Criminal Enterprise (4 page)

T
OMLIN FOUND
the gun he wanted a week before Christmas.

Finding the gun was easy; obtaining the gun was a pain in the ass. The state of Minnesota prided itself on honoring its citizens’ Second Amendment rights, and Tomlin found truckloads of weapons for sale online, from pistols to all-out assault rifles. Every seller, however, wanted proof of a police-issued purchase permit, and the last thing Tomlin wanted was a record of sale.

Still, he scoured the classified listings and finally found a decent handgun in Hastings, about an hour southeast of town. The seller didn’t mention any permits or ID, and Tomlin sent him an e-mail using an alias and a free Hotmail account. “Interested in your pistol,” he wrote. “Can bring cash if we close today.”

The guy replied an hour later. “See you tonight.”

That afternoon, Tomlin borrowed Becca’s Navigator and drove southeast, tracing the bank of the Mississippi down Route 10 into Hastings. It was dark when he arrived in the town, and he stopped at a gas station and dialed the guy’s number. “It’s Roger Brill,” he said when the guy picked up. “I e-mailed you earlier about the gun.”

The guy’s name was Schultz. He gave Tomlin directions to a farmhouse south of town. “Come whenever you like,” he said. “I got nothing going on tonight.”

“Twenty minutes.” Tomlin hung up and drove out of town, picking his way along the empty back roads, the lights of farmhouses like ships in the distance. He missed the place once and doubled back and found it, drove up the long driveway, and parked beside an old Ford alongside the house.

The house was small, wooden, drafty-looking, a couple lonely lights on in the windows. Tomlin climbed out of the truck and heard a door open at the front of the house. “You Roger?”

Tomlin looked up at the porch, where a man stood silhouetted in the doorway. “Mr. Schultz?”

“Call me Tony,” the guy said. “And come on inside. Too damn cold to be farting around out here.”

Tomlin walked the front path to the house, climbed the creaky front steps to where Tony Schultz stood waiting. He was a big guy—not fat exactly, but big all around. The kind of guy used to getting his run of the jukebox at the neighborhood bar. “Glad you made it,” he told Tomlin. “Come on in. Want a beer?”

“Beer’s good.” Tomlin followed the guy into the house.

Schultz disappeared into the kitchen. Came back with a couple of Budweisers, and handed one to Tomlin. He gestured into a spartan living room. “Said you came in from the city?”

“Minneapolis, yeah.” Tomlin cracked his beer as he followed Schultz into the living room. “You live alone out here?”

“Alone, yeah. My ex lives in the city. Reason enough to avoid it, am I right?” Schultz took a long pull of his beer, set down the can, and stifled a belch. “Probably want to see what you came for.”

Tomlin nodded. “If you don’t mind.”

“Course I don’t mind.”

Schultz stood and walked out of the living room toward the back of the house. Tomlin heard him fiddling with something, a lock, probably, and then he came back holding a small plastic box, like a tool kit or something. He set it down on the table in front of Tomlin, unsnapped the latches, and opened the lid. Tomlin peered inside.

It was a terrifying weapon. Sleek and solid and deadly. Tomlin stared at it and couldn’t imagine ever wanting to use it.
This was a mistake,
he thought.
Put it away.

“Go ahead and pick it up,” Schultz told him. “It’s not loaded.”

Tomlin hesitated. Then he reached in and lifted the gun, testing the weight in his hand. He pictured himself aiming it at a bank teller, feeling sick at the thought. But he thought about Becca and the girls, about the money he’d make, and he forced himself to examine the gun closer.

“Sig Sauer P250,” Schultz told him. “Hell of a gun.”

“Looks brand-new.”

“Couple months old. Birthday gift from my brother-in-law. I like a Ruger myself, but this here is a hell of a gun. Stop any intruder cold.”

It’s just a tool,
Tomlin thought.
Like a hammer.
It’s a means to an end.
He held the gun up, aimed it across the room. Schultz grinned at him. “What do you think?”

Tomlin held the gun a moment longer. Then he laid it back down. “Five hundred, you said?”

Schultz nodded. “Retails for seven. Five hundred’s a steal.”

Tomlin pulled out his wallet and counted out five hundred-dollar bills. “Perfect,” said Schultz. “Just need your driver’s license and your permit.”

Shit.
Tomlin started to tell the big man to forget it. Then he stopped.
I need that gun,
he decided
.
He ad-libbed, made a show of checking his pockets. “Jesus,” he said finally. “Must have left the damn thing at home.”

Schultz frowned. “Shit.”

“Left it on the dresser. Unbelievable.” He looked at Schultz. “So what do we do?”

“Shit, brother. I guess you come back tomorrow.”

Tomlin reached into his wallet again. “I got another two hundred here. Let me walk with the gun and it’s yours. I’ll come back with the permit tomorrow.”

Schultz shook his head. “You know I get in shit if I do that,” he said. He turned the gun in its box away from Tomlin and snapped the lid closed. “Save your money. Come back tomorrow, and I’ll sell you the gun proper.”

Tomlin stared at him, gauging his chances of snatching the gun and bolting with it.
Never happen,
he decided.
This guy’s too damn big and too strong. He’d whip my ass for practice.

Instead, he let Schultz walk him to the door. “Sorry for wasting your time,” he told him, stepping out onto the porch.

“Not my time you wasted. Let me know if you still want the gun.”

“I want it.” Tomlin walked off the porch toward Becca’s Navigator.
I need that gun,
he thought, trying to figure his next move.
The hell if I came all the way out here for nothing.

Tomlin looked back at the house.
What does this guy know about me?
Not my name. Not my address. Not my license plate number. Hell, it’s so dark out here, he probably can’t tell I’m driving a Lincoln.

Tomlin walked to the truck. Unlocked the doors. Paused with his fingers on the driver’s door handle.
I need that gun,
he thought.
For my family.

He turned back toward the house and the outbuildings beyond. Something lay in the snow in the shadows, and he walked over to it. A piece of scrap wood, a two-by-four, heavy. Tomlin picked it up, tested it, swung the wood like a bat. He thought for a couple of minutes. Then he walked back around the front of the house, blood pounding in his ears.
This is for Becca,
he thought.
For Heather and Maddy. God forgive me.

The snow crunched under his feet as he walked, every step an explosion. The porch steps creaked as he climbed them, and Tomlin imagined Schultz waiting inside, his gun drawn. But Schultz wasn’t waiting at the door. Tomlin hesitated at the top of the porch. Then he knocked on the doorframe, twice, and stood to the side so the two-by-four wasn’t obvious. Schultz opened the door, frowning. “What did you forget?”

Tomlin glanced down, made sure the man wasn’t holding his gun. “I still want that pistol,” he said, choking up on the lumber, his voice shaky.

Schultz blinked. “I don’t get it.”

Tomlin gritted his teeth. “You will,” he said. Then he swung for the fences.

T
ONY SCHULTZ
DIDN
’
T
GO
down easy.

Tomlin’s first blow knocked the man backward but didn’t topple him over. He staggered, his nose bloody, his eyes fire. “What the fuck?”

Tomlin stepped through the door and swung the two-by-four again, this time catching Schultz in the side of the head. Again the man stumbled, and Tomlin chased him backward and hit him until, finally, Schultz fell to the floor, bloody and unmoving.

Tomlin stood over him, breathing hard and suddenly nauseated.
He’ll live,
he told himself.
He’ll wake up and be fine.

He looked down at Schultz until he was sure the homesteader wasn’t going to stand up. Then he stepped over the man’s body and into the living room, where the pistol still sat in its box on the table.

Tomlin opened the gun box and took out the pistol. Beneath the pistol were two magazines, and Tomlin loaded the first into the gun. He glanced back at Schultz, who still hadn’t moved in the hallway.

The guy said he preferred his Ruger,
Tomlin thought.
Maybe I can get a two-for-one going. Make sure he can’t shoot me when I’m trying to leave, anyway.
He studied Schultz for a moment and then walked through the living room to the back, where the big man had retrieved the pistol.

A back annex. An old washing machine and a locked cabinet. Tomlin looked around for the key, couldn’t find it. Didn’t want to go searching Schultz’s pockets. He looked down at the pistol in his hand, thinking,
Well, hell.
He aimed the gun at the lock and braced himself and fired.

The sound was enormous. The lock disintegrated into shrapnel, and Tomlin laughed despite himself, giddy, and wrenched the cabinet open.

Payday.

A camouflage hunting jacket. A stack of
Penthouse
back issues. Another small toolbox case that Tomlin figured must be the Ruger. Beyond it two more cases, bigger. Tomlin laid the first case on the old washing machine and unzipped it. Reached in and pulled out a shotgun, sawed off. “Jesus Christ.”

The bank tellers will shit bricks
.
They’ll unload the vault for me.
Tomlin felt a sudden rush of power and he laughed again. Then he caught himself.
Easy.
That thing’s dangerous.

Tomlin stared at the shotgun, then set it back down. Unzipped the second soft case and peered inside. His breath caught in his throat. “My God.”

It was some kind of assault rifle, an M-16 or an AK-47 or something. A crazy killing machine. Something you’d see in Iraq, or in the hands of some militant anarchist out in the woods. The weapon was obscene, its purpose singular. Tomlin stared at it, tempted and terrified at the same time.

In the front hallway, Schultz groaned. Tomlin looked at the big guns in their cases.
Leave them.
You’re running out of time, and besides, what good will those goddamn cannons do, anyway?

They’ll terrify the bank tellers. They’ll know I don’t screw around.
He stuffed the Sig Sauer into his waistband and picked up the shotgun. Ran it out to Becca’s Navigator and returned for the Ruger and the rifle.

Schultz had rolled onto his side, awake now, when Tomlin returned. He made a grab for Tomlin’s leg as Tomlin stepped past.
“Fucker.”
Tomlin struggled away. Pulled the pistol from his waistband and aimed down at Schultz, finger tensed on the trigger. Schultz stared back, his eyes dulled.
Do it,
Tomlin thought.
Nobody will know. Kill him.

Schultz waited. Tomlin felt the blood pounding in his ears. Swayed a little, off balance, and stared down at the man. Almost pulled the trigger. Then he blinked. Lowered the gun and kicked Schultz instead. Watched him writhe, groaning, coughing up blood. Felt the gun in his hand and still ached to use it.

Easy,
Tomlin thought
. Get a hold of yourself.
He straightened and walked to the back room again. Looked in the dark cabinet and wondered. He reached inside, past the porno mags and the moth-eaten jacket. Felt through to the back. Found dust rats and old socks, a big box of ammunition. And then, hidden against the wall, a couple of plastic-wrapped bricks. One held cash, hundred-dollar bills and lots of them. The other brick looked like cocaine.

The bastard’s a drug dealer,
Tomlin thought.
I’m doing the world a favor.
He picked up the cash and piled it on top of the box of ammunition. Shouldered the rifle in its case and turned toward the front door. Then he stopped and stared back at the cocaine again.
Don’t do it,
he thought.
What do you want with cocaine?

That cocaine equals money.
That’s a year’s mortgage payments. Nobody will know.

“Shit.” Tomlin stacked the cocaine on the cash and made for the front door. He piled the drugs and the cash and the guns in the rear of the truck, and then stepped back and surveyed his loot.

Christmas
came early this year.

I
T WAS
JUST
AFTER
EIGHT
in the evening when Windermere finally found something that fit. The CID office was mostly deserted; Mathers had packed up his football, and even Doughty had vanished, ducking out at a quarter after five with a shrug and a smile. “Family dinner,” he told Windermere. “The wife gets mad when I’m late.”

See ya,
Windermere thought. Doughty was supposed to be riding herd on the city cops, overseeing a canvass of Eat Street and the neighborhoods nearby. He seemed to think the bank robbers were your everyday local underachievers, but so far Minneapolis PD had turned up only blank stares and silence since they’d started knocking on doors.

“Tomorrow,” he told Windermere as he walked to the elevators. “We’ll get them tomorrow. And if not tomorrow, the day after.”

Maybe,
Windermere thought,
but I want him today.
She kept her mouth shut. Grinding through the case backlog was a one-person job, anyway.

Still, by eight o’clock she was hungry and restless, getting nowhere, and she stood up from her chair, stretching, figuring to try out the new Thai joint down the block. But the face on her screen suddenly looked familiar, and she straightened and studied the picture.

The suspect had robbed a First Minnesota branch in Prospect Park in January. He’d come alone, with a pistol and a note, and had walked with just over six thousand dollars. A good score. In the still picture from the security camera, he looked to stand about six feet tall, wore a black Adidas track jacket, aviator sunglasses, and a black watch cap. A ready-made disguise. Not suspicious at all.

They should start treating banks like airports,
Windermere thought.
Strip search at the door before you walk in. No guns and no shitty disguises.

According to Rachel Hill’s file, this guy was a serial robber who tended to hit banks the same way: a note, a pistol, a makeshift disguise. A long way from an assault rifle and a team takeover job; nothing like Eat Street at all.

According to Agent Hill, however, a witness had reported a gold Toyota Camry driving out of the neighborhood just after the robbery occurred. The witness hadn’t gotten a good look at the driver, and Hill hadn’t made any progress tracking down the car.

Windermere sat down again and kept reading, her pulse speeding up as the similarities started to pop. Same time of day, a Monday afternoon. Guy had blue eyes, too, according to the bank teller’s statement. The bank teller’s name was Darcy Passat. Lived off University Avenue, a few blocks from the bank.

Windermere checked her watch. Nearly eight-thirty. Her stomach growled. She ignored it. Reached for her notepad and copied down the woman’s address. Then she stood again and reached for her coat.
Prospect Park,
she thought, walking to the elevator.
Let’s see what this teller remembers.