The Freeport Robbery Page 5

  He shook his head. “Their hands are empty.”

  “Could you hang on to the loading dock and perimeter fence footage for me?”

  “No problem.”

  “And I’d appreciate it if you’d keep this visit to yourself.”

  The manager stood up. “If nobody asks me, I won’t tell them.”

  Mosley pushed out the double glass doors of the security office and walked across the parking lot to her car. Gray clouds were rolling in from over the ocean, piling up over the city. Would there be rain this afternoon or would the clouds blow off? She sat down in her car. Aaron didn’t fake the theft of the Cellini casket. That was a real theft. She thought about the surveillance footage. The pair who’d brought out the bag didn’t give up when they were outnumbered and ambushed. Judging from where the truck ended up, and how they’d been seen at the fence, they’d gone after the bag to retrieve it, but had been fought off and had then managed to escape. The guy Aaron met at the rest stop must have been in the crew that ended up with the casket. So either Aaron had been tipped off about the robbery and used the information to his advantage, or he had planned the robbery and set up the robbers. A risky opening move, but one that paid off by putting another set of people between him and the robbery.

  Aaron wasn’t thinking like a cop; he was thinking like a crook. From the very beginning of this sting operation, he was putting his job, his freedom, and his life on the line. He was even more reckless and unstable than she’d thought last night. What else had he lied about? What really was his relationship with Philips? Was the forged painting he sold Philips part of his investigation, or did he simply get caught being too smart for his own good? Was there even a sting operation at all? Or was Aaron just hatching a plan to screw over Philips and make some money? At this point, she couldn’t tell. Either way, she had to make sure she stayed upwind of his problems. She wasn’t going to do anything to jeopardize her extra income, and the farther Aaron ran down the rabbit hole, the harder he was going to be to help.

  Mosley tapped her fingers on the steering wheel. If she was going to Nohamay City, she had to call Clare. She couldn’t put it off any longer. She just didn’t want to rehash the argument they had the last time they spoke. How could she avoid the topic? What was the best approach to smooth things over? Maybe if she just kept things simple. She took out her phone. “Clare? I’m glad I caught you, sweetie. I thought you might be at work.”

  “I haven’t left yet.”

  “How have you been?”

  “I haven’t seen you in a while.”

  “I know. I’ve been busy. I miss you.” There was a pause on the line.

  “I miss you, too.”

  “The reason I called—I just wanted to let you know that I’m on my way to you. Be there in a day or two. Wanted to give you the heads up, you know, in case you had someone new.”

  “There’s nobody new.”

  “Really? Can I stay over? I don’t want to impose.”

  “Call me with your flight information.”

  “Can’t wait to see you.” She ended the call. That went better than expected. Clare dealt blackjack at the Great Circle Casino, but she was also Mosley’s contact in Nohamay City. When Philips wanted something taken to his freeport vault locker, one of his men gave Mosley an aluminum attaché case—as a federal agent she could avoid airport security—and she flew into Nohamay City. She gave the case to Clare, who handed it off to the person authorized to enter the locker. The first time she met Clare, it was as if they were long-lost sisters, and within a few trips they were best buddies. Then one evening at Clare’s condo, while they were sitting on the sofa watching a movie, Clare had leaned over and kissed her. Mosley knew Clare was a lesbian, had from the very beginning, and she suspected Clare’s interest in her was more than platonic, so she hadn’t been surprised that Clare would try to kiss her, but she had been surprised by her own response. She’d kissed her back. There was a softness in that kiss that she hadn’t expected, a softness that felt at once warm and electric. They didn’t sleep together that night, or even on the next trip. But eventually, as if it had always been meant to happen, they ended up in bed.

  Mosley drove across the parking lot to the freeport gate. It would be great to see Clare again. She was wonderful to touch. The feminine closeness they shared was something that Mosley hadn’t experienced anywhere else. She always looked forward to it. She wasn’t in love with Clare, and she hadn’t lied to her about it, and that’s what led to their argument. But maybe everything was okay now. She really hoped so. On this trip, if she were going to stay in Philips’s good graces and keep Aaron from getting killed, her visit to Nohamay City was going to be a lot more stressful than usual. She needed Clare’s condo to be her island of peace.

  By midafternoon Ron and Nicole had moved from the Caffeination coffee shop through a Taco Verde at lunchtime to a PourAway coffee shop at a strip mall off the beltway. Ron had spent the day calling people who didn’t know Eagle Tattoo but who knew someone who might know him, dead ends piling up like dog-eared magazines at a dentist’s office. “Thanks, Jimbo,” he said.

  Nicole looked up from across the table. “Any luck?”

  “Just another lead.” He dialed the new number.

  “Palace Barbeque,” the man’s voice said.

  “Mikey? Jimmy Stevens gave me your number, said you might be able to help me out.”

  “How’s that?”

  “You know a big guy, red beard, eagle tattoo on his hand?”

  “Tommy? I know him a little. What you looking for him for?”

  “Got some work he might be interested in. You got a number for him?”

  “No, I don’t. But a buddy of his comes in here most days after work.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “This isn’t any bullshit, is it? I don’t want to get anybody in trouble.”

  “I’m just trying to hire a reliable crew, if you know what I mean.”

  “Richie. Wears a biker jacket. Has a blue snake tattooed on his neck.”

  “Thanks a lot.”

  Ron ended the call and looked over at Nicole. “Find Palace Barbeque on the map.”

  They drove over to the near west side into a poor white neighborhood that surrounded two shut-down metal works plants. The Palace Barbeque was a narrow brick two-story building that could have been a bank once upon a time. It was located on a corner across from a boarded-up grocery store. It didn’t smell as if there was any barbeque being cooked inside. They drove down the side of the building to the back parking lot and parked at the far back, next to the alley. The lot was crowded with old cars and work trucks, and a row of motorcycles was parked up next to the building. The back door was propped open with a concrete block. Honky-tonk music blasted out. While they sat there, a pair of longhaired men dressed in work clothes came out the back, got into a truck, sat for a few minutes, and then went back inside.

  Ron leaned back in his seat. “Selling drugs in the parking lot. Not worried about the cops at all. We’re not dressed for this venue. Everyone will remember us.”

  “You want me to bring the guy out?”

  He shook his head. “He’s probably one of Tommy’s crew.”

  They got out of the car. Ron put on his suit coat to cover up the Smith & Wesson on his hip. As they walked across the gravel, an unshaven man wearing a biker jacket stumbled out the door with his arm around a drunken bleached blonde wearing a very short red dress. As he dug his sunglasses out of his shirt pocket, he turned. A blue snake was tattooed on his neck.

  “Luck’s changing,” Nicole said.

  “You better knock on wood,” Ron replied. He hollered over at the man. “Richie!”

  Richie turned, let go of the woman, and balled his hands into fists. “Who are you?”

  “I’m looking for Tommy.”

  The woman pushed her hair out of her face, pulled a pack of cigarettes and a lighter out of her bra, and lit a cigarette. She squinted at Nicole as if she were sizing
up the competition. “Let’s go, baby.”

  “Tommy who?” Richie said.

  Ron looked at Richie’s sunglasses as if he could see his eyes. “Mikey told me you could hook me up. I’m trying to get a job done. Want to see if Tommy’s interested.”

  “Mikey, huh?” Richie let his hands hang loose. “Why don’t you tell me what you got in mind—save you the trouble of finding Tommy?”

  One of the men who’d come out earlier came out the door with a different companion. They all glanced at him. He shepherded his friend around and went back inside. Ron looked back at Richie. “Busy place.” He turned to Nicole. “What you think?”

  She nodded.

  He turned back to Richie. “Let’s go somewhere a little quieter.”

  The drunken woman dropped her cigarette and crushed it out. “You come back when you’re done. Maybe I’ll still be here.” She started back into the bar.

  “Hold on, Sally.” Richie looked at Ron. He grinned. “How about we meet a little later.”

  Ron shook his head. “Wish I could, but I’m on a timeline.”

  Richie looked at Sally, who was plucking at the hem of her dress, sighed, and turned back to Ron. “Let me give you Tommy’s phone number.”

  At 8:00 p.m., Ron and Nicole were driving down a street in an old neighborhood of little houses north of the shipping docks. Midblock was the house they were looking for—a peeling white clapboard with a full-length open porch and a three-foot-tall chain-link fence marking out the yard. A black Ford pickup truck was parked at the curb. The gate hung open. A pink girl’s bike with training wheels stood on the sidewalk at the bottom of the steps. Inside, they could see Tommy Bartholomew, a.k.a. Eagle Tattoo, sitting in the living room with a blonde woman. A little blonde girl sat in his lap. Ron turned around at the end of the block and parked on the opposite side of the street four houses down. “Wife and kid,” Nicole said.

  “Houseful of complications. We’re going to have to wait him out.”

  They sat watching the house. At 9:30 p.m., the lights went out in the living room, followed very shortly by the rest of the lights. Ron got out of the car and walked around the block to see what he could see of the back of the house. All dark. When he got back to the Cadillac, he sent Nicole to find coffee. He walked down to the bus stop and waited. He could hear a dog barking in the distance. An unshaven graybeard in an old blue Volvo drove slowly by. Ron put his hands in his pockets and shuffled from one foot to the other, as if he were tired of waiting. The Volvo turned right at the end of the block. A few minutes later Nicole pulled up at the bus stop. Ron climbed into the passenger’s side. “What did you get?”

  “Convenience store coffee was the best I could do. Brought you a package of cashews as a consolation.”

  “Thanks.” Ron put the nuts in his shirt pocket.

  Nicole pulled out from the bus stop, drove down the street, and pulled to the curb a few houses away from the Bartholomews’. “Ron,” she said, “the casket has been in the wind twenty-four hours. Do you really think we still have a chance?”

  “Yes, I do. If Bartholomew comes through for us, and we start after Aaron tomorrow, it’s all still doable.” He shrugged. “But every hour is against us. If we can’t catch a break before tomorrow evening, we’ll be entirely out of luck.”

  “You been thinking about our backup plan?”

  “We’ve got some unknown bad guys watching our house. It’s just a matter of time before the Feds start after us. If we can’t make progress, we’ll have to run hard and fast, maybe leave the country if we can get through an airport before the Feds get any pictures of us. And without any money—God, I hate working overseas. So many new variables. I hate working—or jailing—with people who don’t speak English.”

  “We did okay in Mexico that one time.”

  “Yeah, you’re right. There’s always the resort traffic. The trick is always to do the best with what you’ve got. And that’s what we’re going to do. We have to. We’ve got no choice.” He glanced down the street at the Bartholomews’ house. “I think it’s going to be a long night. You want first watch or second?”

  “First.”

  “Okay.” He leaned back into the corner of the seat and the door and closed his eyes.

  4

  Nohamay City

  At 3:30 a.m., the lights came on inside the Bartholomews’ house. Ron set down the cold coffee he’d been sipping and put his hand on Nicole’s shoulder. “Wake up, honey.”

  She shifted around in the driver’s seat and sat up. “Rain?”

  “Started about an hour ago. Misting, mainly.”

  “And the lights are on?”

  “You want any of this cold coffee?”

  She shook her head. “Where do you want me?”

  Ron got out his .38 revolver. “When he comes outside and heads for the truck, you’re going to roll up to him, and I’m going to persuade him to help us.”

  “He’s a big guy.”

  “Just don’t let him get his truck door open.”

  “Don’t accidentally kill him.”

  “Relax.”

  At 4:00 a.m., the house went dark, and Tommy Bartholomew came out onto the porch in boots, jeans and a gray sweatshirt with the sleeves cut off. The rain had stopped. He has a lunch pail in one hand. Nicole started the Cadillac and counted off Bartholomew’s steps to get in sync with him. One, two, three, his boot was on the first step down from the porch. She pulled out of her parking spot. He walked around his daughter’s bike. Nicole was two houses away, driving the speed limit. He glanced back toward them as he came around the back of his black truck. One house. He unlocked the truck door. Nicole turned the wheel. Bartholomew spun around just as the Cadillac slid in next to the truck, trapping him between the vehicles. Ron lowered his window and pointed his gun with both hands. “Don’t struggle and you’ll get out of this alive. You don’t want your woman and your baby to find you dead in the street.”

  “Are you crazy? You’re crushing me here.”

  “You sound like you’ve got plenty of breath.”

  “Who the hell are you?”

  “You know us, Tommy. You ripped us off two days ago.”

  “You’ve got the wrong guy.”

  “Bullshit. You need to start wearing gloves on the job or get that eagle tat removed.”

  Bartholomew glanced at his house. The lights were still off. “What do you want?”

  “We want our money and the crate.”

  Bartholomew shook his head. “Too late. The crate is gone.”

  “Where did it go?”

  “I don’t know. Our guy got on a plane right after I gave it to him. That’s all I know.”

  “Where’s the money?”

  “Don’t have it yet. We get paid after the sale.”

  Ron pushed the barrel of the pistol into Bartholomew’s chest. “Right here. This is where you’ll be dead. You won’t even hear the ambulance. Memories for your family to last a lifetime.”

  “That’s the truth. I don’t know why you’re so pissed. It was business. I lost two guys, and you two are barely scratched.”

  Ron held up a photo of Rickover. “This your guy?”

  Bartholomew nodded. “That’s him.”

  “Keep your mouth shut if you want to keep holding your little girl.” He turned to Nicole. “Let’s go.”

  Nicole swung out away from the truck. Ron watched out his window as Bartholomew leaned back against the door, his lunch pail hanging at his side, and reached into his back pocket. His hand came up clutching a pack of cigarettes. Nicole turned right at the corner. “So Aaron flew out of here. Must have had a buyer already set up.”

  “That’s Aaron. Always trying to play one step out. Right now I’m just glad I didn’t ditch the airport IDs.”

  Nicole smiled. “I see where you’re going.” She turned left, working her way east toward Field Boulevard heading downtown. “If Aaron took a red-eye, he’s on the surveillance cameras. We just have to follow him from
security to his gate.”

  “Exactly. We’ve got to slip back into the airport. It’s a risk, but it’s one we’ve got to take. Let’s drive by our place. See if it’s safe to pick up the IDs.”

  Bartholomew sat in his truck and caught his breath. Who were those crazy motherfuckers that Aaron set them on? He pressed on his ribs. They hurt, but they didn’t feel broken. Those two were outgunned and outmanned. They should have been moving on, nursing their wounds, looking for an easier job, instead they were all about payback. He shook his right foot. It felt like it had been run over, but he could wiggle his toes. He had to get to work. He was supposed to make an early start on the third-floor framing. He started his truck and pulled out. Goddamn Aaron Rickover. He wasn’t going to do any more jobs for him. As soon as he got his cut for this job, he was done.

  He pulled through a PourAway coffee shop drive-through on his way to the job site and bought a large coffee. He sipped it as he drove. It was hot and bitter, but as he drank it down he began to feel better. The dark was just beginning to lift as he parked on the street a block from the half-bricked exterior of the apartment building where he was doing rough-in interior carpentry. As he got out of his truck with his hardhat and his lunch pail, four men rushed up to him, two black and two white, all wearing chinos with golf shirts and black nylon jackets.

  One of the black men, clean-shaven and neatly barbered, obviously the leader, gave Bartholomew an appraising look. “You Tommy Bartholomew?”

  Bartholomew looked at him sharply. “I know you?”

  “You’re coming with us.”

  His hardhat and lunch pail clattered to the pavement as he balled up his left fist and dug into his right back pocket for his lock-back knife.

  The other black man, a tall, thin man sporting a goatee, grabbed Bartholomew’s left arm. The closer white man, a heavily muscled guy with a blond crew cut, grabbed his right. The other white man, messy brown hair and a beer belly, pulled an automatic pistol from his pocket. “Easy or hard,” the leader said, “easy or hard.”