The Freeport Robbery Page 16

  A white panel van squealed up to the curb in front of her. Two men jumped out of the back, a black man with a goatee and a white man with a blond crew cut. “Get in the van,” the white man said.

  Mosley spun on her heels. She made two steps before they pounced on her and dragged her kicking and screaming into the van. The white man pushed her to the floor and sat on her while the black man pulled the doors shut. Up in the driver’s seat, a white man with a black eye was looking over his shoulder. As soon as the back doors clicked shut, he sped off. The blond man got off of her. She sat up and pulled her clothes straight. “Do you know who I am?”

  He nodded. “Remember me from the other night in your room?”

  She studied his face in the gloom, and then she glanced toward the driver. “Yes.”

  “Gary just wants to talk to you. Relax. If we wanted to hurt you, you’d be unconscious, and we’d have your gun.”

  They pulled up next to the Crenshaw Industries warehouse. The only light in the alley came from the warehouse windows. The blond man led Mosley inside, where Gary was standing next to the nearest loaded pallet of boxes. “Special Agent Mosley,” he said, “glad you could find the time.”

  “Do you really think you can grab me off the street? Mr. Philips is going to hear about this.”

  “Is that a rhetorical question?” He took a step toward her. “You’ve crossed the line. We know you already have the casket.”

  Mosley didn’t say anything.

  Gary nodded. “That’s right. We know. You’re going to give us the casket to take to Mr. Philips, and you’re going to leave that Denison guy alone. You’re stirring up a bunch of bullshit with NewTrust that’s going to blow back on Mr. Philips. You’re going to stop right now.”

  “I’m stirring up shit? Who botched up getting rid of Rickover?”

  “All the more reason there’s not going to be any more fuck-ups.”

  “I don’t have the casket.”

  “Don’t lie to me. You’re not good at it, and you have too much at stake.”

  Mosley glanced back toward the warehouse door. The blond man stood there with his arms crossed and a blank expression on his face. They weren’t going to let her leave until she agreed to do what they said. She turned back to Gary. “Okay. I’ll bring the casket to you first thing in the morning.”

  Gary shook his head. “You’ll go get it now. In the morning, you’re getting on the first flight out to Charles Bay.”

  “Okay.”

  He stepped in close, grabbed her chin, and pulled her face up to his. “Look at me,” he said. “This is my serious face. Do I look like the kind of man you want to fuck with?”

  His breath felt hot. His eyes were like small black stones. She felt a chill run up her spine. “No.”

  He let go of her chin. “Don’t make the mistake that Rickover made. Do what you say you’re going to do. Bring me the casket.”

  The blond man drove Mosley back. They rode in silence, the blond man driving like a grandpa on his summer vacation and Mosley looking out the passenger window at the knots of people on the street as if she might recognize someone. When he pulled to a stop at the top of the circle drive to the hotel, she climbed out. “Tell Gary I’m going to be a little while.”

  “You’ve got his number?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Don’t be too long. You might be a special friend of the boss, but even that will only carry you so far.”

  She went into the lobby. A large group of people in formalwear were milling about as if they were between the wedding and the reception. She squeezed through them and down the hallway to the elevators, which led to a side door. The street was dark. She walked north toward Clare’s condo, angling right and left through side streets so that she could be sure that she wasn’t being followed. How did Philips’s men find out she had the casket? NewTrust wouldn’t have told them. That left Denison and the Carters, which meant that the Carters must have found a way to put Philips’s crew on her to further their own plan.

  Because they didn’t want Philips to get the casket. They wanted it returned. Or so they claimed. But now they were just as screwed as she was. She couldn’t help her daughter if she were dead, and it was clear that Gary thought he could kill her and get away with it. She would have to come up with a new plan to get free of Philips and get the tuition money.

  She unlocked the door to Clare’s condo and went inside. Clare was sitting on the sofa in the living room, looking off into space, a large whiskey in her hands. “I thought you had work tonight.”

  Clare stood up. “A man and a woman came here, threatened me with a gun, searched the house, and took a red suitcase I’ve never seen before.”

  “Red suitcase?” Mosley ran back into the bedroom. The overstuffed chair was still pulled out from the corner. The suitcase was gone. She went back into the living room. “How long ago?”

  “An hour, maybe.”

  “Oh, God.” She sat in the chair facing Clare and held her head in her hands. “A man and a woman, dark hair, fortyish, fiftyish.”

  She nodded. “What’s going on here, Grace? What have you got me involved in?”

  Mosley looked up at her. “There’s something in the suitcase that I was holding for Philips. I left it here because I thought it would be safe.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “I thought it would be safer—that you would be safer if you didn’t know about it.”

  “Because it’s always better not to know if people might come to hurt you.” Clare drank down her whiskey and set the empty glass on the end table.

  “It’s not like that. I trust you, Clare.”

  “If the suitcase belonged to Philips, why didn’t you give it to his people?”

  “That’s what I was here to do, right now. Philips’s guys are expecting the suitcase right now.”

  Clare looked down at Mosley and shook her head. “You’re caught up in something, Grace. You’re not making sense. You could have given the suitcase to the guys as soon as you got it. You brought it here to hide it. That’s why you didn’t tell me.” She shook her finger at her. “You’re going to tell me the truth right now. You’re going to tell me the whole truth or you’re going to get out of here.”

  Mosley looked at Clare’s shoes. She spoke slowly and carefully. “My daughter is developmentally disabled. I can’t afford the care she needs on my salary. That’s why I work for Philips, to pay the tuition. But Philips is asking me to do things I can’t do; it’s just too much, so I was looking for a way out.”

  “Christ, Grace, you thought you could keep Philips’s money or whatever, and he wouldn’t find out?”

  “The guys were tipped off about the suitcase. I’m supposed to bring it now. If it was still here, I could talk my way out of this.”

  “But the man and the woman took it.”

  “Exactly. So I’m screwed. The best I can hope for is that Philips thinks I’m more valuable alive than dead.”

  Clare knelt down in front of her and took her hands. “Do the guys know where you are?”

  She shook her head.

  “You lied to me. You put me in danger.”

  “I know. It wasn’t what I intended. I thought you’d be safe from Philips if you didn’t know, but you’re right; I was a fool.”

  “You don’t really love me, do you?”

  “I never lied to you. I always enjoy our time together, but I only come here when Philips sends me.”

  Clare’s lower lip quivered. “And that was never going to change.”

  “It’s okay,” Mosley said. “I’ll leave.” She started to stand up.

  Clare put a hand on Mosley’s shoulder. “I don’t know why I should care about what happens to you after what you’ve done, but I don’t want you to get hurt. You can stay here tonight, but then you have to go.”

  “You’re a better friend than I deserve,” Mosley said.

  10

  Running the Gauntlet

  Mosley woke
up in Clare’s bed. She could see the dim, early morning light through a gap in the bedroom curtains. Clare was turned away from her, breathing softly, her bare arm clutching the flower-patterned comforter up to her throat. Mosley slipped out of the bed. She quietly picked up her clothes from the overstuffed chair and padded out into the bathroom.

  As she dressed, she mulled over her options. Her original plan was a nonstarter. Philips’s men would kill her as soon as they found out she couldn’t deliver the casket. They’d do a better job of dumping her than they had Rickover, and she’d never be found. And even if she were found in the bottom of some narrow gulch, there would be no evidence connecting Philips to her murder. To have any chance of saving her life and protecting her daughter, she needed to get away from Nohamay City and get back inside the safety of the FBI’s bubble, which meant that she had to do her job—return the casket to the museum.

  She tucked in her shirt and zipped her pants. But even if she managed to find the Carters, take back the casket, and escape the city, Philips would still be after her. And how far would he go to get even with her? Would he use the evidence he had against her to burn her with the FBI? Could he do that without implicating himself? Maybe she could still develop hard evidence connecting Philips to Rickover’s murder and use it to strike a deal with Philips.

  She splashed cold water on her face, patted her face dry with a hand towel, and looked at herself in the mirror. So many ifs, buts, and maybes. Avoid Philips’s men, take back the casket, get the evidence against Philips. No matter what happened, she still needed Denison’s money. Denison was just another rich asshole who thought rules didn’t apply to him. He deserved to pay the $200,000 for trafficking stolen art. He wouldn’t even miss the money. She brushed her hair and put on some lipstick. Out in the living room, she put her pistol in a holster at the small of her back and slipped on her suit coat. She thought for a moment of leaving Clare a note—a heart with a few lines of thanks inside—but what was the point? She’d burned her bridges here when she’d involved Clare in her trouble.

  She shut the front door as softly as possible, and then pushed on it to make sure it was locked. The streets were quiet. The day felt new and somehow hopeful, even if this was the point of no return. First order of business was to get Denison’s money, which meant going to the hospital, since that was the most likely place to pick him up without running into any of Philips’s men.

  Mosley arrived at the hospital with a to-go cup from the Caffeination coffee shop. She entered through a side door and went up the stairwell to the second floor where she peered through the wire hatching in the glass window of the fire door. The hall was empty, and she couldn’t see anyone at the nurses’ station by the elevators. She slipped down the hall to Mrs. Wert-Denison’s room and peeked inside. She was asleep, emaciated and yellow-tinged. Mosley couldn’t help feeling sorry for her. She should have been dead weeks ago. Mosley went back the way she had come and stood in the stairwell sipping her lukewarm coffee and watching the hallway through the fire door window, waiting for Denison.

  A security officer, a full-figured Native American woman wearing silver and turquoise earrings with a navy-blue pants suit, sauntered down the hall and stopped outside Wert-Denison’s door, where she leaned against the wall. She had a pistol and pepper spray holstered on her hips.

  Mosley grimaced. The last thing she needed right now was interference from the NewTrust Corporation. She’d hoped to stay under their radar. Maybe the officer wouldn’t be there when Denison arrived. Maybe when she showed her badge the officer would defer to her authority. But no matter what happened, she had more to fear from Philips’s men than NewTrust. She had to get the money, get the casket, and get gone. She studied the security officer. There was no way of knowing her level of experience. If Mosley attacked, would she flinch and duck or would she overreact and pull her weapon? Mosley knew she was probably faster and more skilled, but the officer was larger and obviously stronger. She certainly couldn’t take her in a straight-up fight. But maybe she wouldn’t have to. She sipped her coffee and waited.

  A while later, Denison, disheveled and spent, slouched down the hall and into the room. The security officer went into the women’s restroom. Mosley opened the fire door and padded down the hall. The door to the room was open. Denison sat on a chair next to the bed facing his wife, his back to the door. He was talking on the phone. “She’s unconscious. She’s not going to wake up. It’s just a matter of time now.” He paused. “I love you, too.” He put his phone back into his pants pocket.

  “Denison,” Mosley said.

  He looked over his shoulder. “What do you want?”

  “I’m here for the two hundred thousand.”

  “I’m not paying you anything.”

  “It will cost you more than that to clear up the scandal. Philanthropist caught up with art theft ring. That’s a story with legs.”

  “Please leave us alone.”

  “So you’d rather make your family suffer?”

  The security officer stepped into the room, her hand on the butt of her holstered gun. “Who are you?”

  Mosley showed her ID. “Special Agent Mosley, FBI.”

  “What are you doing here?”

  Denison pointed at Mosley. “My wife is dying. Make her leave.”

  Mosley replied to the officer, “I’m here investigating the theft of an art object.”

  “Be that as it may, no one’s allowed in here. You’re going to have to leave.”

  “I need to ask Mr. Denison some questions.”

  “And I have my orders.” The officer gripped Mosley’s arm and pulled her toward the door.

  “This is a mistake.”

  “Take it up with Mr. Chen.”

  Mosley glanced at Denison. There were no options left. She had to have that money. She knocked the officer’s arm free and grabbed for the pepper spray holstered on her belt. They fell back against the wall by the door, struggling over the pepper spray. Denison crouched by his wife’s head, holding her hand in his. The officer pushed off from the wall and shoved Mosley across the small room. Mosley banged against the other wall and scrambled to her feet, the pepper spray in her hand. The officer reached for her gun, but Mosley pepper-sprayed her in the face, moving toward her as she backed into the hallway while trying to protect her face with her hands. The officer fell down on her hands and knees, gasping for breath, tears streaming down her face. Mosley took the officer’s pistol, rushed back into the room, grabbed Denison by the arm, and pulled him into the hallway.

  Denison looked at her as if she were crazy. “Where are you taking me?”

  “You just couldn’t cooperate, could you?” She dragged him down the hallway past the nurses’ station and down the main stairwell to the first floor. Another security officer, a white-haired senior with a big belly, came jogging down the hall toward them. Mosley jerked Denison’s arm. “Quit dragging your feet.”

  She pushed him into the hospital administration offices. Two women—one a Native American twenty-something, the other a middle-aged white woman—looked up from their computers. Mosley held up the security officer’s pistol for them to see. The young woman squealed.

  “Everybody out,” Mosley yelled.

  The two women jumped up from their desks and ran. Dr. O’Brian came out of her office, her white coat fluttering behind her and her reading glasses in her hand. “What’s going on here?”

  “Please,” Denison said, “I need help. She’s crazy.”

  Mosley pointed the pistol at O’Brian. “Shut up and get out of here.”

  O’Brian stammered, her eyes glassy with fear. She held her hands up and slowly backed out of the office.

  Mosley pointed to an office chair that had rolled back to the far wall. “Sit down.”

  Denison sat. Mosley put the pistol into her jacket pocket and pushed the nearest desk up against the door. “What a fucking mess. Sorry if I scared you. I don’t want to hurt you.”

  “You’ve got a strange way
of showing it.”

  “Yeah, well, events got ahead of me. Like you, I’ve got family I’m responsible for, family I have to protect. They have to come first. Get me the two hundred thousand, and you’ll be back with your wife before you know it.” She took out her phone and called Gary. “Hey. You know who I am?”

  “Where’s the casket?” Gary said.

  “There’s been a change of plan. I’m in the hospital admin offices. Denison is with me. City security has me boxed in.”

  “You don’t listen at all, do you?”

  “The Carters stole the casket from my hiding place. You’re going to get it from them and bring it to me. It’s going back to the museum. And you’re going to let me get on a plane, or I’m going to call in the FBI, and Philips’s operation blows up.”

  “You call in the FBI, and you go to jail.”

  “But I’ll still be alive. And you bastards won’t have any hold on me. Find the Carters. Bring me the casket. It’s your only way out.”

  Ron and Nicole were in the beat-up Camry. They had just come through the drive-through of a Caffeination coffee shop. They each had a large black coffee and an egg-and-bacon croissant. Ron turned left on Mountain View Road and drove past the gas station where he had bought the car, but he didn’t stop. His gas tank was full. At the next traffic light, he would make a right turn onto Trade Memorial Highway, the only road to Camp Carson, which was the nearest city outside the Nohamay Nation. Rickover’s $90,000 and the Cellini casket were hidden in the trunk under their luggage and an assortment of junk that had been left in the Camry when he bought it.

  In the rearview mirror, Ron saw a white panel van coming up fast. He turned on his right turn signal as he approached the traffic light. The panel van roared by them, braked hard, and slid sideways in front of them. Ron hit the brakes and turned to the right to avoid hitting the van. The Camry bumped over the curb onto the sandy right-of-way. Ron glanced in the rearview mirror. A blue van was behind them. Philips’s men rushed out and came up to both sides of the Camry, guns drawn. Ron lowered his window. “What’s up, guys?”