The Professionals (13 page)

She looked closer at him. “Look, you’re not going to yack, are you? You throw up on me and I might regret bringing you along.”

Stevens gripped his armrest tighter. “I regret it already.”

A local Fed, an Agent Davis, was waiting at O’Hare. To Stevens he looked everything like the stereotypical G-man: He had the trench coat, the suit, the shades, and the ride, an all-black GMC Yukon he’d double-parked in the loading lane. He flashed Windermere a shark-toothed grin when he saw her. “Hot damn,” he said. “And who might you be?”

Windermere held out her hand. “Carla Windermere. You’re Davis?”

“That’s right.” He held on to her hand a beat too long. Then he glanced over at Stevens. “This the local?”

“Kirk Stevens,” said Stevens. “Minnesota BCA.”

Davis looked him over a second. Then he gestured to the Yukon. “Truck’s right here,” he said. He turned back to Windermere. “You been down to Chicago before?”

Windermere shook her head. “Never really saw the point.”

She climbed into the Yukon and Stevens followed. Davis walked around to the driver’s side of the truck. “You might think about paying a visit,” he said as he slid behind the wheel. He glanced back at Stevens and then gave Windermere another toothy grin. “I imagine Minnesota can get kind of boring.”

Davis started the truck and navigated out of the airport’s labyrinthine service roads, gabbing like a second-rate tour guide. Stevens stared out the window at the outskirts of Chicagoland, tuning out the G-man and wondering what he was getting himself into.

He’d had just enough time to leave a message for Nancy at her office before they’d boarded the flight, and though Windermere had assured him they’d be back in the evening, Stevens couldn’t see his wife being thrilled by his absence. It was a tough enough week as it was.

They’d weathered busy streaks before, though. And the kids loved Natalie, the teenager they hired at times like these, when the courthouse and the state police got wild simultaneously. But Stevens knew his wife, and he knew she hadn’t been happy when he’d told her about the FBI detail the night previous. She’d sighed a long, expressive sigh and muttered something about the babysitter and then returned to the kitchen table, where she put herself to sleep reviewing case files and briefs. She wasn’t mad, she said, just tired and busy, and her husband had found her facedown on a stack of
American Criminal Law Review
s when he woke up the next morning.

Davis was eyeing him in the rearview mirror. “State policeman, huh? You must be pumped to get to run with the big dogs.”

“Dream come true,” said Stevens. “Always wanted to be an FBI. All that flying around.”

Windermere stifled a smile. “You get me a tactical unit, Davis?”

Davis nodded. “Could have saved you the trip, though. This Carew
address is in the middle of nowhere. Industrial Joliet. No way the guy lives there.”

“He’s got ID says he does.”

“Yeah. Maybe the state patrolman didn’t copy the address right. Forgot to carry the one or something.”

Davis wasn’t lying. They arrived on Carew’s alleged block about forty minutes later, and Stevens stared through the truck windows at pallet factories and stamping plants and a long line of low warehouses that hardly looked like the home base for a merry band of kidnappers.

Davis pulled onto a side street and stopped behind a big black bread van that Stevens knew must be the tactical unit. He turned back in his seat toward Windermere. “See what I mean?”

Windermere glanced at Stevens. “Anything’s possible,” she said. “They could use this place as a hangout. Somewhere to store hostages.”

“Or it’s a fake address,” said Stevens. “Carew’s banking that nobody checks up on his story.”

Windermere nodded. “That’s assuming his name’s even Carew.”

“My thoughts exactly. Probably an alias.”

Davis cleared his throat. “The address you gave me is down the block that way,” he said, pointing. “The Avenue Tool Company.”

Windermere opened her door. “Let’s have a look.”

They left the truck and walked up the block to the Avenue building, a two-story gray box built of corrugated steel and a dearth of imagination. The parking lot was half full, and a succession of hammering noises was coming from inside.

“Looks like business as usual,” said Windermere. “Tell the Tac squad to hang back for now.”

They found an entrance and walked inside, where a middle-aged woman waited behind a service desk with a scowl and a
People
magazine. “Help you?” she said.

Windermere brandished the warrant. “FBI. We need to have a look around.”

The woman blinked. “I’ll get the manager.”

The manager was a droopy-looking man with a face as bleak as his surroundings.
He introduced himself as Bob McNulty and gave the warrant a thorough read.

“We’re looking for Ryan Carew,” said Windermere. “You know where we could find him?”

McNulty looked up at the mention of the name. “No,” he said slowly. “But maybe you could answer a couple questions for me.”

T
he man stood in the arrivals concourse at Miami International, watching another crowd of passengers emerge from the terminal. He ran his fingers through his slicked-back hair and checked his watch, then the flight information monitors. Then he turned his gaze back to the steady stream of travelers, most of them dressed for the northern winter and already sweating in the city’s seventy-five-degree heat.

He wore a loose Hawaiian shirt, cutoff shorts, and Ray-Bans, and he kept his pistol in his waistband, hidden by the folds of his shirt. He stood leaned up against a pillar, a newspaper in his hands, looking for all the world like another local waiting to pick up his brother-in-law for a winter vacation in the sun.

Three hours ago he’d been asleep, his girl lying beside him in the cool dark of his bedroom. Then the phone rang.

“Got a job for you.” It was Zeke. “Some friends up north have a problem flying in this afternoon. They need someone to play welcome wagon. The Continental flight from Detroit. Maybe bring a friend.”

Zeke described the guy and hung up, and the man had lain in bed for a few more minutes, listening to his girl sound asleep, admiring the
long curve of her back and the swell of her hips through the thin sheet. Then he’d picked up the phone and called Carlos.

Now Carlos sat waiting in the loading zone in his Trans Am, an Uzi under the passenger seat and an extra clip in the glove box. The man didn’t necessarily like teaming up for jobs, but Zeke had ordered the hit and Zeke wanted a doubles act and whatever Zeke wanted, Zeke got.

So now the man waited in the airport, searching out a tall white boy with sandy hair and a blue coat as a mob of tall people, white people, blond people walked past. Tall black people in blue coats, short white blond people, tall white blond people in red coats. He checked the monitors again. The Detroit flight was at the gate. The target should have shown by now.

Then he saw him. In his mid-twenties, about six feet even, maybe six one. Short blond hair and a navy blue coat. It was the kid’s expression that sold him out. Came strolling down the tunnel like your everyday rich kid headed for the beach, but he hit the baggage carousels, and just for a second as he scanned the room, his nonchalance melted away. He frowned and sped up through the crowd, shouldering his carry-on bag and slipping out toward the taxi stand.

The man followed the kid outside and watched him stand, blinking, in the sunlight. He took off his coat and hailed a cab, smiling now, a little bit, like he knew he was going to get away with it. The man watched him from a distance, saw him climb into the taxi, and then he gestured to Carlos, who pulled up in the Trans Am.

“That’s the guy,” he told Carlos as the Trans Am slipped into traffic. “Let’s go make some money.”

P
ender sat in the back of the taxicab and rolled the window down. It feels so good to be warm and dry, he thought, after all those rainy days. He told the driver to take him to South Beach, and he pulled out his phone and sent a text to Mouse’s burner.

The flight down had been nerve-racking. Pender spent the majority
of his time paging through the in-flight magazine or staring out the window, worrying about Marie and trying to convince himself they’d made it out of Detroit undetected. Then they touched down in Miami, and when he walked into the arrivals lounge he felt panicked, sure there was somebody waiting for him in the crowd. But nobody came for him, and he walked outside and felt the sun on his face and the warmth and he realized, you’re being ridiculous, Pender. Nobody within a thousand miles knows anything about you.

Mouse texted him back. The Dauphin on Ocean Drive. Pender passed the instructions on to his driver and then sat back to enjoy the wind in his hair as the taxi took him over the MacArthur Causeway and into South Beach.

I hope Marie’s okay, he thought. For a moment, he felt the tightness in his chest again and he missed her almost palpably. We’re not meant to be apart like this, he thought. She’s supposed to be here.

He wondered if she would even come to Florida. Maybe she’d go home and decide she was done. Maybe she’d already decided. The idea made him feel sick, and he forced himself to look out at the ocean and the palm trees and pretend she hadn’t walked away like she did. She’ll come back, he told himself. She said she’d come back in a couple of days.

The Dauphin was a classic South Beach hotel, a squat, art deco complex with a big neon sign and a faded paint job. It looked like it had lived out its glory days before
Scarface
started shooting and had endured a long, slow decline ever since. Now it sat almost forgotten amidst the gleaming condo high-rises and refurbished boutique hotels, and Pender examined the place as the cab pulled up alongside. It was largely anonymous, and it faced the beach. A good base for a little vacation.

Pender paid the driver and got out of the car. He stood on the pavement for a moment, staring up at the hotel, and then he picked up his carry-on bag and walked inside, pausing once to look back at the ocean and thinking, I wish Marie could be here to see this.

C
arlos pulled the Trans Am to the curb a half a block down from the Dauphin, and they watched the kid stand on the sidewalk, staring up at the hotel. He looked like an accountant, a student, or something else preppy. Nothing like the usual targets at all. “How do you want to do it?” Carlos asked.

“We’ll hang out a little bit,” said the man. “Then when it gets dark, we’ll park in the alley. Use the rear door to get out.”

“How will we find him?”

“The kid’s a tourist. He’s headed for the beach, man. We let him work on his tan and then follow him when he comes back.”

Carlos nodded. The man stared out the window, watching the girls walk by and wondering if his own girl would be around when he got home. He settled in to wait, wishing the darkness would come faster, anticipating the kill.

M
arie McAllister sat onboard her plane, watching the lights of Seattle come ghosting through the clouds, trying not to throw up as the 757 made its final approach to Sea-Tac International.