Criminal Enterprise (13 page)

L
ET ME
GET
this straight,” Harris said, glaring across his desk at Windermere. “You’re saying this Jackson guy isn’t your man.”

“I’m not saying it,” Doughty said from the window. “This is her story.”

Windermere held Harris’s gaze. “Sir, there’s nothing in Jackson’s house that ties him to Eat Street, or any of our suspect’s previous robberies. We make him for one Wells Fargo job, and that’s it.”

Doughty sighed. “Let me say,
again
, that Agent Windermere’s theories about our Eat Street bandit are her own. I don’t believe this guy robbed a bunch of banks solo before he pulled this job, and I sure as hell don’t believe he’s some Summit Hill accountant.”

“And let me say,” said Windermere, “that Nolan Jackson copped to the Wells Fargo bank heist when we moved to apprehend him in Phillips. Unfortunately, Agent Doughty shot and killed Jackson before he could tell us anything else.”

Doughty spun at the window. “You think I liked shooting him, Agent Windermere?”

Harris held up his hands. “Enough. Both of you.”

Windermere turned to Doughty. “I don’t know, Agent Doughty,” she said. “I know we had tactical containment when you pulled the trigger. We could have backed off and let the negotiators bring him in peacefully. But you shot him instead.”

“Fuck you,” said Doughty. “You’re so stuck on your own theories you can’t see the facts.”

“I see the facts,” said Windermere. “The fact is, you’re wrong.”

“Enough,”
Harris said. “Shut the hell up, both of you.”

Windermere turned from Doughty. Looked at Harris, his face bright red and mottled with rage. “Both of you,” he said, breathing hard. “You’re FBI agents. Act like it.”

Windermere steadied her breathing. She felt foolish already, ashamed.
You have the facts on your side,
she thought.
Let Doughty do the shouting.
“I’m sorry, sir,” she said. “That was way out of line.”

“Damn right,” said Harris. “Now, what the hell is your story?”

She told him again. Jackson’s copping to the Wells Fargo bank job. Her inability to link him to Eat Street, or to anything else. No gold Camry. No accomplices. No evidence anywhere. Harris heard her out. Held up his hand at Doughty, who looked itching to rebut. He focused on Windermere. “Media thinks Jackson’s our guy,” he said. “We look like assholes if we tell them we were wrong.”

Windermere shrugged. “So we’re assholes.”

“Agent Doughty.” Harris turned to Doughty at the window. “You don’t believe Agent Windermere’s theory.”

Doughty shook his head. “I think it’s horseshit,” he said. “Pardon my French, but I think Agent Windermere is so hung up on being right that she can’t accept when she’s wrong.”

“Where’s your proof?” said Windermere.

“We’re having this conversation, aren’t we?” said Doughty. “Our suspect is dead and his accomplices are at large, and instead of chasing them down, we’re arguing your conspiracy theory.”

Windermere held his gaze. “I’m talking about Jackson, Bob. Where’s your proof he’s our guy?”

Doughty glanced at Harris. Harris nodded. “Valid question, Agent Doughty.”

Doughty looked from Harris to Windermere and back again, breathing hard. Then he shook his head. “Where’s her proof, is my question.”

“You first,” said Windermere.

“No,” said Doughty. “You first. You’re so sure this accountant of yours is the guy, where’s your evidence?”

“I talked to him,” she said. “He played guilty, no question. Textbook.”

“You talked to him,” said Harris. “Anything concrete?”

“The receipt, sir,” she said. “The note from the Midway bank job. He couldn’t explain how his parking receipt turned up at the scene of the crime.”

Doughty cocked his head. “Someone broke into his car, Agent Windermere.”

She snorted. “So he said.”

“And?”

Harris looked at her, one eyebrow raised. Windermere laughed. “And he was lying. Clear as day.”

“Uh-huh.” Doughty smiled wider. Brandished a piece of paper. “You should check your faxes,” he said.

Windermere snatched the paper from him. Scanned it once, read it closer. “This is bullshit,” she said. “Obviously fabricated.”

Doughty shook his head. “It’s not bullshit,” he said. “I called and confirmed.”

“So he paid them off. What does that prove?”

Doughty grabbed the paper back and handed it to Harris. “Sir, this is a receipt for repairs done on Carter Tomlin’s Jaguar in July. Basically, it destroys Windermere’s case.”

“Bullshit,” she said. “I can think of a hundred ways he could fake it.”

“Conspiracy theories,” said Doughty.

“
Facts.
This proves nothing.”

Harris looked up from the paper. “Enough.” His face was half pink again. “I’ve had enough of this mess. The two of you, squabbling like children without a shred of evidence between you.” He looked at Doughty first, then Windermere. “You two are partners. I’m going to give you one shot to figure this out on your own. Then I’m reassigning you both.”

He handed Doughty the fax. “Come back to me when you have a cohesive strategy.”

Doughty nodded and turned to the door. After a moment, Windermere followed. She walked out into the hallway, closed Harris’s door. Heard the lock catch and snatched the fax out of Doughty’s hands. “You’ve got nothing,” she said, “and you know it.”

Doughty shook his head. “You can’t let it go, can you?”

She stared at him. “What?”

“You think because you’re the Supercop you’re not allowed to be wrong, is that it? You’ll ruin your reputation if you let someone else win?”

Windermere shook her head. “This has nothing to do with me, Agent Doughty,” she said. “You killed the wrong man, and
you
can’t let it go. It’s your ego that’s the problem, not mine.”

She turned and walked away, down the aisle toward her cubicle. “Windermere,” Doughty called. “Where the hell are you going?”

She reached her cubicle and pulled on her coat. Caught Mathers eye down the aisle. “I feel sick,” she told him. “If Harris asks, tell him I’m puking.” She caught the elevator downstairs to the parking garage and stepped out into a sea of dark, unmarked sedans. Surveyed them a moment, then turned and stepped back into the elevator.

Fuck it,
she thought. She rode the elevator back up to street level and caught a cab to her apartment. Took the stairs to the garage, found her parking spot and her dusty Chevelle.

Fuck it,
she thought again, sliding into the driver’s seat and firing the car up. The engine growled like a murderous dog, seemed to shake the whole building itself as she backed away from her stall and idled out to the street.

Fuck it.
Windermere brushed the hair from her eyes and floored the gas pedal. The tires squealed and caught, pasting her to her seat as the Chevelle roared, speeding fast and untamed toward Saint Paul.

B
ECCA SQUEALED
and hugged Tomlin. Kissed him hard on the mouth. “I’m so happy for you, honey,” she said. “This has been so tough.”

Tomlin took a drink of wine. The girls had eaten early; Madeleine was at dance practice, and Heather was upstairs getting ready for another basketball game. The dining room was empty, save Becca, Tomlin, and Snickers, who nosed about beneath the table, waiting for scraps. Tomlin slipped the dog a crust of bread. “It’s not like we’re doing so bad right now,” he said. “Things are pretty good in our lives.”

Becca sat down opposite him at the table. She brushed a stray hair from her eyes. In the light, Tomlin couldn’t tell if it was blond or gray. “You’d be making more money,” she said.

“We’re making good money right now.”

She stared at him. “I thought you said it was stressful, your job. Finding contracts and clients. I thought you missed that steady paycheck.”

Tomlin picked up his fork and wrapped it in pasta. Took a bite and chewed slowly. “I kind of like it,” he said. “It’s liberating.”

Becca looked down at her plate. “Now I feel kind of stupid.” She took a bite of pasta and chewed it in silence.

Tomlin watched her across the table. He knew he’d have to take Rydin’s offer. No way he could pull bank robberies forever. Hell, the second he pulled another score, Windermere would know she’d been wrong about Jackson. And then she’d come calling again.

Anyway, wasn’t this what he wanted? No more guns, no more getaway cars. No more laundering cash just to pay the damn mortgage.
You’re looking at a second chance.
A steady, secure paycheck and a good credit score and a healthy bonus at Christmas. Hell, maybe a new car.

A salary and a mortgage and a family. A normal life. Simple. Boring.
The thought, all at once, made Tomlin want to put Schultz’s shotgun in his mouth now, and spare himself the slow death. He looked around the dining room instead. Didn’t move. Drank a little more wine and forced himself to keep eating. He finished his dinner in silence.

Y
OU READY TO GO?”

Stevens leaned on the front door, watching, as Andrea searched the house for her jersey, her shoes, her iPod. She raced down the stairs and ran past him toward the laundry room, late and panicked, as usual. “Just one second, Daddy,” she called back.

Stevens sighed and turned to the door. “I’ll be in the car.”

He walked out to the Cherokee, climbed in, and turned on the engine. Blasted the heater and pushed a Springsteen tape into the tape deck.
My coaching debut,
he thought, sitting back in his seat.
And if Andrea doesn’t haul ass, we’re going to be late.
He leaned on the horn. “Let’s
go
.”

The side door opened, and Andrea came out of the house running, her coat half on and her headphones trailing behind her. She climbed in the passenger seat. “Mom said she’ll meet us,” she said, breathless. “After she’s done with her case.”

As Stevens backed out of the driveway, Andrea took advantage of his distraction to pop out the Springsteen tape and turn on the radio, filling the Cherokee with teenybopper pop music. Stevens reached for the volume. “What’s wrong with Springsteen?”

“They’re great, Daddy. I love them,” Andrea said. “I just need something to pump me up, okay?”

The music, all synthesizers and pounding bass, set Stevens’s teeth on edge, but he endured the teenybopper and four others just like him (her?) as he drove to the high school. He dropped Andrea outside the gym doors and then parked the car. He sat alone in the Jeep for a minute or two, relishing the silence, watching the steady stream of cars into the school parking lot. Then he shook his head clear.

You’re a cop,
he thought, reaching for the door.
This is just high school basketball. Man up.

—

F
OR ALL OF STEVENS’S
pregame jitters, his coaching debut played out better than he might have expected. Not a win, but a moral victory, anyway. Stevens made a couple bonehead substitutions, nearly drew a technical foul when he lost track of his team’s timeouts, but on the whole, a good start. Carter Tomlin, meanwhile, looked lost. Stevens took him aside after the final buzzer sounded. “You looked a bit distracted tonight,” he said. “Everything okay?”

Tomlin blinked. Shook his head. “Work stuff,” he said. “Tax season. Sorry.” Then he gave Stevens a smile that looked forced. “Anyway, looked like you had things under control.”

Stevens laughed. “Made some rookie mistakes, though. Could have used you.”

“Next time,” said Tomlin. “You’ll get it.”

He turned and sort of wandered away, took a couple steps along the sidelines, his hands in his pockets and his gaze unfocused and vague. Stevens watched him, frowning. He was about to follow the man when Andrea came out of the locker room. “Hey, kiddo,” he said. “You played good tonight.”

Andrea screwed her face up. “We got killed, Dad.”

“It was that god-awful music,” Stevens told her. “Should have listened to Springsteen.”

“Not funny.” She walked past him to where Nancy stood waiting by the gym doors. “Can we go?”

Stevens glanced back at Tomlin again. Then Nancy called his name from the gym doors. Stevens straightened and turned away from the coach. Caught up with Nancy and Andrea at the doors and followed them into the dark parking lot. Nancy had parked her Taurus way in the back, and Stevens walked out with them to the shadows. “You want to ride with me or your mom?” he asked Andrea.

Andrea cocked her head. “Can we get McDonald’s?”

Nancy unlocked her door. “Not with me you can’t.”

“Then I’ll ride with you, Dad. But no Springsteens.”

Stevens was hardly listening. He was staring across the lot at a big old muscle car parked deep in the shadows. The light from the gym doors caught the front windshield at just the right angle that he could see the solitary occupant behind the wheel.
Can’t be,
he thought.
You’re seeing things now.
Andrea nudged his arm. “Nice car,” she said. “What is it?”

That driver looks a hell of a lot like Windermere.

“Dad?”

Stevens glanced at his daughter. “Ride home with your mother,” he told her. “I need to check something out.”

“What about McDonald’s?”

“Double cheeseburger and fries, right? I’ll pick it up on the way.”

“And a Diet Coke.”

“And a Diet Coke,” Stevens said. “I will deliver.” He waited as Andrea climbed into the car, and he waved at Nancy as she pulled out of her spot. Then he turned back to the muscle car in the shadows. It was a big old Chevelle. A hell of a car. And the driver looked just like Carla Windermere. But what would Carla be doing parked outside a high school in Saint Paul?

It’s dark,
Stevens thought.
You’re seeing things.
But he walked across the lot toward the Chevelle almost unconsciously. He crossed in front of her bumper, glanced in through the windshield. Stopped walking. It
was
Windermere. Stevens watched as she looked away from the gym door and fixed her eyes straight on him. Watched as those big eyes got wider.

“Stevens,” she said. “Shit.”