a complicated legal dispute among the owners, the bank, and the insurance company. It was perfect for Nick’s needs. He had Tom Underhill fix it up, patch the roof, install a generator, and make sure the water, electrical, and septic systems were working.

Kate’s Crown Vic wasn’t made to be driven hard over unpaved roads and it bounced like a boat on a stormy sea, but Burnside didn’t complain. He’d been silent ever since their discussion about the Viboras and Derek Griffin. She was glad for that, but knew the questions would be coming soon. He was a former prosecutor and she expected to be grilled like a hostile witness on the stand.

Okay by her. She was ready for it. Nick and the crew had spent the last eight weeks prepping for the con, acquiring the resources, building the sets, finding the properties they needed, and rehearsing their parts.

She turned off the ignition and headlights and sat in the car for a moment, listening and observing, making sure there was no one
around. The cabin was dark, the drapes drawn. The generator hummed in the otherwise quiet area.

Burnside sat up slowly. His hair was mussed, his face pale. “Where are we?”

“One of our safe houses,” she said. “It’s totally off the grid.”

Kate got out of the car, gun and flashlight in hand, and checked the perimeter of the cabin. Burnside opened his door, leaned out, and vomited up everything he’d eaten at Mastro’s.

Kate returned to Burnside, her feet crunching on the gravel and dry twigs. “It’s all clear.”

“Do you have shoes for me?”

“No, but you don’t need them,” she said. “You’re not going on any walks.” She’d taken his shoes to make sure of that.

“How am I supposed to get to the cabin?”

“Man up, for God’s sake,” she said, turning her back on him.

Burnside closed the door, slid across the backseat to the other door, and got out, walking gingerly in his stocking feet across the dirt as if it was covered with thorns.

Kate unlocked the cabin door, reached inside to flip on the light switch, and beckoned him in. “Make yourself at home.”

The air inside the cabin smelled stale, and there was a fine layer of dust on everything. The small kitchen had chipped Formica countertops, a stove-and-oven combo that was older than Kate, and a refrigerator with a brick under one corner to keep it level. The furnishings consisted of a table and four mismatched chairs, a cracked vinyl couch, a rocking chair, and a couple dusty rugs on the hardwood floor. There were a few framed prints on the wall that Nick had bought at Walmart for five dollars apiece. The bedroom was just about big enough to hold a full-size mattress on a creaky bed frame and a nightstand. The bathroom was barely larger than a Porta-Potty, with slightly better ambience. There were some yellowed, dog-eared paperbacks on a three-shelf bookcase against one wall.

Burnside went to the kitchen sink, opened the faucet, and stuck his face into the stream of water, sucking in a mouthful of water.
He gargled with the water, spit it out, and repeated the action, before shutting the faucet off and facing Kate.

“We weren’t expecting guests, so there isn’t much in the way of food,” she said. “But we’ve got enough for the first few days.”

Burnside held up his hand. “You’re getting way ahead of yourself. I’m not sure I’ll be staying in this shack for five more minutes.”

“Go ahead, walk out the door. I already regret saving your life. My entire weekend is shot now.”

“What were you doing at my house in the first place?”

“We picked up some chatter that Derek Griffin had helped the Viboras launder millions of dollars in profits from the drug trade.”

“That’s not true,” Burnside said. “He’s never engaged in any illegal activity.”

“Word was they were furious that he’d run off with it, along with all the cash he stole from his other clients. Since you’re the only one who knows where he is, my boss thought they might come looking for you.”

“Mr. Griffin hasn’t stolen money from anyone.”

“Does this look like a courtroom to you? I know he stole the money, you know he stole it, and so do the Viboras.”

“What did you hope to gain from watching me?”

“To save you from getting killed.”

“I didn’t know the FBI was so concerned about my safety.”

“We don’t like Mexican cartels killing American citizens, even the ones we loathe.”

Burnside took a seat at the table. “You have no reason to dislike me. Everyone is entitled to legal counsel and a strong defense. It’s the bedrock of our legal system.”

“You set criminals free.”

“It’s the fault of law enforcement, not me, when an accused individual is found innocent. If your case is solid, it should be able to withstand even the strongest defense, or the charges shouldn’t be brought in the first place.” He did a fast scan of the room. “Now what?”

“You’re in protective custody until my boss says otherwise.”

“That should be my decision, not his.”

“The Viboras are ruthless and relentless. They aren’t going to stop until they get you. They won’t think twice about walking into your office with automatic weapons, spraying the place with bullets, and dragging you out over the dead bodies of all of your co-workers. Do you really think you can protect yourself, and everyone around you, from these guys?”

He thought about what had happened to Willie and shuddered. He’d never seen anyone killed before and was just thankful it wasn’t someone he’d known better and deeply cared about. Not to mention, when he saw her slide down the wall he realized she was much older than he’d originally thought. He was going to have to be more careful who he picked up online.

“I am not going to stay in hiding for an indefinite period of time,” Burnside said.

“You don’t have to. It’s not you they really want, it’s Griffin. Give him up to us and your troubles are over.”

“And so is my career as a defense attorney, and that’s assuming that I know where he is, which I don’t.”

“What kind of career are you going to have in a coffin? The only thing that’s going to get the Viboras to give up on you is if Griffin comes out of hiding.”

“There has to be another way,” Burnside said.

“If you think of one, let me know. I’ll pass it along.”

“Shouldn’t you be calling this in? Getting us some backup?”

Kate set her iPhone on the table and punched in her audio recorder app. “We have protocol. I need to file a report before I call anybody.”

“I can’t tell you much. They were on us as soon as we came in the door. Willie was shot, and I was zapped, and there was the shootout in the driveway.”

“What do you know about Willie?”

“She had big tits,” Burnside said. “That’s about it. I picked her up on Facebook. This was our first date.”

“Did the men say anything?”

“Not a word. They were cold and efficient. The whole thing was over in a few seconds.”

“Can you describe them? Did you see anything that could help identify them?”

Burnside shook his head. “They were wearing ski masks and gloves. I can’t tell you anything about them.”

That was good news, Kate thought. She stopped the recording and called Carl Jessup, filling him in.

“I want to talk with him,” Burnside said.

She handed the phone to him, knowing this was a key moment in the con, the one that would sell it. Burnside knew Carl Jessup, and hearing the man’s voice on the other end of the line would reinforce her authority and the “reality” of the situation he was in. Talking Jessup into doing it hadn’t been easy.

“I’m not going into hiding, Carl,” Burnside said. “I’ve got professional obligations, cases on the docket, and bills to pay.”

Kate couldn’t hear Jessup’s side of the conversation, but she knew he was reiterating what she’d already told Burnside, adding
that they’d soon be turning him over to the U.S. Marshals Service, the pros at witness protection. The FBI’s expertise wasn’t in babysitting.

“I expect you to be proactive,” Burnside said. “Round up these Vibora guys, get them off the playing field so I don’t need protection.”

It was an absurd demand. There were thousands of Viboras, and countless gang members under their thumbs. If this was a real situation instead of an elaborate deception, the Viboras would keep sending waves of shooters after Burnside unless Griffin showed up, and then they’d shift their efforts to getting the man who actually had their money.

Jessup was undoubtedly telling Burnside all of that. She could see the frustration building on Burnside’s face as he listened.

“Going into witness protection until such time as Derek Griffin returns and makes himself a target is not an option for him or for me,” Burnside said. “There has to be some back-channel way to get word to the Viboras that I don’t know where he is and that my client is innocent.”

Jessup’s laughter was so loud that Kate could hear it. She didn’t hear what Jessup said next, but she could feel the anger rolling off Burnside.

“We’ll talk tomorrow,” Burnside said. “I expect to hear some other options.”

He was in no position to make demands, and on some level he had to know that, but Burnside didn’t want to appear as powerless as he felt, Kate thought.

Burnside handed the phone to her. “He wants to talk to you.”

“I know you don’t have TV reception out there, but the news media have already picked up that gunshots were reported at
Burnside’s house and that he’s missing,” Jessup said to Kate. “The LAPD is on it, not that they have anything to go on, but stay on your toes anyway.”

“Will do, sir.” She disconnected the call and turned to Burnside. “Another agent will take over for me in the morning.”

“Just one?”

“I’ll still be here, but he’ll be taking the day watch while I get some sleep. We’re only babysitting you until the U.S. Marshals can take over, which hopefully will be tomorrow night.”

He gestured for the phone. “I need to make some calls.”

“Sorry, that’s not allowed.”

“I have pending cases. I need to talk with my team, let them know I’m okay and how they can reach me.”