The Professionals (26 page)

“Georgia’s up the road,” said Sawyer. “We could do Atlanta or Savannah.”

“Let’s think on it,” said Pender. “The lawyer will be here tomorrow evening. With any luck we can spring Marie and get Mouse fixed within days.”

Mouse pounded into his keyboard, frowned. Punched a few more keys and came up frowning harder. “Except, Pender,” he said, “we might have a problem.”

“What now?”

Mouse looked up at him, his eyes wide. “They got our bank accounts,” he said. “All our money’s frozen solid.”

M
arie rested her elbows on the desk and leaned forward, her shoulders hunched and her eyes low. She stared down at the table, counting its pockmarks, imagining she was on a beach in the Maldives with Pender, a million miles away.

The FBI agents had taken her from the airport to an interrogation room in the Jacksonville field office. They’d ignored her on the drive, riding in silence except for the radio, and then they’d dumped her in her shitty little room and locked the door and let her sit and think about her situation for what seemed like days.

She sat in the little room and waited, and she closed her eyes and tried not to be sick. The inevitable had happened, as she guessed she’d always known it would. For all of Pender’s careful planning, someone was bound to catch up to them sooner or later.

Marie closed her eyes again, and she saw Beneteau’s body and the scared, sallow faces of the targets before him—Martin Warner and Robert Thompson and the rest. She saw their terrified wives and their families. This was bound to happen, she thought. We made our choice, and we knew they’d come after us.

She knew Pender was out there, somewhere, finding her a lawyer
and figuring a way to get her out of jail. As the hours passed in that miserable little room, though, Marie pictured Beneteau’s children and wondered why she deserved to be free.

Then the FBI agents came back, the younger woman and the man, and they stood watching her from different corners of the room, letting her feel their eyes on her as she stared down at the table, determined to ignore them.

Finally the man cleared his throat. “Marie, I’m Agent Stevens and this is Agent Windermere. Are you ready to answer some questions?”

Marie ignored him. Even if she deserved it, she wasn’t giving up. They’d talked about what to do if someone got caught. Pender said keep your head down. Don’t volunteer information. Don’t listen. Don’t talk.

The lawyer’s coming, she thought. You’ll have plenty of time to feel guilty when you’re in the Maldives.

She stared down at the table. Windermere stepped forward. “Wake up, Marie,” she said. “We got you. You killed Donald Beneteau in Detroit, and you kidnapped Terry Harper in Minneapolis. You’re in deep shit, girl. It’s time to start cooperating.”

Marie kept her head down. “My name is Rebecca Decoursey,” she said. “I’d like to speak to my lawyer.”

“We’ve got witnesses who put you at the murder, Marie,” said Stevens. “Said they saw you dump the body.”

“That right there would put you away for life,” said Windermere. “Hate to see a pretty girl like you take a murder rap just because she was too stupid to reach out for the lifeline.”

“My name is Rebecca Decoursey,” Marie said. “I’d like to talk to my lawyer.”

“You want to talk to a lawyer, fine,” said Stevens. “We can’t stop you. But you gotta know that once you go down that path, anything we could have done to help you gets erased.”

Pender said they’d say that. He said that they were lying, that detectives were like used-car salesmen, willing to say whatever it took to get
you to close the deal. If they’re talking, they don’t have you, he’d said. They’re trying to bluff you into giving yourself away.

“We talked to your parents,” said Stevens. He let out a long stream of air. “Man oh man, are they disappointed.”

“My parents are dead,” said Marie. Then she wished like hell she hadn’t. Quit volunteering information. “You’re supposed to let me talk to my lawyer.”

Stevens winked at Windermere. “No,” he said. “Your parents aren’t dead. Your parents are Michael and Allison McAllister of 56 Hawthorne Way in Bothell, Washington. They’re still alive, Marie. And you broke their hearts.”

“Told them you were in marketing, huh?” said Windermere. “Pretty little lie. Should have seen their faces when they found out the truth.”

“You talk to us, we can work something out,” said Stevens. “We know this wasn’t your idea. You’re practically a victim here. You give up Pender, give up Stirzaker and Sawyer, and we’ll throw you a bone. Probation, maybe some community service. You like?”

Windermere leaned forward. “It’s a good deal, Marie.”

Marie looked up into the cop’s eyes. “Go to hell,” she said.

“Sure,” said Stevens. “Admirable. You love your boyfriend. These are your best friends, right?”

He waited, but Marie didn’t answer. “Listen up, though,” he continued. “Your friends are supposed to be there for you, right? Your boyfriend’s supposed to love you. So where the hell are they?”

“Think about what you’re looking at here,” said Windermere. “What we’ve got on you, you’ll do twenty-five years if you do a day.”

“You guys have pulled a shitload of jobs,” said Stevens. “You have the money. So where’s Pender, Marie? Where’s his fat-cat lawyer in the Armani suit who’s going to get you off on a technicality?”

Marie avoided their eyes. He’s coming, she thought. Pender’s calling his lawyer right now, and he’s coming to get me. He’ll bail me out of this mess and we’ll fly to the Maldives and I swear to God I’ll
never so much as steal an MP3 for the rest of my life. I’ll be perfect, she thought. Just get me out of here.

“Don’t tell me you’re thinking about a public defender,” said Stevens.

Windermere laughed, hollow and cold. “We get you a lawyer, it’s gonna be some twenty-five-year-old rookie racking up hours on the taxpayer’s dime. He’s gonna push you for a plea bargain ’cause he’s got no idea how to argue a conspiracy kidnapping charge, and you’ll wind up doing ten years if you’re lucky,” she said. “You’ve got to face the facts. You’ve been abandoned. It’s time to start playing for self.”

Marie bit her lip. She stared down at the table and said nothing. The lawyer should have been here by now. Where was he? Where the hell was Pender?

Maybe the guys figured their cover was blown and they’d better lie low for a while. Maybe they freaked out and ran. They could be on an airplane right now, headed for retirement and freedom. Marie knew if the situation were reversed, Pender would beg her to cut loose and run. But he wouldn’t just abandon her, would he?

Then Marie felt her stomach lurch.
Somebody got shot.
She’d seen it on the news. “We had a little problem,” Pender had said. She hadn’t let him finish. Somebody got shot.
Who?

Her stomach lurched again and she realized she was going to be sick and she threw up a split-second later, spattering the floor with bile.

Windermere jumped back. “Christ.”

Pender had been waiting to meet her. He seemed fine. He wasn’t shot. She thought she remembered seeing Sawyer drag Pender back to the truck. He seemed okay as well.

Mouse, then. Mouse had been shot. Mouse had been shot and was probably dead or dying and here she was worried about jail. You selfish bitch, she thought. Wake up. Your friend’s dead.

She threw up again. The detectives swore, but Marie didn’t care. She looked up at them, wiped her mouth, the room a blur. “I’m not saying another word,” she said, trying to keep her voice strong. “Not one more word until my lawyer gets here.”

Windermere glanced at Stevens. Stevens shrugged. Windermere stepped forward again, eyeing the splatter of vomit on the ground. “Have it your way,” she said. “We’ll get you your lawyer. Gonna be a slight delay, though.”

“We’re taking you north,” said Stevens. “Extradition.”

“You want to do this, we’re going to do it right.” Windermere winked at her. “It’s road trip time. You want to see your lawyer, you’re going to see him in Detroit.”

P
ender stared at the white checks on the highway as he drove the Durango north toward the Georgia border. The gang was quiet in the back, all of them sleeping, and Pender was alone with his thoughts. Right now, his thoughts were cold comfort. The whole situation was spiraling out of control, and every time Pender thought about Mouse or Marie, he felt fresh panic start to rise in his throat.

Pender had called Victor Carter as soon as Mouse reported the bank accounts frozen. He told the lawyer he could only muster a two-thousand-dollar retainer, short term. Carter shut him down cold.

“No offense,” he said, “but there’s no way I can fly down to Florida until you come up with the full hundred thousand. Maybe try somebody closer?”

Someone closer. As soon as the sun rose, Pender started visiting law offices. Mouse looked up Jacksonville criminal lawyers on his laptop, and Pender picked out a couple of candidates. They snuck out in the Durango, expecting every cop they passed to be the green flag to a high-speed chase. But nobody seemed even to glance in their direction, and by the time they reached the first lawyer’s office, Pender was starting to think the cops maybe hadn’t made the car after all.

They would have to ditch it anyway, he knew, but it was a relief to think they could wait until Mouse scrounged them up some money before they had to act. Money. The Jacksonville lawyer, a middle-aged fat cat named Wise, had nearly laughed in Pender’s face when he explained the situation. “I don’t put on pants for less than ten thousand,” he said. “And for kidnapping and conspiracy, I’m going to need a big payment up front.”

Their problems ran deeper than money, though. As Wise was guiding Pender out of his office, he’d dropped one tidbit of wisdom.

“Money or no,” he told Pender, “if it’s a case like you’re talking, there’s a good chance your friend doesn’t get bail regardless. You could have the best lawyer in the world, but if the judge rules she’s a flight risk, she’s staying behind bars.”

A flight risk. Well, that was the point, wasn’t it? Bail her out and be gone.

So now they were driving north, headed to Macon, Georgia, where with any luck they would find an unscrupulous doctor who could get Mouse fixed up overnight—assuming, of course, he would work for cheap.

“Money ain’t a thing,” Mouse had told them once the initial shock had worn off. “We’ve got money hidden so far overseas it needs its own passport. It’s just going to take time to get it back ashore.”

“How long?” said Pender.

“A week,” said Mouse. “Maybe more. We figured we would never need to access that money while we were still in the United States. It’s the retirement fund, right? So I
set it up thinking we could avoid dealing with American banks.”

“How so?”

Mouse sat up. “Look, any international wire transfer coming into the United States goes through the government. The Office of Foreign Assets Control. The amount of money we’re going to need, we’re raising red flags all over the place if we go through the States.”

“But you can bypass that.”

He shook his head. “Can’t bypass it. But if you give me a week, I can set it up so the transfers look clean. I’ll work out a way that we get the money without anyone getting wise.”

A week, Pender thought as he drove north toward Georgia. He glanced back at Mouse, laid out and pale in the backseat of the Durango. How do we know the kid’s even going to last that long? We need money now.

He drove on, trying not to think about Marie and failing at it. She must think we’ve abandoned her, he thought. She must be terrified, the things those cops must be telling her. How the hell are we going to get her out?

Not for the first time, Pender wondered what exactly the cops had on her. On any of them. Where did we go wrong, he thought. Where did we screw up? We were pretty damn careful. Until the Beneteau job, anyway.

The cops were on Marie in Seattle, which meant they must have followed her from Detroit. And if they followed her from Detroit, it meant they got her scent from what? Why didn’t they follow the gang down to Miami?

Ashley McAdams. Marie said they’d made her as Ashley McAdams. She’d flown home on a plane ticket he’d bought for that alias. So they spotted her in the airport? She’d rented the car as Darcy Wellman. The only other time they’d used McAdams was in Minnesota, and they’d gotten out of Minneapolis clean, right?