Criminal Enterprise (18 page)

K
IRK STEVENS SAT
in his living room, watching as a fat man on the television marinated a big chunk of rattlesnake. The Timberwolves weren’t playing, nor the Bucks nor the Bulls, and Stevens had been channel-surfing for more than an hour, trying to find something to distract him from Carter Tomlin.

It had been a couple of days since Tomlin’s party, and Stevens couldn’t chase the showdown in the train room from his mind. Couldn’t forget Tomlin’s face—anger verging on panic—or shake the haunting feeling that he’d blown his best shot at uncovering the man’s secrets.

He was hiding something,
Stevens kept thinking.
I let him walk out of that basement without giving it up.

On-screen, the fat man was grilling the rattlesnake on a barbecue the size of an oil tanker truck. Stevens sighed and turned to his wife. “You want to watch a movie or something?”

Nancy looked up from her makeshift bed on the couch, where she’d covered herself in equal parts paperwork, blanket, and dog. She yawned. “I have to make it through this crap before I fall asleep.”

Stevens looked at the dog, an eighty-pound German shepherd his son had insisted they name Triceratops. “What about you, dog? What do you want to watch?”

Triceratops studied him with concerned eyes, then lay his head down and sighed, long and expressive. “Yeah,” said Stevens. “My sentiments exactly.”

He’d toyed with the idea of calling Windermere. Had argued with himself for two long days, and had decided against it. What good would it do her to know that his instincts matched hers? What proof could he offer?

If I had something concrete,
Stevens thought,
I could call her. Right now, all I have is a guy who’s maybe a little protective of his model trains.
A hunch, nothing more.

Still, the feeling was agonizing.

Stevens picked up the remote again and changed the channel. Found an action movie. A couple of cops were holed up in a warehouse somewhere while things exploded around them. Nancy looked up again. “Anything but this,” she said. “Kirk, please.”

Stevens sighed again and turned off the TV. “Where’s Andrea?”

“Science project at Megan’s.”

“JJ?”

Nancy gestured toward the front stairs. “Xbox.”

Stevens stood, stretching, and walked out to the front hall and upstairs to JJ’s room, where his nine-year-old son sat on his carpet, killing zombies. Stevens mussed his son’s hair. “Whatcha doing?”

“
Resident Evil,
” his son replied. On his TV screen, a young patrol cop and a woman in a torn evening gown were blasting away at an army of the undead. “Raccoon City is under attack.”

“Sounds serious,” said Stevens. “You want some help?”

Without looking up, his son passed him a controller. “You shoot with the trigger button.”

Stevens picked up the controller and pressed start. Within seconds, the zombie horde was upon him. Within minutes, he was dead. JJ frowned at him.
“Dad.”

“Sorry.”

“You’re wasting my lives. I gotta beat the boss at the end of this level.”

“Sorry, kiddo.” Stevens stood up again. “I’m cramping your style.” He walked out of his son’s room and stood in the dark hall, feeling bored and restless and indecisive. He wanted to know more about Tomlin, he realized. And not just for Windermere now.

Downstairs, the phone started to ring. Nancy groaned. “I’ll get it,” he called.

“Too late,” she replied. “It’s for you, Agent Stevens.”

He walked down the stairs and into the living room. Cocked his head at his wife. She shrugged. “A woman.”

“Windermere?”

“I don’t know.” She handed him the phone. “Maybe. Or another of your many admirers.”

Stevens took the phone. “This is Agent Stevens.”

“Agent Stevens.” A woman’s voice. Not Windermere. “It’s Paula Franklin.”

Stevens frowned. “Who?”

“BCA forensics,” she said. “In the lab in Bemidji. Got the DNA results for your bodies in the woods.”

“Oh.” Stevens walked out to the front hall. “Right. Good.”

“Ran a hurry-up drill on them, too,” Franklin said. “Usually these tests take a hell of a lot longer.”

Stevens stared out the window and didn’t say anything. The Danzer case seemed years behind him already. After a moment, Franklin continued. “Anyway, no surprises in the results. Sylvia Danzer in the backseat and David Samson in the front.”

“Sure,” Stevens said. “Just like we figured.”

“We had a look at the remains, too,” Franklin told him. “Samson’s rib cage bore nicks and gouges consistent with a stabbing. Again, no real surprise, given the knife in his chest. Danzer, though, is kind of interesting.”

“How so?”

Franklin exhaled. “Well, her arm was broken, for starters. A couple of ribs. And her hands, Agent Stevens—her fingers were pretty torn up.”

Stevens frowned. “Cut, you mean.”

“And often. The palms of her hands, too. Classic defense wounds, and it looks like the same knife as what stabbed David Samson.” Franklin paused. “There was a hell of a fight up there, from the looks of it.”

“I’d say so.” Stevens glanced back in at Nancy. “I can drive up tomorrow, have a look at the remains.”

“No need. I’ll send the relevant stuff to your office.” She paused again. “Probably enough in the report to close the case, Agent. Congratulations.”

Stevens said nothing.

“Agent Stevens?”

“Yeah,” he said. “Great. Thanks for this. Your hard work.”

“Our pleasure. Let me know if you need anything else.”

“Will do.” Stevens thanked Franklin again and ended the call.
Case closed,
he thought.
As closed as it ever will be.

He stood in the hallway, picturing Sylvia Danzer and David Samson, alone in the woods, fighting and dying. He stood there a long time, and when he turned back to the living room, where Nancy and the dog both lay on the couch, fast asleep, he felt empty inside, not accomplished.
At least I’m not worrying about Tomlin,
he thought.
That’s something.

As far as victories went, though, it was minor, and short-lived.

T
HEY FOUND
Pete Schneider half asleep in his swank Saint Paul condo. Arrived at his door just as a pretty redheaded girl slipped out, blushing, last night’s dress hanging wrinkled from her shoulders. She smiled briefly at Windermere, then ducked past, her eyes low. Doughty watched her walk to the elevator while Windermere stuck a foot between Schneider’s door and the frame. She knocked loudly, and called out his name.

Schneider came padding down the hall in flannel pajama pants, no shirt, his shaggy hair mussed. He looked at Windermere through bleary eyes. “Yeah?”

Windermere showed him her badge. “Shit,” he said. He opened the door wider and led them down the hall.

—

S
CHNEIDER’S APARTMENT
was bachelor-pad chic. Leather and chrome couches, a flat-screen TV. Floor-to-ceiling windows and a kitchen piled high with take-out containers. Schneider sat on the couch and motioned to a couple of easy chairs. Doughty eased himself down. Windermere stood.

“So, what’s up?” Schneider said. Windermere wondered if the guy had to work at sounding bored, or if it came natural. “What can I do for the Federal Bureau of Investigation this morning?”

“It’s mid-afternoon,” said Doughty. “We’re here about a girl.”

“A girl.” Schneider smiled sideways at Windermere. “Which one?”

“How about this?” said Windermere. “You play poker in a warehouse in the North End. Used to bring a friend with you. That’s the girl.”

Schneider’s smile faded. “I should call a lawyer.”

“You guilty of something?”

Schneider stared at her and didn’t say anything.

“We don’t give a damn about the card game,” she said. “It’s your girlfriend we’re after. You tell us about her and you won’t need a lawyer.”

Schneider sighed. “Fine,” he said. “What do you want to know?”

“That poker game of yours, in the warehouse,” said Windermere. “There was a robbery. The cook—what’s his name, Robinson? He got shot.”

Schneider stared at her. “And what, you think she did it?”

“We don’t think anything yet,” said Doughty.

“Tell us about the girl,” said Windermere. “Maybe tell us where you were on Friday night.”

“I wasn’t there.” Schneider didn’t sound nearly so bored now. “I haven’t been to that game in over a month.”

“You lose all your money?”

He looked away. “I went on a cold streak. Been working a lot, trying to rebuild my bankroll.”

“Working,” said Windermere. “Where?”

“Dooly’s,” he said. “It’s a bar. I was bartending every night this week. Call and check. Everybody in the place knows me.”

Windermere studied his face but said nothing. Doughty, mercifully, followed her lead. After a moment, Schneider continued. “Look, as far as Tricia is concerned, I don’t know what to tell you. We broke up a couple months back.”

“Tricia,” said Windermere. “Okay. What about a last name?”

Schneider sighed again, like it was the toughest thing in the world. “Henderson,” he said. “Tricia Henderson.”

“And that’s all you know.”

He nodded. “That’s it.”

“What about where she’s living now?”

“She was living here,” he said, shrugging, “until we broke up. Then she moved to I don’t know where. So, no, I don’t know where she is right now.”

Windermere glanced at Doughty. Schneider stared at them. “Is that all?”

“Good enough for me,” said Windermere.

Doughty stood. Glared at Schneider. “Don’t make us come back.”

Schneider rolled his eyes. “Wouldn’t dare,” he said, sounding dead bored again. Windermere shook her head and turned for the door.
Tricia Henderson,
she thought.
Honey, you’re next.

I
NSTEAD OF
Tuesday’s usual afternoon practice, Andrea’s basketball team played an away game in East Saint Paul that night. Stevens drove his daughter across town, barely aware of the pop music she blared from the Jeep’s radio. He was thinking about Tomlin some more.

The man was definitely hiding something. He’d looked just as guilty as Windermere had described when he’d found Stevens in the basement. He looked panicked. Hell, he looked half a minute away from murder.

Stevens parked the car and walked with Andrea into the gymnasium. Dropped Andrea at the locker room and leaned against the wall to wait. Pulled out his coaching clipboard. Stared at it, couldn’t focus. Looked up and saw Carter Tomlin walking into the gym with his daughter. He, too, looked preoccupied. Gone was the man’s preternatural confidence. Gone was his poise. His eyes were shiftier. His posture was bad. He looked like a man shrunk inside of himself.

Stevens watched him approach. Put away his clipboard and held out his hand. “Coach.”

Tomlin looked up sharply. Hesitated briefly before he shook Stevens’s hand. “Agent Stevens.”

Heather Tomlin glanced at Stevens. Blushed bright red when he met her eye. She smiled at him and disappeared into the locker room. Stevens turned back to Tomlin. “Wanted to thank you for having us over the other night,” he said. “Finest meal I’ve had in a long while.”

Tomlin avoided his eyes. “Sure,” he said. “It’s no problem.”

“Hope I didn’t step out of bounds, wandering off on my own.”

Tomlin’s blue eyes were hard. His mouth was drawn tight. “Of course not.”

Keep him talking,
Stevens thought. “How’s that new job of yours working out? Must be kind of a relief to be back in the big-business world.”

Tomlin hesitated. Then he shook his head. “I don’t start for two weeks.”

“Gotta tie up your loose ends, I guess.”

Tomlin nodded.

“Say, listen.” Stevens forced a smile. “Had a bit of a tax situation spring up. Nothing serious. An issue with overtime hours. You got any time this week I could pop by the office? Maybe give me a hand?”

Tomlin stiffened. “I’m busy all week.”

“Just take a few minutes. I’d happily pay you.”

“Can’t do it, Kirk. Sorry.” Tomlin shifted his weight. “How’d that case of yours turn out? The Danzers. Any luck?”

Stevens looked at Tomlin. “Yeah,” he said, nodding, “I might have a lead. Some hitchhiker, maybe. Just random bad luck.”

Tomlin stared across the gym floor, thinking hard about something. “So they picked someone up,” he said finally. “And he killed them.”

“One more reason to steer clear of strangers, right?”

Tomlin thought a little more. Then he met Stevens’s eyes. “Sounds like Elliott,” he said. “At least from what I knew.”

“Yeah?”

“Almost too nice, that guy,” said Tomlin. “Naive. Kind of guy who’d empty his wallet for any sad sack with a story. You got the sense he’d have drowned without his wife.”

“Sylvia kept him grounded, huh?”

Tomlin nodded. “Loved him, that was obvious. She just saw through the scams. Elliott never did.”

“She was a realist.”

“She got the bills paid on time.” Tomlin paused. “How did he do it? The hitchhiker.”

“Do what?” Stevens frowned. “Kill them?”

Tomlin nodded again. “Just bad luck,” he said, his eyes brighter now. “That’s what you said, right? They just stopped and picked him up and he killed them.”

“Something like that,” said Stevens. “We’re still putting the pieces together.”

Tomlin looked primed to say something else, but just then the locker room door opened and Heather Tomlin peered out. She looked at Tomlin and Stevens and blushed again. “Coach Stevens?” she said. “Are you going to come talk to us? It’s almost game time.”

Stevens glanced at Tomlin. The man had an eerie look in his eye. Like the talk of the Danzers had sparked something in him.
Carla’s right,
he thought.
There’s something definitely wrong here.

“Coach Stevens?”

Stevens straightened. “Yeah,” he said, turning away from Tomlin. “Here we go.”

S
TEVENS KNEW
SOMETHING
.
That much was obvious.

Tomlin replayed his conversation with the BCA agent in his head. Stevens knew something. He’d picked up on Tomlin’s unease in the train room. Maybe he had talked to Windermere, after all. Either way, he was on the scent.

What to do?

At least he had time to consider the problem. With the BCA agent courtside, Tomlin had been reduced to a glorified water boy. The girls seemed more cohesive; they played better as a team. They scored more. They were winning more games. Even Heather looked happier with Stevens on the sidelines.
Coach or cop,
Tomlin thought.
The big dummy’s a hero.

What to do?

The BCA agent hadn’t said anything threatening. He’d mentioned the party. Faked a cute apology for searching the basement. Asked, ever so innocently, about dropping by the office. Nothing overt. Nothing threatening. His tone, though. His tone gave him away. He was digging.

So what?
Tomlin thought.
Let him dig. He has nothing.

The smartest thing, Tomlin knew, would be to take the new job at North Star and forget about pulling bank robbery scores. Ease into a new life again. A new, boring life.

The final buzzer sounded. A big win for Kennedy. Tomlin watched the girls crowd Coach Stevens, their flushed faces bright and happy. Caught sight of Heather in the mix. Watched the way she looked at her coach. Hero worship.

The girls disappeared into the locker room. Tomlin watched the crowd empty the gym. Realized he didn’t want to be alone with Stevens any longer. He walked out of the gym and into the school proper. Found the men’s washroom and locked himself in a stall.
You’re smarter than Stevens,
he thought.
You’re better than that dummy. He’s not going to outwit you.

Tomlin thought through his conversation with Stevens again. This time, he skipped over the boring stuff. He didn’t want to think about the cop anymore. He wanted to think about Elliott and Sylvia Danzer. He’d felt an electric little thrill when Stevens told him the story. A hitchhiker. Some random killer. The Danzers had stopped for him. Offered him a lift out of kindness. Their bad luck. They’d died for it. Utterly random.

Tomlin pictured the kid at the poker game. Saw his face. Courage and anger. Then fear, and the sudden realization he was dying. Tomlin wondered what the kid had thought about as he died. If he’d cursed his own shitty luck or resigned himself to fate. If he’d hated Tomlin for ending his life.

I killed him
, Tomlin thought, and he suddenly knew he could never be good again. Couldn’t just jump back into some day job again, some civilian life. Not when he’d tasted the alternative.

Tomlin ducked out of the stall and checked that the bathroom was empty. Then he took out his cell phone and dialed Tricia’s number. Waited while the phone rang and felt his breath catch when she answered. “Boss,” she said. “Hi?”

“Hey.”

“Hey.” She paused. “What’s up?”

Tomlin felt like he was on a roller coaster climbing that first hill. “Let’s do it again,” he said. This was it. The first drop. He felt his adrenaline start to race. “Another score. Let’s do it. Soon.”