Criminal Enterprise (8 page)

T
OMLIN STOOD IN
his model train room, watching a long freight wind its way through the mountains. It was long past midnight by now; the house was silent above him. The little electric motors in the model locomotives sounded like diesel engines as the train rolled across the layout.

Tomlin’s body was tired. His mind, though, couldn’t slow down. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw the Eat Street robbery, a few days ago now but still fresh. He could feel the big assault rifle explode in his hands as he fired that burst into the ceiling. Could still see the pretty young teller trembling as she emptied her till, her eyes pleading with him not to shoot her.

The money’s good,
Tomlin thought.
The money buys the whole family a couple months, worry-free. The bank teller, though, and the gun?

Tomlin shivered.

He parked the freight train in the Minneapolis yard and started up a passenger express for another loop. Thought about Tricia as the train picked up speed. For all of his misgivings, his spiky-haired punk-rock princess had come through as advertised. Brought him to her apartment a few days after the deal with Javier, introduced him to Dragan, a quiet Serbian kid with acne scars and a close-cropped haircut.
He looks like a basketball player,
Tomlin thought.
Or a rebel soldier in some woebegone Baltic state.

“How do you know him?” Tomlin had asked her, when Dragan had ducked out, his mother on the phone.

Tricia shrugged. “I just know him,” she said. “You ask so many questions.”

“I’m hiring him to rob banks,” Tomlin told her. “I’m allowed to ask questions.”

Tricia glanced after Dragan. Then she sighed. “We went to the same high school,” she said. “He used to drive for his big brother’s crew. They took down a bunch of liquor stores in my neighborhood before they got caught. Dragan was young, so they let him out early. He’s cool, boss. You can trust him.”

“Are you two together?”

She gave him her funny smile. “Sometimes,” she said.

He’d watched her eyes go wide when he’d brought out the guns. Frowned when she picked up the shotgun. “Careful with that,” he told her.

Tricia scoffed. “You be careful,” she said. “I’m no virgin.”

“It’s a big gun.”

“My dad’s a gun freak,” she said. “Used to take me hunting. You ever want any pointers with this baby, let me know.”

He let her keep the shotgun—or, rather, she claimed it, leaving Tomlin to get used to the rifle. The thing made his stomach churn, its purpose explicit and its menace undisguised. He’d stared at it for hours, almost afraid to hold it. Then he’d carried the gun into the First Minnesota branch and fired that first burst through the ceiling, and instantly his misgivings vanished. The building seemed to shake on its foundation. The bank tellers cowered, and he felt like a god. A god with a really big gun.

Tomlin watched the passenger train come speeding out of the mountains, toward the city. It passed the munitions factory, where he’d hidden the shotgun shells, and slowed for a stop at the big Saint Paul station.

Tomlin parked the train and turned off the engines. He shut off the lights and went upstairs and slipped into bed beside Becca, listening to his wife’s breathing and forcing himself to wipe the robbery from his mind. Forcing himself to stop thinking about the money and Tricia and the terrified bank teller. He imagined he was on a train somewhere, in a sleeping car speeding through the night, and soon he was drifting off, picturing in his mind a late-night station stop, the clatter of the wheels on the tracks, a munitions factory dark in the distance.

S
TEVENS STARED
AT
the snow-covered hulk. Brushed more snow from the trunk, his gloves coming back rusty. The car had been here awhile.

He pulled off one glove and reached into his pocket and came out with a photocopy from the Danzers’ case file. Glanced at their Thunderbird’s registration and then knelt at the rear bumper and brushed the snow from the license plate. The plate was still there. He glanced at the photocopy again. The license plate matched.

Stevens stared at the car, his mind spinning with questions. Then he looked back to where Waters stood by the fork in the trail. “This is it,” he called back. His voice seemed to echo for miles. “This is my car.”

Waters stared at him a moment. Then he started toward the Thunderbird. Stevens turned back to the hulk and studied it again. Sylvia Danzer’s car, marooned in the wilderness.
How in the hell did it get here?

Waters arrived beside him. “Not the best road for a T-Bird.”

“The plates match,” Stevens said. “This is my fugitive’s car.”

Waters leaned forward and brushed snow from the bodywork. “So where’s your fugitive?”

Stevens looked beyond the car and into the vast woods. “Could be anywhere.”

“Probably long gone,” said Waters. “Crashed the car here and set out on foot. Bummed a ride on the highway and disappeared again, right?”

“Maybe.” Stevens studied the snow-covered windows again. “Or maybe not.”

He stepped through the snow to the driver’s-side door. Wiped the snow from the window and peered into the dark car. He squinted and looked closer. Waters watched him. “You see something?”

Stevens looked in through the window one more time. “We’re going to want to call forensics,” he told Waters. “It doesn’t look like my fugitive got very far.”

T
OMLIN WOKE
WITH
the sun shining bright through the bedroom windows and the bed empty beside him. He sat up, rubbing his eyes, and glanced at the clock on the bedside table. Ten after eight. He’d be late for work, he knew, but he didn’t care. He stared up at the ceiling and felt himself drifting off again.

Then Becca came into the bedroom, a strange look on her face. “Time to get up,” she said. “Someone’s at the door.”

Tomlin opened his eyes. “Who?”

“A woman.” Becca shrugged. “She’s asking for you.”

Tomlin rubbed his eyes again.
Tricia, probably.
“Tell her one minute.” He sat up and pulled on his clothes from the day before. Brushed his teeth quickly, splashed cold water on his face, and examined himself in the mirror. Dark circles under his eyes. Maybe a couple new wrinkles. Otherwise, he looked normal. Likable. He buttoned his shirt and walked out to the hallway.

She was waiting in the front landing as he walked down the stairs. About halfway down, he knew it wasn’t Tricia. Tricia was short and white and skinny and dressed like a punk rocker. This woman wore dressy low heels and slacks. She was taller than Tricia, and in her thirties, but just, with smooth coffee-brown skin and long black hair and piercing hazel eyes that watched him as though they already knew every one of his secrets. Tomlin felt a sudden chill as her eyes met his.

“Carter Tomlin,” she said. “Carla Windermere. Got a couple questions to ask you.”

She showed him a badge. FBI. Tomlin looked at the woman and then at her badge again, fighting the sudden, intense urge to start running.

T
OMLIN STARED
AT
the young FBI agent in his doorway, his mouth suddenly very dry.
She knows,
he thought.
She knows everything.
He cleared his throat. “Questions,” he said. “What’s the problem?”

Windermere smiled, apologetic. “Sorry to bother you so early,” she said. “Looks like you had a late night.”

Tomlin forced a laugh. “Just busy,” he said. “Tax season’s coming. Everybody and their dog wants their refund tomorrow.”

“You’re an accountant.”

“I try to be,” he said. “Come on in.”

He led her into the living room, and they sat as Becca came in from the kitchen. “Everything all right?”

Sure, honey.
The nice FBI lady is just going to arrest me and take away all of your stuff.
Tomlin pasted a smile on his face. “Everything’s fine.”

Becca looked at Windermere. “Would you like some coffee?”

“I’m fine,” Windermere replied, her eyes still on Tomlin.

“Maybe I’ll have a coffee.” Tomlin stood. “Back in a second.”

“Actually, Mr. Tomlin, this will only take a minute.”

Tomlin stopped and looked back at the agent. She gave him the same apologetic smile. “I just need a few answers, and then you can get back to your business.”

Tomlin looked at Becca, then back to the agent, wondering how fast he could cover the distance to the basement and his guns. Becca touched his shoulder, and he flinched. “I’ll make you some coffee,” she said.

Tomlin hesitated. Then he sat down again and looked at Windermere. “What did you say was the problem, exactly?”

“Bank robberies. Maybe you’ve heard about them. The one on Eat Street a couple of days ago. I’m trying to follow up on a lead.”

“You’re not going to tell me I’m a suspect.”

Windermere smiled. “To be honest, Mr. Tomlin, we don’t have any suspects. Not yet.”

“Good.” Tomlin held her gaze for a second or two before he had to look away. He laughed. “I mean, not good for you guys, but, you know. Good that I’m not a suspect.”

Shut up.
He turned away from those hypnotic eyes and stared out the front window instead, across the lawn to where Windermere’s dark sedan sat parked by the curb. He tented his fingers. “So what does this all have to do with me?”

Windermere reached into her pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper. She unfolded it and slid it across the coffee table toward Tomlin. “Take a look,” she said. “Tell me what you think.”

Tomlin picked up the paper. A photocopy of another piece of paper, smaller, both sides. A receipt; he recognized it. His shaky handwriting. Two sentences. He remembered scribbling out the words on the Jaguar’s cherry dash in that Walmart parking lot in Midway. Tomlin steadied his breathing. “From the robbery?”

“Not Eat Street. A Bank of America in Midway. You see the flip side?”

Tomlin nodded, aware of how intently she studied his face. The parking receipt had been the only scrap of paper he could find.

“I talked to the attendants at that parking garage,” said Windermere. “They pointed me here. Said you paid for that receipt with your credit card.”

Tomlin nodded again.
Think carefully, now.
He glanced back toward the kitchen.
Where the hell was Becca with that coffee?

“It’s definitely my receipt,” he told her, pretending to study the note. “I would have parked there that day.”

“You work downtown?”

“Worked. I opened my own shop in the fall.” He held up the paper. “Moved across to Lowertown. Park on the street.”

“Uh-huh.” She leaned forward again. “So, okay, listen. This is your receipt. How did it get into a Midway bank robbery?”

Tomlin shook his head. “No idea.”

“Your car wasn’t broken into at any point last summer?”

He started to tell her no. Then he stopped. Nodded slowly. “Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, it was. That same parking garage, too. Funny thing.”

Windermere gave it a beat. “Funny thing,” she said finally. “You filed a police report?”

“They didn’t take much,” he said, thinking fast. “Just the change from my glove box. I figured they must have been addicts or something.”

“And the receipt was in there, too.”

“Must have been,” he said. “The worst part was trying to fix that damn window. Cost nearly a grand at the end of the day.”

Windermere nodded again. “You got it fixed where?”

Tomlin pretended to think. “One of those shops,” he said, frowning. “Those auto glass shops. I don’t remember which one.”

“You keep a receipt or anything?”

He shrugged. “I can check.”

“Do that.” She smiled at him again. “It would really help me out.”

“I’ll be in touch,” he said, standing. “Do you have a card?”

She stood quickly, digging in her wallet as they walked back out to the landing. She handed him a business card. “Call me anytime. We get that receipt, we cross you off our list of names.”

“I thought you didn’t have suspects.”

She stopped on the front steps and smiled back at him. “We don’t, Mr. Tomlin. Not yet.”

Then she turned away, and Tomlin watched her walk down to her sedan and climb behind the wheel. She shot him a half wave from the driver’s seat and then pulled away from the curb, and Tomlin exhaled as she disappeared down the street.

Becca was just coming into the living room with a tray full of coffee mugs when he walked in from the landing. “Where did she go?” she said, frowning.

Tomlin shrugged. “She left.”

“Oh.” Becca put down her tray. “Well, what did she want?”

He glanced out the window, toward the empty spot where Windermere had parked her sedan. “Something about a bank robbery,” he said. “A misunderstanding.” He turned away from the window and walked to the stairs.

“Don’t you want your coffee?”

Tomlin didn’t look back. “I’m going to be late for work,” he told her, as he climbed the stairs. Stopped halfway up to lean against the wall and steady his thoughts, the FBI agent’s piercing stare still burning into his eyes like a sunspot.

W
INDERMERE PARKED
the Crown Vic off Summit Avenue and sat back in the seat. She grinned at herself in the rearview mirror.
Carter Tomlin,
she thought.
You are so made.

He was a rich man. Had a beautiful wife. Kids, too, and a cute yellow dog, judging from the pictures on the mantle. Your everyday American success story, pretty much. He even looked like an accountant, for God’s sake: attractive, kind of boring. Harmless.

Still, the guy was so guilty he reeked. Same build as the bank robber from Midway and Prospect Park. Same icy blue eyes as the psycho from Eat Street. He’d squirmed and flushed as they talked, tried and failed to play innocent, fed her some bullshit story about his car getting robbed.

Didn’t happen.

The way he’d latched on to that story, clung to it like a lifeline, she’d known he was her guy. Gave her some vague excuse, no details. Promised to get her a receipt they both knew he didn’t have.

Windermere sat in the Crown Vic, staring out at the snowy street.
What a neighborhood.
Old mansions and vast lawns and European cars in the driveways.
What a neighborhood.

Tomlin had changed jobs. Moved across to Lowertown. Cheaper rents. Cheaper parking. Maybe money was tight. The mortgage on a house like his wouldn’t come cheap. Maybe he had to rob banks to survive.

Harris and Doughty wouldn’t buy it, she knew. Doughty, especially. And from the looks of things, Harris sided with the senior man—though whether the operative word was
senior
or
man
was still up for debate. Either way, they’d see the receipt as circumstantial, which it was. They wouldn’t know Tomlin, wouldn’t have seen him. If they saw him, they would know he was guilty.

Windermere watched as a big Mercedes-Benz cruised by, an unhappy woman at the wheel, a couple of angry kids in the back.
Good luck getting Doughty to agree to come out here,
she thought.
He’s like a dog with a bone with that southern Minneapolis angle.

Still, she had to try.

Windermere pulled out her cell phone and called her partner. “You just about done over there?” he said, when he came on the line. “Could use your help back at home base.”

“Yeah,” she said. “Listen, I have news.”

“So do I. You’re headed back?”

“Tomlin’s an accountant,” she said. “He’s guilty as sin. Tried to feed me some line about his car being robbed, but he was sweating like an athlete the whole time. He’s lying. I know it.”

Doughty grunted. “How soon can you be here?”

“He’s our guy, Bob,” she said. “You don’t believe me, but this guy bleeds guilty. Come out to his place and you’ll see it.”

“He’s not our guy,” Doughty said.

Windermere started to reply. Then she stopped.

“I have something better, Agent Windermere.” She could hear the smile in his voice now, smug. “One of my Minneapolis PD contacts threw me a lead. Southern Minneapolis, just like I’ve been saying. Fits the profile to a T.”

“Your profile,” said Windermere.

“Our profile,” said Doughty. “This guy’s a career criminal. Some lowlife out in Phillips. Been throwing money around lately, bragging about a bank job. I looked him up in the database, found B and E’s, assaults, grand theft auto. He’s a pro. And he lives within driving range of every heist we’ve tracked.”

Doughty paused, let it sink in. “This is our guy, Agent Windermere. Now come on back to base and we can take this guy down. I’ve already cleared it with Harris.”

Windermere said nothing.

Doughty cleared his throat. “You there, Agent Windermere?”

Goddamn, how she wanted to wipe the smile from his face. “I’m here, Bob,” she said, and sighed. She shifted into drive and pulled away from the curb, watching Tomlin’s house disappear in the rearview mirror. “I’m headed back now. Give me a half hour or so.”