The Freeport Robbery

by Michael P. King

“So now you’re drifting, which means?”

  “I have to figure out what do with myself. I know this sounds crazy, but I’d like to have what you and your wife have. I want someone to love me so much that they can’t let go, no matter what happens.”

  He reached across the table and patted her hand.

  She continued. “But I don’t want to bore you with my little problems. You’ve got enough on your plate.”

  He sipped his drink. “Nobody’s problems are small to them. I can’t help you with the love interest, but I might be able to help you with other parts of your drift problem. Are you going to need a job at some point? What kind of work skills do you have?”

  “I appreciate your thoughtfulness, but how about if we talk about something else? I could get depressed in my room.”

  “Okay, okay, I understand. But if you want my help, just say the word.”

  “Thanks.”

  She finished her drink. “Do you want another?” he asked.

  She shook her head. “I should turn in.”

  “I’ll walk with you.” He drained his drink. They got up. She waited while he paid at the bar, and then they walked out into the mezzanine lobby to go to the elevator. He stumbled and steadied himself against the wall.

  “You okay?” she asked.

  “Yeah,” he said, “I was having such a good time; I guess I didn’t realize how much I had to drink.”

  She slipped her arm through his. “Let me help you.”

  As they waited for the elevator, she could feel more of his weight shift onto her. The door opened. A couple wearing casual summer clothes got out. They gave Denison a questioning look. The man said, “Do you need help, ma’am?”

  “No, thanks,” Nicole said. “We’re fine.”

  “This is embarrassing,” Denison said.

  Nicole helped Denison onto the elevator and leaned him up in the corner. His eyes were half-closed. She texted Ron with an exclamation point, and then she reached into Denison’s jacket pocket for his room keycard, swiped it through the reader, and pressed the button for the top floor. He looked like he was asleep on his feet. The elevator opened at the fourth floor. Ron got on. They continued to the top floor. Ron put Denison’s arm over his shoulder and grabbed him around the waist. “James,” he said sharply, “time to walk.”

  Denison stumbled out of the elevator, Ron half-carrying him. Nicole went on ahead of them and opened the door to Denison’s suite. Ron walked Denison through the living room into the bedroom and unloaded him onto the bed. After Ron pushed him onto his back, put a pillow under his head, and took off his shoes, he pushed three fingers into Denison’s neck to check his pulse and then peeled open one of his eyes.

  “How is he?” Nicole asked.

  “He’s hammered. Pulse and breathing are fine.”

  “Great.” She kissed Denison’s forehead. “Sweet dreams.”

  Ron glanced around the bedroom. “Why don’t you start in here?”

  Nicole started going through the dresser drawers. There was underwear in one, socks in another. The rest were empty. In the closet there were three sports coats with empty pockets, four pairs of pants, ditto, and six golf shirts. A suitcase in the floor contained an assortment of women’s clothes. She went into the bathroom. Shaving kit in the top drawer of the granite-topped sink—nothing unusual there—other drawers empty. She went out to the living room. Ron was going through the drawers under the maple TV cabinet. “You finding anything?”

  “Nothing in the desk.”

  She pulled up the cushions on the sofa. It was a hide-a-bed, but nothing was hidden there. She opened the mini-fridge. Nothing but the usual assortment of overpriced beverages and snacks. She pictured Denison coming into the room with a briefcase or a folder or some papers in his hands. He’s beat. He plops down on the sofa. Sets whatever is in his hand on the cushion or on the end table. Gets up. Gets something to drink. Sits back down. Goes over the papers. No, not his style. Picks up the remote control. So where did the papers go? She turned to Ron. “Give me a hand with the sofa.”

  They dragged the sofa out from the wall. Under the side by the end table, a large white envelope lay on the carpet. She picked it up. The return address read “Nohamay Mountain Vault.” She smiled at Ron. “Bingo.”

  They sat down on the sofa without pushing it back to the wall. Ron pulled the papers out of the envelope. “Okay,” he said, running his finger down the first page, “they keep casino hours, so it’s twenty-four seven.” He turned to the second page. “And here’s the locker number, and here’s the twelve-digit access code.” He went to the third page. “We also need a—they call it a medallion—to get through security.” He shook out the envelope.

  Nicole went back into the bedroom. Denison was sleeping peacefully. She put her hand in his right front pocket. Coins, key ring, and a restaurant receipt, but no medallion. She slid the objects back into the pocket. She emptied his left front pocket. Smartphone. She put it back. She lifted his wallet from the inside pocket of his linen jacket. In one of the credit card slots was a card from the vault with a gold medallion printed on the front. She kept the card and put the wallet back.

  Ron was standing in the doorway behind her. “Find anything?”

  “I think I’ve got it.”

  Nicole came back into the living room. They pushed the sofa back to the wall and checked the rooms to make sure everything was back in place before they sat back down. Ron read through the paperwork again. “This is a new account. It’s in both their names. But she went straight from the airplane to the hospital bed, so smart money says they’ve never seen her.”

  “They might have a picture of her.”

  “Sure. And there might be some code we don’t know about. It’s a crapshoot. Wouldn’t try it if there weren’t so much at stake. You up for this?”

  She nodded. “It’ll work. Walk in and walk out. No risk of hijackers this time.”

  Nicole put the locker number and access code into her smartphone. They left his room keycard on the end table and slid the vault envelope back under the end of the sofa. Next, they stopped off at their hotel room. Nicole changed into loose khaki pants, a black scooped-neck top, and a khaki jacket. She fixed her make-up to make her face look hospital pale and covered her hair with a scarf. Ron got his Glock and his Smith & Wesson from the room safe. Once out of their hotel, they walked up a deserted side street. A tan minivan, a red Lexus and a black Jeep Cherokee were parked along the street. Ron broke into the Cherokee, and they drove it past the water park and the private airfield to the parking lot in front of the Nohamay Mountain Vault. Security cameras were mounted on the light poles. Four cars were parked at the far end of the lot. Ron pulled up to the front doors. He took Nicole’s hand in his. “You look exactly the part. Don’t walk too fast.”

  “I’ve got this. Piece of cake.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Stacey Wert-Denison.”

  “Why are you coming here in the middle of the night?”

  “Not that it’s any of your business, but my skin can’t take the sun. Cancer treatment.” She kissed him. “Enough of this.”

  She got out of the Jeep and walked up the well-lit steps as if she weren’t used to walking, gripping the steel rail and taking each step deliberately. When she got to the top, a heavyset security guard—a white man with a shaved head—opened the thick glass door. “Thank you,” she said.

  She walked to the security counter. Another guard, this one a lanky Native American with a military haircut, asked for her medallion and swiped it through a reader. “Mrs. Wert-Denison?”

  “Yes.”

  “Step through the metal detector.”

  She put her handbag on the counter and stepped through the metal detector. The guard looked in her bag and handed it back to her. “Step over to the fingerprint scanner, ma’am.”

  “What’s this all about?”

  “Just our usual overnight procedure, ma’am.” He raised the cover on a flat scanner
that sat next to a computer on the counter. “Place your right hand here, please.”

  She laid her hand palm down on the scanner. Were Stacey Wert-Denison’s fingerprints in the database? The scan of Nicole’s hand came up on the computer screen. “Looks good,” the guard said.

  “Great. Can I go to my locker now?”

  “Just waiting for verification.”

  Just as the verification came back as a mismatch, Nicole spun on her heels and ran. The guard looked up from his screen. “Hey!” He pressed the alarm button. A siren wailed.

  For Nicole, it was as if she were running in quicksand. The bolts in the heavy front door slid home. The shaved-head guard charged toward her like a football lineman rushing the quarterback. She looked over her shoulder. The Native American guard was only a few steps away, his gun in his hand. There was nowhere to run. She sat down on the floor with her back to the glass front wall, brought her knees up to her chest, and wrapped her arms around them.

  Halfway across the parking lot, Ron sat with his hands on the steering wheel, the Jeep in Drive, his foot on the brake, watching the front doors to the vault. He knew Nicole could sell it—that wasn’t an issue—but if it all went south there was only one door, and that’s where the armed guards were. He heard the alarm sound. He unlocked the passenger door so that she would be able to jump in when he pulled up to the bottom of the steps. He held his breath, his eyes locked on the heavy glass doors, willing the doors open. He could see shapes inside, but he couldn’t make out what was going on. Come on, Nicki—push through the door. The alarms stopped. The doors didn’t swing open. Nicole didn’t come running down the steps, the Cellini casket in her arms. Ron turned off the Jeep. They’d missed their chance at the casket. Now it was all damage control: follow them when they brought Nicole out of the vault, kill whoever he had to, spring Nicole, and then go on the run. He patted the Glock under his jacket. He had to stay focused. There was no more room for error.

  Mosley and Rickover were sitting on separate beds in Mosley’s hotel room, Rickover wearing the clean jeans and shirt that she’d brought for him. Both of the beds were made, and there was only one room-service tray of dirty dishes on the desk in the corner. “I’m sorry I haven’t been able to be here more,” Mosley said, “but I’ve got nearly all of the arrangements in place. If Philips comes now, he doesn’t stand a chance.”

  “When he comes.”

  “Have you heard back from him?”

  “Not yet. I’m not surprised. He’s very careful. Tomorrow or the next day I’m betting he’ll call.”

  There was a knock on the door. Mosley opened it. A tall black man, wearing khakis and a black nylon jacket, stood in the doorway. “I’m Gary. Mr. Philips sent me.”

  Mosley stepped out of the way. Gary came in, followed by two similarly dressed white men guiding a hotel luggage cart. On the cart rode an empty, extra-large, dark green duffel bag. Rickover sprang up from the bed. “You? How did you find me?”

  Gary and the nearer white man, a bodybuilder with a blond crew cut, grabbed Rickover by his arms. Rickover turned to Mosley. “You’re a cop, for Christ’s sake. Do something.”

  Gary chuckled. “You should see the look on your face.”

  Mosley’s stomach churned. She avoided Rickover’s eyes. “I tried to warn you off, Aaron, tried to protect you, but you wouldn’t listen.”

  Rickover turned to Gary. “You can’t do this. I made a deal with your boss.”

  “That’s right,” he said, “and this is the deal.”

  They let go of his arms. Before he could move, the other white man, smaller and potbellied, Tased him. He dropped to the floor. Gary laid out the duffel on the carpet next to Rickover. The two men lifted Rickover by his arms and legs and set him into the duffel, where they taped his mouth and handcuffed his wrists and ankles with plastic handcuffs. Then they folded him up, zipped the duffel closed, and heaved it onto the luggage cart.

  Gary turned to Mosley. “You got the money or the object?”

  “I’m working on it.”

  “You better work harder. Mr. Philips wants the money or the object. Preferably both.”

  Gary held the door open, and his men guided the cart into the hall. “You know how the boss is. Do your job.”

  The door shut. Mosley sat on the end of the bed with her head in her hands. Just what kind of person was she? There must have been some other way, but she hadn’t even tried to think of it. She had just handed Aaron over.

  Her mouth was so dry she couldn’t swallow. She got up, got a bottle of water off the metal tray on the desk, and opened it. The truth was that she wasn’t willing to sacrifice her career to save Aaron’s life. That was the bottom line. If she lost her job or went to prison, Kelly would be the one to suffer. She drank the water. It felt good going down her throat. And why should she sacrifice herself for Aaron? Because she was an FBI agent? He cheated Philips. He dragged her into his plan without consulting her. He stole the Cellini casket.

  She’d told him he was in over his head, but he wouldn’t listen to reason. It was the same egotism that cost him his marriage, and he hadn’t learned a thing. Tears started down her cheeks. She set the water bottle down, pulled some tissues from the box on the desk, and blew her nose. He was exactly the kind of idiot who got himself killed. She went into the bathroom and splashed cold water on her face. She had to find a way out—something that would guarantee her freedom and pay for Kelly’s school. She needed the kind of evidence that Aaron had failed to get. She dried her face with a towel. She had to stop thinking about Aaron. There was nothing more she could do. She glanced at her watch. Clare would be off work soon. She went down to the casino to find her.

  7

  Returning the Casket

  Nicole sat in a straight-backed chair in the middle of a windowless storeroom inside the Nohamay Mountain Vault, her head hanging as if she were asleep. A bare bulb hung from the ceiling above her. The two security guards and the night manager had brought her here, gently but firmly, and cuffed her ankles and wrists to the chair with plastic handcuffs before they left. Her handbag sat on a nearby table. Boxes of bathroom supplies were stacked on the shelves along one wall. A security camera covered the room from the corner above the door. Nicole figured it must be morning by now. Her back ached and her feet tingled from inactivity. No one had come to move her out of the vault. That was a bad sign. They were keeping her capture a secret. The fewer people who knew, the easier it would be to kill her. And if they chose to kill her here, Ron would never have the opportunity to rescue her.

  She took a deep breath. She had to hold onto hope. She’d given herself up to the job when she’d walked through the metal detectors. No one had shown up to interrogate her yet. Would she be able to manipulate that person? Could she make him feel sorry for her? She needed to seem as vulnerable as possible. Even more helpless than she really was. She peed in her pants. A big wet stain grew in her lap and down her right leg, urine dripping into a puddle beside her shoe. Then she bit her lip until she tasted blood. There. She’d made herself seem as pathetic as she could. The trick now was not to panic, not to think about being tortured, not to think about the last time she was tortured, but to instead be ready to take advantage of any new opportunity, to work those advantages until Ron could make his move.

  Ron yawned and glanced at his watch: 7:25 a.m. Nicole was still inside the vault. Why? Four cars in the parking lot. Four to six nightshift employees. Management, security, maybe custodial. When was the shift change? Were they being held late? When did the daytime employees arrive? Eight thirty? The bosses couldn’t possibly want them to find out about the attempted break-in. It was the worst possible publicity. So management would squash any potential gossip. The overnight employees could be bought off. A nice bonus and a pat on the back. But they had to get Nicole out of the vault. Killing her was a step too far for the hourly help. Sweat trickled under his arms. He’d need a SWAT team to force his way in. A black SUV pulled up to the front door. James Deni
son and a short, thin Asian man climbed out and started up the steps. Ron smiled to himself. Finally, an opportunity.

  The door to the storeroom opened. Nicole lifted her head slowly. James Denison, his face pasty and his eyes bloodshot, came into the room accompanied by an Asian man who had a grey buzz cut and wore a black suit with a white shirt and silver tie. Denison rubbed his bearded chin. “I had to see it to believe it. You really did try to masquerade as Stacey to break into my locker.”

  “Hello, James.”

  “My God, what’s that smell? You’ve wet yourself.”

  “It’s been a long night.”

  The Asian man spoke with an American accent. “Ms. Benet. I’m Bobby Lee, the general manager of Nohamay Mountain Vault. You already know Mr. Denison.”

  She nodded.

  “I’ve been briefing Mr. Denison about you and your associate, Anthony Rose, apologizing for letting the two of you stay in the city after you were picked up at the casino.”

  “We told the casino manager we wouldn’t gamble.”

  “No, instead you tried to rob Mr. Denison’s locker.”

  “Turn me over to the tribal police.”

  “By our agreement with the Nohamay Nation, the tribal police have no jurisdiction here, Ms. Benet. Malefactors leave on a plane or end up in a grave. And right now, that depends on your cooperation.”

  Nicole looked at Denison. “You look worse for wear. I’m sorry I drugged you. How do you feel?”

  “You’re amazing,” Denison replied. “You’ve already been caught. You’re tied to a chair, facing God knows what, and you still sound so sincere. Why did you do this? Did you choose me in particular or was I a random target?”

  “Do you want me to tell you in front of Mr. Lee?”

  “I’ve got nothing to hide. I’m not afraid of your lies. Go ahead.”

  “Okay,” Nicole said. “The Cellini casket that you put a down payment on a few days ago is stolen property.”