Criminal Enterprise (11 page)

S
TEVENS AND NANCY
waited outside the locker room as the coach gave his postgame talk. JJ lingered nearby, his nose in his Game Boy. Nancy hugged Stevens’s arm. “You made it,” she said. “Solve the case?”

“Getting there,” Stevens replied, wrapping his arms around her. “Doesn’t look like the wife did it, anyway.”

Nancy smiled. “Not this time.”

“You ever want a ready-made excuse, just pick up an ex-con at a deserted truck stop. Let him take the fall.”

She looked at him. Saw through his smile. “You okay?”

“I’ll be fine,” he said. Nancy shook her head, looked ready to say something else. Then the locker room door opened, and Andrea’s coach came out. Stevens stepped forward and held out his hand. “Heck of a game, Coach. Tough loss.”

Tomlin shook Stevens’s hand. He had a firm grip, cool hands. “It’s coming. We start getting the bounces and we’ll start winning games.” He studied Stevens’s face. “Agent Stevens, right?”

Stevens frowned. Couldn’t place the man, though something about him seemed familiar.

“Carter Tomlin,” the coach said. “We talked on the phone a couple weeks back. The Danzer case. I used to manage their money.”

“Tomlin,” said Stevens. Suddenly, he remembered. “Sure, the accountant. Didn’t recognize you, I’m sorry.”

Tomlin laughed. “Tough to pick someone out from a phone call, Agent. You’re Andrea’s father.”

Stevens studied the man’s face. He was a handsome guy, younger by a few years, probably. He had icy blue eyes and a wide, easy smile that belied success and the confidence that came with it. Stevens nodded. “How’s she doing?”

“Andrea? She’s fine.” Tomlin laughed again. “These girls, nothing fazes them. We’ve been working on that jump shot in practice. She’ll get it.”

“She’s an athlete,” said Stevens. “Just about beats me at H-O-R-S-E these days.”

“You play ball?”

“High school. A little in college. Then I quit growing, and that was that. You?”

“Hockey,” said Tomlin. “Never basketball. Kind of out of my element here.”

The locker room door opened, and Tomlin and Stevens both turned to watch as Andrea emerged in the middle of a bubble of teenage girls, laughing and jostling. Tomlin smiled at Stevens. “See what I mean? Not a care in the world.”

Stevens laughed. “The parents, on the other hand.”

The girls broke ranks as they left the locker room, scattered to their waiting parents. Andrea saw Stevens and smiled at him, self-conscious. “Hey, kiddo,” Stevens said. “Good game.”

Andrea glanced at Tomlin and blushed. “Thanks.”

“Tough break at the end there. You all right?”

“Yeah,” she said. Then she shrugged. “It’s only a game, Daddy.” She smiled at Tomlin again and then walked away, joining her mother and her brother by the gymnasium doors.

Tomlin watched her go. Then he turned back to Stevens. He hesitated, then smiled. “Ever think about coaching?” he said. “I could use some help with these girls. I’m not exactly Phil Jackson over here.”

Stevens laughed. “Who is, though?”

“Might be fun.” Tomlin took a business card from his pocket. “Hell, drop by practice now and then if you get a spare moment. Could use someone with your expertise.”

Stevens took the card. Carter Tomlin and Co. He studied it, then looked around the empty gym.
Coaching,
he thought.
Me?

Tomlin was watching him, his head cocked. He was smiling. Stevens pocketed the man’s business card. “I’m neck deep in this case right now,” he said. “Once it breaks, though, I might have some time on my hands. Guess I could use a hobby.”

“It’s a hell of a lot of fun,” Tomlin said. “Keeps me young.”

“Can see that,” said Stevens. He shook the coach’s hand and told him good-bye, and then he walked to the gym doors where Nancy and Andrea and JJ waited, and he walked with them out to the frigid parking lot. He looked at each of them in turn and couldn’t help smiling, feeling the stress of the Danzer case finally start to melt away.

T
OMLIN BOUGHT
the
Star Tribune
on the way into work the next morning. He didn’t make a habit of reading the paper, but this morning, it was the headline that got him.

“FBI Shoot-out Leaves Bank Robber Dead” it screamed from the newspaper box on the corner outside his office. There was a blurry picture of Carla Windermere just below.

They got Tricia,
Tomlin thought, fumbling in his pocket for change. He shoved quarters into the slot until the door unlocked, grabbed a copy of the paper, and skimmed the cover story.
Tricia,
he thought,
or Dragan. Somehow, Windermere got them, too.

The picture of Windermere was a night shot, candid. Police cars and yellow tape in the background. She was standing with another agent, an older man, staring up at an ugly gray house. The caption read: “FBI agents Robert Doughty and Carla Windermere at the scene of a deadly shoot-out in Phillips last night.”

Phillips. Southeastern Minneapolis. Tricia and Dragan both lived in Saint Paul. Tomlin scanned the story, found a name. Nolan Jackson. A degenerate and career criminal. The FBI liked him for the Eat Street bank robbery. Tomlin shoved the paper under his arm and ran upstairs to his office. Swung open the door and showed the paper to Tricia. “You read this?”

Tricia cocked her head at him. “Not yet.”

He laid the front page out on her desk. Watched her big eyes go wider as she read. “Is this—”

“Yeah,” Tomlin said. “It’s our guy. They think he’s with us.”

“And they killed him. Why?”

Tomlin shrugged. “No idea.” He smiled at her. “I’m not exactly going to call and demand a correction.”

“Says they’re still looking for accomplices,” Tricia said, reading.

“Let them look,” Tomlin said. “I don’t know Nolan Jackson, and I bet you don’t, either. No way they connect him to us.”

Tricia leaned back in her chair. “So what do we do?” she said. “What happens next?”

Tomlin straightened and looked around the office. “What happens? I guess we go back to our everyday lives. Focus on our day jobs and be thankful this guy Jackson died for our sins, right?”

Tricia frowned again. “You’re saying we quit.”

“For a while, sure.”

“For a while or forever?”

Tomlin shook his head. “It’s too risky,” he said. “This is our second chance. We’d be stupid to keep going now.”

“I have student loans,” Tricia said. “I need cash.”

You dropped out of college,
he thought, but said nothing. Instead, he crossed to his inner office and unlocked the door. Ducked inside and took a handful of cash from his bottom desk drawer. “This should do you,” he told her, stacking the money on her desk.

She looked at the money. Then she sighed. “Great,” she said, scooping it into her purse. “Thanks.”

“We can’t do this anymore. It’s not safe.”

“Yeah, you said that already.” She turned to her computer. “It’s fine. I have work to do, boss.”

He watched her for a long moment, an ingénue everywhere but her eyes. She started to type something, and he retreated to the doorway of his office, still watching her, wanting her to look at him again.

She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction, he knew, and after another moment or two he surrendered, turned away and into his own office, where he sat in front of his computer and wondered why his big second chance felt so much like failure.

Y
OUR GIRLFRIEND’S IN
the paper again,” Nancy Stevens told her husband, pushing the morning’s
Star Tribune
across the table.

Stevens took the newspaper from her, examined the headline over his coffee. A shoot-out in Phillips, he read. A wanted bank robber. A grainy picture of Windermere. She looked tired. Almost human.

“Guess she found a new boyfriend,” Nancy said. “Kind of looks like you, doesn’t he?”

Stevens studied the picture again. Windermere’s new partner, Agent Robert Doughty, FBI. An older white man, pudgy and self-satisfied.
Do I really look that old?
he thought. He grinned across at Nancy. “Maybe we can double date.”

Nancy rolled her eyes. “Yeah,” she said, standing and gathering the dishes from the table. “That’s just what I need.”

Stevens waited as his wife rinsed out her coffee cup and walked out of the kitchen. Then he picked up the newspaper again and read the story in full. He’d heard about the Eat Street bank heist, a pretty ballsy affair for Minnesota. Two armed robbers in ski masks and heavy artillery, a getaway driver, and a five-figure score. Real action-movie stuff. Everyday work for an FBI agent.

The DNA checks on the Danzer case still hadn’t come through. Another couple of days, the tech said. Was a hell of a job, anyway; Sylvia Danzer wasn’t even in the DNA database. They were tracking down next of kin now. There wasn’t much he could do until the results came back, either. Could sit at his desk and bat theories around. Or open up another case and start digging again.

And meanwhile, Windermere had tracked down her man. Hadn’t taken long. Another high-profile closure. Another climactic shootout. Stevens drained the last of his coffee. Made a face. Cold.

He studied the picture of Windermere and Doughty.
I’m not that fat
.
Or that full of myself. Nancy’s just pulling my leg.

“Oh, God.” Nancy swept back into the room behind him. She’d changed, was fixing her makeup as she tried to slip her foot into a high-heeled shoe. “You’re so in love it’s sickening.”

“Bull,” Stevens said. “I’m just checking the weather.”

“You’re like a lovesick teenager.” She uncapped a tube of lipstick and ran it over her lips.

“You gave me a complex,” he said. “I don’t look like him, do I?”

Nancy recapped the lipstick, dropped it in her purse. Walked to him and wrapped her arms around his neck. “You’re much more handsome,” she said. “Agent Windermere is a fool to choose him over you.”

“I’ve got more hair than he does, anyway.” Stevens pushed the paper away and walked his coffee cup to the sink. Nancy wrapped her arms around him.

“Tell me I look pretty and kiss me good-bye,” she said. “Before you give
me
a complex.”

“You look pretty.” He kissed her, smeared her lipstick. Kissed her again. “You look more than pretty.”

“I know.” She squirmed out of his grasp. “It’s for the judge, though, so lay off.”

“Lucky judge.”

She picked up her jacket and walked to the door. “You should be so lucky, Agent Stevens.”

He followed her to the side door and watched her walk out into the snow. Blew her a kiss and closed the door behind her. Walked back into the kitchen, where the newspaper lay open on the table. He glanced through it aimlessly. Then he reached into his wallet and pulled out Carter Tomlin’s business card.
Coaching
, Stevens thought again.
Well, why not?

Stevens had always kind of figured he would enjoy coaching, the camaraderie with the kids, the opportunity to teach the same skills he’d worked hard to master. Andrea would be mortified, of course, but then when was she not?

I don’t need Carla Windermere’s life,
Stevens thought, folding the newspaper and dropping it in the trash.
I’m a husband and a father and a BCA agent. That should be enough.
He walked out to the living room and picked up the phone. Dialed Tomlin’s number and waited for the phone to ring.

H
EARD DOUGHTY
BAILED
your ass out on that shoot-out in Phillips,” said Mathers. “That doesn’t sound like the Supercop we all know and love.”

Windermere looked up from her cubicle to find Mathers peering at her over the fuzzy gray wall. He wore a funny little smile like he knew he was hilarious, like he was waiting for the rest of the world to catch on. Windermere shook her head. “That’s not how it went down.”

“That’s what the newspaper said.” Mathers grinned wider. “They’re not allowed to lie, are they?”

Windermere turned back to her computer. “Nope.”

Mathers leaned closer. “I sense drama, Agent Windermere. Tell our viewers what really happened.”

Windermere sighed. Then she pasted a smile on her face and looked up at her colleague. “Doughty wrote the report. Why don’t you ask him?”

Mathers stared at her. Then he narrowed his eyes. “I see what’s happening here,” he said. He turned and walked away, pausing to flash her another sly smile.

Windermere watched him go. Then she turned back to her computer again. Checked her e-mail for the fifth time that day. Mathers was a little shit, but he was harmless. Kind of cute, even. If she hadn’t been so preoccupied with Doughty and the Jackson ordeal, she might have played along. That Jackson ordeal, though, was sapping her will. She and Doughty had uncovered enough evidence in the suspect’s home to make him for a desperado bank job at a Wells Fargo half a mile from Phillips. Guy walked in with a ski mask, a sawed-off, and a Timberwolves jacket, all of which they’d found in Jackson’s bedroom closet.

So Jackson was a bank robber, as he’d admitted before Doughty shot him. If he was involved in Eat Street, though, he’d hidden it well. They’d found no gold Toyota Camry, no AR-15. No sign of any accomplices. As far as Windermere was concerned, Jackson was a red herring.

She glanced down the row toward Doughty’s office. His door was open, and Windermere could hear him on the phone—laughing, loud. Not for the first time, she wondered if Doughty had known what he was doing, killing Jackson as she tried to convince him to surrender.

Shut up,
she told herself.
Don’t be ridiculous. Doughty’s an FBI agent, just like you. He still plays by the rules. He’s not killing a suspect just to spite you, you loon.

Still, the whole thing seemed too clean. Or maybe she was still just too focused on Tomlin. She kept seeing the man’s eyes when he’d looked at the receipt, defeat in his expression, like he’d been caught in a bad bluff. He was guilty of something.

Hell, he was probably guilty of bank robbery. He still hadn’t provided any proof of that phantom car break-in he’d tried to sell. Probably figured now he didn’t have to, now that Nolan Jackson was wearing the rap for every bank heist from Fargo to Duluth.

She glanced down at Doughty’s open door again. As per the senior agent’s orders, she was supposed to be chasing down Nolan Jackson’s friends and family, looking for signposts in his criminal record that would point the way to his bank-robbing accomplices. She’d worked the damn case all day and found nothing.

So,
she thought, picking up her phone,
nobody will mind if I take a little break, will they?
She dialed and waited for the call to go through, her eyes on Doughty’s door. A woman picked up. “Carter Tomlin and Co.”

“It’s Agent Windermere calling,” Windermere told her. “Be a pal and put your boss on the phone.”