Criminal Enterprise (24 page)

T
RICIA SAT
ON
a corner of the bed she’d shared with Dragan. Tomlin watched her. She’d been sitting there for a long time, hadn’t moved much. “We should go,” Tomlin told her. “There’s a blizzard coming.”

Tricia blew her nose into some bathroom tissue. She dropped the tissue to the floor. “What happened to him?” she said.

“We need to go,” Tomlin said.

She looked at him, her eyes dulled. “Just tell me.”

He paced a couple of steps. “They shot him.”

“Who did? How?”

He walked to the bed and sat down beside her. “The third guard,” he said. “Came out of the truck with a pistol.”

“Dragan was inside the car.”

“He came out.” He touched her shoulder. “I’m sorry.”

She exhaled slowly, shaky. Let him pull her close to him, lay her head on his shoulder. He rubbed her back and her shoulders, feeling the straps of her bra through her thin T-shirt, her smooth skin underneath. She was so close to him now.

Tomlin found their reflection in the cracked mirror opposite the bed. She was a mess, her face blotchy and flushed, her hair tangled. He still wanted her, badly. “We were going to Mexico,” she said, her voice wavering. “What am I supposed to do now?”

“Mexico,” he said. “We have plenty of money.”

She shook her head. “Alone? I don’t even speak Spanish.”

He looked at her again in the mirror. “You don’t have to go alone.” Tricia didn’t say anything. Tomlin pulled her closer to him, leaned down and kissed her, his mouth on her soft lips. “I’ll come with you.”

Tricia stiffened in his arms and tried to pull away. Tomlin held her tighter. She fought him. Broke free and slapped him, hard. “What the hell are you doing?”

Tomlin pushed her backward on the bed, and fell down on top of her, pinning her underneath him. She squirmed a little, and he kissed her hard on the mouth like he’d wanted to for weeks. “Don’t fight it,” he told her. “It’s better this way.”

“Fuck you.” She punched at him.
“Let me go.”

He parted her legs with his own, pawed at her breasts. Felt her struggle beneath him, his tongue in her mouth, his hard-on bursting from his pants.
It’s almost better that she doesn’t want it,
he thought.
She’s hotter when she’s scared.
He kissed her again. Wrenched at her shirt. “You could learn to love me,” he said. Then he felt something cold at his temple.

Tomlin blinked and looked down. Tricia stared up at him, her eyes cold. She was achingly beautiful. She was holding Tony Schultz’s Ruger to his forehead. “Get off me,” she said, pressing the gun tight to his skin. “Stand up, nice and slow.”

T
HURSDAY NIGHT WAS
game night, as usual. Stevens begged off the stakeout for a couple of hours. Windermere looked at him funny, and he shrugged. “Those girls need a coach. Tomlin isn’t going to do it.”

“Unless maybe he is,” she said. “He shows up at the school and you take him down there.”

He looked at her. “I don’t think so.”

“Me neither, Stevens.” She smiled at him. “Go coach. I’ll get us an ID on this morning’s dead bad guy.”

“Singer’s on watch at Tomlin’s house. Rotundi’s got Tricia Henderson’s,” Stevens told her. “Assuming they’re still in the region.”

“Even if they are, Stevens, we’re in tough. Too many places to hide, and the damn blizzard won’t help.” Windermere stopped the Chevelle outside Stevens’s house. “Break a leg.”

“Thanks.” He watched her peel off, the big muscle car starting to slide in the snow, and then he walked up to the house.

—

T
HE DOG THUMPED
his tail when Stevens walked in. Nancy turned up her nose from the couch.
“Phew,”
she said. “You stink, Agent Stevens.”

“Long night in a ’69 Chevelle,” he said, bending down to kiss her.

She squirmed away. “Not in the backseat, I hope.”

“Not quite,” he told her. “I don’t exactly have an eighteen-year-old’s contortionist physique anymore.”

“Nor his stamina.” She frowned. “You’re working another case.”

Stevens nodded. “Carter Tomlin.”

“Windermere’s case.”

He nodded. Nancy looked at him for a long time. “It’s going to get dangerous again,” she said. “Like the last time.”

“I don’t know yet.” He sighed. “Probably.”

She looked at him some more. Then she turned back to her paperwork. “If you get yourself killed, I’m marrying a pool boy.”

He looked at her. “It just kind of happened. I’m sorry.”

Nancy didn’t look up. “Don’t be sorry,” she said. “Just don’t do anything stupid. Okay?”

Stevens thought about Becca Tomlin, alone and devastated. “I’ll be careful,” he said, feeling his cell phone start to vibrate. “I’ll let the other guys get a shot at the hero stuff this time.” He pulled the phone from his pocket and looked at it. Tim Lesley.

“Agent Stevens.” Lesley didn’t bother with preamble. “You booked OT for Singer and Rotundi tonight.”

Stevens looked at Nancy again. She still hadn’t looked up. “Yes, sir,” he said, walking out to the hallway. “They’re staking out Carter Tomlin.”

“The bank robber,” said Lesley. “That’s an FBI case, Agent Stevens.”

Stevens shook his head. “We’re working a separate case, sir. Hastings police requested our assistance with a robbery investigation.”

“A robbery investigation.” Lesley sucked his teeth. “That’s a damned weak reason to pay three agents overtime.”

Shit.
“I’m sorry, sir.”

“Sounds like you want another reason to hang out with your FBI girlfriend again. This is her case, is it not?”

“Yes, sir,” Stevens said. “It is.”

Lesley was silent, and Stevens braced himself for the shit-kicking. “Well, shit, Agent Stevens,” his boss said at last, “I’d like nothing more than to tear you a new asshole, but it seems the FBI wants our help.”

Stevens blinked. “Sir?”

“Drew Harris doesn’t feel his team can solve this thing on their own. Too many resources tied up with Homeland Security.” He paused. “So Merry Christmas, Stevens. The Feds are paying your overtime until Tomlin and his girlfriend are apprehended.”

“Shit,” Stevens said. “Wow.”

“‘Shit, wow’ is right. Solve this damned case for them, Stevens. Then get back to the office so I can ream your ass out.”

“Will do, sir.” Stevens hung up the phone. Stared at his reflection in the front door for a moment, and then rustled up Andrea and piled her into the Cherokee and drove off to the game.

I
SHOULD JUST
kill you,” Tricia told him. “Put a bullet in your head and leave you for the maid.”

Tomlin stared at her. At her gun. She’d backed him up and away from the bed. Straightened her clothing and leveled the gun square at his forehead, her eyes deadly cold, her mouth a thin line. Tomlin said nothing. He stood there and waited. Finally, Tricia shook her head. “I’m not like you,” she said. “I’m no killer.”

Tomlin laughed at her. “You’re exactly like me.”

Tricia cocked back the hammer. “You think so?” She watched his smile fade, and nodded. “That’s what I thought.” She backed away from the bed and toward the door, keeping the gun trained on him. “I saw the look on your face when you were killing those guards. The kid at the poker game. You got off on that shit. I know you did.”

Tomlin didn’t reply.

She reached the edge of the second bed, and the chair. He studied her face as she felt for her coat. Looked from her eyes to the gun. “You’re a sick bastard, you know that?” she said. “I figured it was the money that kept you going. I knew you weren’t making shit at that crummy office. I figured you just had to survive.”

“I did,” he said.

“Bullshit.” She laughed. “You wanted it, bad. Calling me up nights, begging for another job. You really needed this shit.”

Tomlin wanted to beat the smile off her face. Hold her down and do awful things to her, teach her to laugh at him. He took a step forward. She flashed him a smile. “Do it,” she said. “Maybe I’ll develop a taste for this stuff.”

He looked at the gun. Then he looked in her eyes. She would do it, too. She wasn’t lying. After a moment, she laughed again. Grim. Shook her head. “So, what, I was just supposed to fall in love with you? We were going to run off together?”

Tomlin didn’t answer.

“I guess I should be flattered.” She arched an eyebrow at him. “I’m your midlife crisis, huh?” She turned away from him and walked to the door. Didn’t bother to cover him with the gun. Tomlin wanted to rush her. He didn’t. Tricia turned back to him, one hand on the doorknob. She smiled at him again. “We were good as a team, boss. But this is as far as it goes.” Her smile disappeared. “Your keys.”

Tomlin frowned. “What?”

“Your car keys.” She snapped her fingers at him. “Hurry. There’s no time.”

Tomlin didn’t move. Tricia raised the gun again. “Want to test me?”

He reached in his pocket and took out his keys, the shining Jaguar logo on a leather keychain. He tossed them across the room to her, and she caught them, slick. “The money,” she said.

“In my car,” he said. “Half of it’s mine.”

She laughed at him again. “Wrong,” she said. “All of it’s mine. Be happy you’re still alive.” She turned the door handle and opened the door. Snow swirled in, and harsh wind. The distant rush of cars in the distance. Tricia backed through the doorway, keeping the pistol aimed squarely at Tomlin. He followed her out to the snowy lot, watched her unlock the Jaguar and climb behind the wheel. A moment later, he heard the big supercharged engine fire up.

He watched the Jag back away. Then it stopped. Tricia’s window rolled down, and she leaned her head out. “I see you again, I
will
kill you.” She threw something at him. It landed in the snow at his feet. “Good luck, boss.”

Then she stepped on the gas, the big Jag sliding sideways as she pulled away. Tomlin watched her drive to the end of the lot, watched the brake lights flash as she paused before turning toward the street. He looked down to the snow in front of him, picked up what she’d thrown. A slim stack of bills in an orange paper band. Ten thousand dollars. Ten thousand dollars out of a million five. Tomlin looked at the money. Then he looked up again. The big Jag had disappeared into the blizzard. Tricia was gone.

T
OMLIN DIDN’T
SHOW
at the basketball game. Neither did his daughter. The game was a disaster, anyway. Stevens spent the entire forty-eight minutes thinking about Windermere and Carter Tomlin, unable to focus on strategy, substitutions, or anything else. “It’s only a game,” he told the girls in the locker room. “We’ll get them next time.”

He hustled Andrea from the locker room and out through the snow to his Cherokee, where he checked his phone messages as he drove out of the lot. One missed call from Windermere. Stevens called her back.

“They found the Camry,” she told him. “A parking lot in Minneapolis. Attendant said some guy, Roger Brill, paid a year’s lease in cash.”

“Of course he did,” Stevens replied. “Anything worthwhile inside?”

“Some fingerprints,” she said. “Got my ID for Tomlin’s dead partner. A kid named Dragan Medic, lives in Saint Paul. Doughty and I are headed to his apartment right now. You guys win?”

“What?” He blinked. “Hell, no. Blowout.”

“Shit.”

“Yeah.” Stevens paused. Let the silence grow. Knew he should tell her what he’d told Nancy. Knew he should make sure she knew he was done with the cowboy stuff. That he wasn’t onboard with another Pender situation. Instead, he coughed and said, “I hear your boss is picking up our overtime.”

“Yeah.” He could hear the smile in her voice. “Wonder how that happened.”

“Couldn’t let me get away again, huh?”

“Something like that,” she said. “Meet me at Dragan Medic’s. I’ll call with directions.”

This was the moment. This was the moment to tell Windermere he was going home to sit with Nancy and supervise Singer and Rotundi by phone. Stevens let it pass. “Sure,” he said. “Good.”

She paused. “Something wrong?”

He shook his head. “Nothing. I’ll talk to you soon.”

Stevens ended the call and drove back toward home. It was really snowing now, piling up on the road, cars slipping and sliding all over the place. Stevens switched the Cherokee into four-wheel drive and kept going, pitying Windermere in her Chevelle tonight. Andrea watched him from the passenger seat. “Who was that?”

Stevens glanced at her. “A colleague,” he said. “Agent Windermere, from the FBI. We worked the case in Detroit together.”

“It sounds like you’re friends,” she said, frowning.

“We are friends.” He looked at her again. “What do you mean?”

Andrea shook her head. “Nothing.” She took her cell phone from her pocket. Checked the screen. “Can you drop me at Heather’s house?”

Stevens forced himself not to slam on the brakes. “It’s a school night.”

“She’s home alone, Dad. We’re going to go cheer her up.”

“You most certainly are not.” He looked at her. “Her father’s a wanted criminal. You’re not going anywhere near that house.”

She sat forward. “Everyone else is going. Why can’t I?”

“See above.” Stevens pulled out his cell phone. “Her dad is a felon. As far as your friends are concerned, you’ve got another thing coming if you think Heather’s hosting a party tonight.” He dialed Singer’s cell number. “Nick,” he said. “Kirk. How’s the house looking?”

Singer yawned. “All quiet,” he said. “Snowy.”

“Yeah.” Stevens glanced at his daughter. “Listen, some of my daughter’s friends have decided they’re going to head over there and cheer up Heather Tomlin. Keep a lookout for them, would you? Shoo them away.”

“Teenagers?” Singer laughed. “Yeah, all right. They’re not getting far in this weather, though, Kirk.”

“Just keep your eyes peeled, would you?”

“Yeah.” Singer yawned again. “Roger.”

Stevens ended the call. He kept driving. In the passenger seat, Andrea sighed, heavy and dramatic. She crossed her arms. “This is bullshit.”

Now he did stop the car. “Pardon me?”

“Well, Dad? It is.”

He stared at her for a long moment. She stared straight ahead, her jaw set. “Sorry,” he said, “but there it is. And for swearing, Andrea, you’re grounded.”

She spun at him, her eyes on fire. Stevens held her gaze. Finally, she sighed again and flung herself back in her seat. “This sucks.”

Stevens pulled back onto the road. “I know it does, kiddo,” he said. “I know.”