The Professionals

by Owen Laukkanen

  “You’ve been here long?”

  “Almost a year now,” she said. “Transferred from Miami in December.”

  “Wow. I’m very sorry.”

  She laughed. “It’s not so bad. I figured it would be worse. Like that old comedy bit about Prince being the only black person in Minnesota. I figured me and my boyfriend would triple the score.”

  She smiled at Stevens. He found himself smiling back at her. “Your accent doesn’t quite sound like South Beach.”

  “Mississippi,” she said. Then she paused. “Well, more like Tennessee. I grew up across the state line from Memphis.”

  “So you’re a warm-weather person all the way.”

  Windermere shrugged. “I don’t mind the cold so much. I can’t drive in the snow, but I’m learning. My boyfriend, though. He hates it.”

  “He’ll get used to it,” Stevens told her. “Wait till he tries ice fishing.”

  “We’ll see.” She straightened. “Anyway, enough of me wasting your time. You said you had a case, Agent Stevens.”

  “Sure,” he said. “A kidnapping.”

  “A kidnapping. In Minnesota.”

  Stevens nodded. “Just like the movies. Ransom demand and all.” He gave her the full story, from Terry Harper through Ashley McAdams to Ryan Carew and his Joliet address. Windermere listened intently, staring at him with those piercing eyes.

  She sat forward when he was finished. “What makes you so sure they’ve done this in other jurisdictions?”

  “It’s just a hunch,” he said. “These guys aren’t buying a van and driving it to Minneapolis for a sixty-thousand-dollar score unless they’re stringing multiples together.”

  She nodded. “All right,” she said. “I can see that. So you think we should check out the Carew kid’s address in Joliet.”

  “And I want to check out the Georgia and Maryland addresses. And take a look in Memphis and anywhere else for other unsolved hit-and-run kidnappings. I don’t have jurisdiction, obviously, so I thought you guys could take over.”

  “Okay,” she said. “I have to run this by my Special Agent in Charge. You got a card?”

  He gave her a card. “We’ll be in touch, Agent Stevens,” she said, standing. “I’ll get back to you when the boss gives me his thoughts.”

  Stevens stood. Looked around. “I almost wish I could be here to see this case through,” he said.

  “Why’s that?” Windermere smiled. “Don’t trust the Feds?”

  “I trust you guys,” he said. “But this case—if I’m right—it could be a blockbuster.”

  “If you’re right,” she said. “Are you?”

  He caught her eyes on him and paused. “I think so.”

  She winked. “Relax, Stevens. I’m messing with you. I’ll give you a call.”

  Windermere walked him back to the elevator. He shook her hand again and got on board, watching her walk away as the doors slid shut, her eyes still burning holes inside him.

  Later that night, Stevens did the dishes, watching his wife from the corner of his eye, admiring the curve of her neck as she pored over a mess of files at the kitchen table. She caught him looking, stuck out her tongue, and then leaned back in her chair. “Oh, Jesus,” she said. “It’s going to be a hell of a week.”

  “Tough cases?”

  “Too many of them. Brennan’s on vacation, so I’m covering his people as well as my own. The bastard, running off to the tropics when the whole goddamn state can’t afford an attorney.”

  “They did the crime.” Stevens put down his dish towel. “Let them do the time.”

  “They didn’t all do the crime,” Nancy said. “That’s why I have a job.”

  Stevens walked over to his wife and stood behind her, his hands on her shoulders. He bent down to nuzzle her hair. “You have this job because you’re too nice to be a tax lawyer,” he said.

  Nancy sighed. “Nice isn’t the word. Disinclined to make money, more like.”

  “You and me both,” said Stevens. “We could have been rock stars. Or doctors. On the plus side, I think my case finally flipped.”

  “You solved it?”

  “Almost as good. The kids were operating out of state. Means it’s FBI territory. I talked to a field agent today, and she’s going to take over.”

  Nancy leaned back in her chair. She stared up at him. “Really?”

  He nodded. “Just waiting for official confirmation.”

  “Oh, thank God,” she said. “Andrea has volleyball all week, and I think J.J. is coming down with something. It would be great if you were around.”

  He bent down and kissed her on the forehead. “I’ll be around,” he said.

  Fifteen minutes later, he was sitting in the living room, just settling into the Timberwolves game when the phone rang. “I’ll get it,” he called, reaching for the handset, but it was too late. Nancy was already on the line.

  “Agent Stevens?” she said. “I’ll just get him.” He heard her put the phone down, and she poked her head into the living room a couple seconds later, wearing a mischievous smile. “Agent Stevens,” she said. “Your other girlfriend is calling.”

  “What, Lesley? Great.” He made a show of rushing for the telephone. “Hello?”

  “Agent Stevens, it’s Carla Windermere.” Her voice was warm and buttery. “Good news. The SAC okayed the case.”

  “Excellent,” said Stevens. “I’ll forward you the paperwork tomorrow, then.”

  “Actually, you might as well just bring it by yourself.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “We’re shorthanded here, Stevens. Homeland Security and all. My boss called your boss and asked if he wouldn’t mind detailing you to the FBI for the duration. Looks like we’re going to be working together.”

  Lesley. That bastard. “You really think that’s necessary?”

  “Couldn’t hurt,” said Windermere. “This is your baby. Anyway, I thought you wanted to solve this thing with me.”

  “I want to.” Stevens sighed. “It’s just a hell of a week.”

  “Get your game face on, Stevens. This is the big time. We’re going to take down these kids, you and me.”

  “Sure,” he said. “Sure. I’ll see you tomorrow.” He hung up the phone and sat back in his chair as Nancy came into the room.

  “So?” she said, smiling. “You gonna be my knight in shining armor this week?”

  twenty-one

  Pender woke up early and turned on the television. He watched the news with the volume turned down, and when the Beneteau case came up, he sat close to the screen, straining for information and watching the reporter deliver her monologue a few feet from where they’d dumped Beneteau’s body. According to the reporter, the police had no suspects and were appealing to witnesses to come forward. From Pender’s point of view, that sounded like success.

  After lying awake for most of the night, Pender had nearly convinced himself to forget about the murder. To feel nothing. Beneteau was dead. That was a fact. They had to deal with it, and they had to get as far away from the crime scene as possible, lest they end up paying with their own lives for their first major mistake.

  By dawn, Sawyer was awake on the opposite bed. He’d said nothing since they left the crime scene, and he looked shrunken in the dim light, his eyes swollen and his face pale. Pender caught his eye. “You all right?”

  Sawyer didn’t move. Didn’t look up. “Fine,” he said.

  “Forget about it,” Pender told him. “It could have happened to any of us.”

  The big guy laughed, rueful and cold. “That’s a lie.”

  “You gotta get over it. We gotta get over it. Professionals deal with stuff like this. They don’t let it bring them down.”

  Sawyer stared up at the ceiling. “I keep seeing his face.”

  Pender watched him a long moment. “What do you want to do?” he said finally. “You want to quit? We could hop a flight to Seattle this morning.”

  Sawyer said nothing. He looked across at
Pender, searching his eyes.

  “You want to quit, we can walk away right now.”

  Mouse sat up, rubbing his eyes. “Walk away from what?”

  “From the job,” said Pender. “We have to decide. How do we deal with what happened last night?”

  He looked at Sawyer, then Mouse. Foot on the gas, he thought. “Last night was a speed bump. It doesn’t change anything. If we can get out of Detroit, we can keep making money.”

  “We killed a mobster,” said Sawyer. “The police and the mafia are going to be looking for us.”

  “What do the police know?” said Pender. “What does anyone know about us?”

  “Maybe they saw the van,” said Mouse. “Worst-case scenario, they can trace the burners. Who cares?”

  “I say we go to Florida,” said Pender. “We take a week or two off. Then we start hitting jobs again. We do it quiet, no guns, and we do it professional. We forget about what happened and we watch our backs. All right?”

  “I’m in,” said Mouse. “Let’s do it.”

  “Sawyer?”

  Sawyer stared at him for a minute. Pender watched his friend try to work his head around it. “All right,” he said at last. “We keep going.”

  Mouse caught Pender’s eye. “What about Marie?”

  They all three shifted around to where Marie lay sleeping, her back to them, her body rigid as a piece of steel rebar. Pender turned back to his friends. “I’ll talk to Marie,” he said.

  Later that morning, Pender and Marie took the Impala back into Detroit. Neither of them spoke until Pender merged onto I-75 and pointed the car north toward the suburbs and the Super 8 motel. Then Pender glanced across at Marie. “How are you doing?” he said.

  Marie looked at him. Her eyes were tired and swollen. “I can’t get that noise out of my head,” she said. “The gunshot. And then the—I don’t know. The body.”

  Pender nodded. “I’ve been thinking about it, too.”

  Marie stared out the window. “I didn’t ever think we’d end up like this. We killed a man, Pender. We ended his life.”

  Pender said nothing for a mile or two, tried to pick out his words. Finally he sighed. “You didn’t think that was at all a possibility, Marie?”

  Marie turned to face him. “What?”

  “We’re kidnappers,” he said. “Criminals. You didn’t think there was a chance it would escalate?”

  “I never would have done this if I thought it would escalate.” Her voice was deadly calm. “I never wanted to be a murderer.”

  “None of us wanted it. But it happened. It’s over.”

  “Did you know it would happen, Pender? Did you plan for this?”

  “Of course not,” he said. “But I don’t think I had any illusions that what we were doing was right.”

  “We weren’t killing people.”

  “The guy was a mobster.”

  “His wife was a mobster. Maybe. Allegedly. He had three kids. That’s a fact.”

  Pender pulled over to the side of the highway and stopped the car on the shoulder. He stared across at her. “What do you want to do, Marie? He’s dead. Nothing I can say is going to make it better. He’s dead. We’re not. So what do you want to do?”

  Marie said nothing.

  “We can go to the police right now if that’s what you really want.”

  Outside, cars sped past, horns blaring. “I don’t want to go to the police,” she said. “I don’t want to go to jail, Arthur.”

  “Then what?” he said. “What do you want?”

  She didn’t answer for a long moment. Then she sighed. “I want my life back,” she said. “I want to be normal again. I want a good job and a house and a dog and everything normal people are supposed to have. I want normal, Pender.”

  “We’ll have normal,” he told her. “Another couple years, tops. Then we’ll be free. We’ll find a beach and—”

  “That’s not normal, Pender. That’s a dream and it’s great, but it’s nowhere near normal.”

  Pender stared out the front windshield. Cars blurred by around them. “How long have you felt this way?”

  She paused. “A while. I don’t know.”

  “That life doesn’t exist anymore.” He kept his eyes hidden. “That’s why we got into this business, Marie. That’s why you suggested it. Because normal wasn’t an option for us.”

  “So what, we’re just stuck here?”

  Pender glanced in the rearview. “I thought that was the point.” He waited a moment, and then he stomped on the gas and the car howled forward, picking up speed as they merged into traffic.

  Marie stared out the window. “I just never thought I’d kill anyone.”

  “I know. Me, neither.”

  “Do you think we’ll be okay?”

  “I think if we get out of Detroit, we’ll be fine,” he said.

  She sat back in her seat. “That’s not what I meant.”

  They drove the Impala into Troy and to the Super 8, where Marie packed up the gear as Pender waited outside, watching the parking lot for police or Beneteau’s goons. They left the room keys on the counter at the front desk and were gone within fifteen minutes.

  Sawyer and Mouse were eating Hardee’s when they returned. The TV was turned to an action movie, volume extra-loud, and some Italian motherfuckers were shooting at some black motherfuckers as bystanders ducked for cover. Sawyer was eating a cheeseburger, wrapped up in the flick. Guess he’s over it, Pender thought. Marie made a face and went to wait in the car.

  They let the boys finish their meal and checked out. Then they drove across the interstate and into the airport. Pender glanced at the gang in the rearview. “If anyone’s looking for us, they’re looking for four,” he said. “We should split up here and meet in Miami.”

  Sawyer and Mouse nodded. Marie paused. “I think I might go back to Seattle,” she said. “I need to think some things over.”

  Pender looked at her. “Marie.”

  “I’ll meet you guys in Florida. I just need some time.”

  Pender watched Sawyer and Mouse swap looks in the rearview mirror, but he said nothing. They drove in silence. When they arrived at the terminal, Pender pulled the Impala into the drop-off lane.

  “You guys grab tickets to Miami,” he said. “We’ll take back the car. I’ll catch the next flight down, and we’ll meet up on the beach. You guys have burners?”

  “We got ’em.” Mouse opened the door. “See you in Florida, boss. See you whenever, Marie.” He got out of the car, and Sawyer followed and closed the door firm behind.

  Marie watched them shoulder their luggage and disappear into the terminal. “They’re mad at me,” she said. “They think I’m ditching.”

  Pender glanced at her. “Aren’t you?”

  “No, I’m not ditching,” she said. “I told you I’d see you in Florida.”

  Pender drove the car to the rental lot and parked. They got out and walked toward the terminal. “This is a mistake,” Pender told her. “This isn’t the time to be alone.”

  Marie shook her head. “It’s just a couple of days. I’ll be fine.”

  They walked into the terminal. Pender scoped out the crowd, feeling like he’d swallowed a time bomb. Be professional, he told himself. Get out of Detroit.

  He didn’t make anyone in the concourse for cops or goons, so they walked to the ticket counter and he bought a ticket to Miami for the Kyle Miller alias and a ticket to Seattle for Ashley McAdams. Then they walked to the security checkpoint and into the terminal proper and down to her gate, where they stood as the aircraft boarded and he took her hands in his. “I don’t think you should go,” he said.

  “I know.” She gave him a forced smile. “I love you. I’ll see you again soon.”

  He tried to kiss her, but she turned away. “I can’t,” she said. “I’m sorry.” She squeezed his hands and walked. She didn’t look back.

  twenty-two

  Twenty miles away from Detroit Metro Airport, where Marie McAllister’s
Delta 757 was already taxiing for takeoff and Arthur Pender’s Continental 737 was in preboarding, D’Antonio was sitting in a Cadillac truck outside the Beneteau residence, waiting for a phone call as a plainclothes cop knocked on every door on the other side of the street.

  A half hour earlier, Dmitri had called from the terminal with the news: The kidnappers were fleeing the city. Well, let them run. The stupid kids would have to flee the hemisphere before they’d be safe, and even then D’Antonio was certain he could dig up a Korean hit squad to put the problem to bed.

  Miami wouldn’t be a problem. The organization had family down there, did plenty of business in Florida. Somebody in South Beach would know somebody who could take on the job. One punk-ass white boy wouldn’t be an issue at all.

  Seattle was another story. D’Antonio didn’t know anyone in that part of the world. Meant he’d have to send goons to take care of it. Or kill the girl himself. Either way, it could get complicated. They’d pull the Miami kid’s card first, then deal with the girl in Seattle.

  He’d left the house then, dialing a number with one hand as he opened his umbrella with the other. “It’s D,” he said when his contact picked up. “I need a job done in Miami.”

  Paul Landry sat at his desk, shuffling through printouts with one hand and eating a Subway sandwich with the other. He’d had Garvey requisition any and all recent unsolved crimes featuring a red Ford van, and the kid had brought back an encyclopedia, effectively chaining the detective to his desk while his rookie partner went back out to Beneteau’s block and kept looking for witnesses.

  It was like he told the kid, though. If the family didn’t want to talk, then they didn’t really have a case, unless the phantom Chevy came back loaded with good prints or the neighbor from across the way suddenly woke up and realized she’d had a good look at every one of the killers’ faces.

  Or if I manage to make some gold out of all this straw here, Landry thought, as he stared down at the reports. Maybe someone used a red Ford van in some other contract killing and I can make a connection.