“Yes,” I stammered. “It’s wrapped.”
We took a 140 mile an hour sweeping left, exiting the freeway and getting on the southbound 5.
“What color is it, underneath?” she asked.
“Red,” Cash responded. “It’s…red. Baker thinks…he thinks it’s bad luck.”
“Not tonight,” she said.
She swerved into the local bypass lane, on the right side. After reaching an eye-opening 165 miles an hour, she veered toward the exit.
“What the fuck!” I shouted. “Are we doing?”
“We’re going to peel off the wrap,” she said. “And change the plates.”
“We’re gonna what?”
“All you do is grab a corner and peel,” she explained, her voice calm and steady. “It’s like taking off a sticker. Reno and Tito take the right side. Cash and Goose take the left. I’ll do bumpers and hood.”
“Where’s the cop?” I asked.
“She lost the cop,” Reno said with a laugh. “He’s still on the freeway. That smoky-tired thing back there fucked him all up. He shot past that light by a mile.”
We took the exit at 150. The SUV shot down the ramp like we’d been pushed off a mile-high cliff. After coming to a vomit-inducing stop, she calmly drove behind a building that backed up to Torrey Pines Preserve.
Shielded by the two-story building, we frantically peeled the vinyl wrap from the vehicle. It wasn’t as easy as I expected.
In fifteen minutes, I was standing beside a three-foot high pile of black plastic film. A bright red SUV was in front of me. The transformation from flat black to red was ingenious. It looked like an entirely different vehicle.
She glanced at Reno. “Switch the plates?”
“Sure did.”
She retrieved her purse from the car. After rummaging through it, she handed each of us a handful of wet tissues. “Wipe your faces off.”
“What the fuck are—”
“They’re make up wipes,” she said. “Wipe the paint off your face.”
When we were all relatively paint-free, she took her hair out of the ponytail and twisted it into a bun.
“Load that pile of plastic wrap in the back, please,” she said, checking her reflection in the window.
After Reno and Tito loaded it, she opened her door. “Cash, you’re sitting up front,” she said. “Everyone else, stay in the floorboards. This is hubby and wife coming home from a date.”
I felt like I’d just got off an hour-long rollercoaster ride. I had no idea whether to shit, fart, or check my watch. So, I simply did as she asked and got down in the floorboard with the other two men.
She rolled down her window and advised Cash to do the same. “Hang your arm out the window, like you’re enjoying the night air.”
“Are you fuckin’ serious?”
“Dead serious. We’re driving the speed limit.”
“There’s going to be cops everywhere.”
“Looking for a black BMW with five people in it. This is a red one with two. You ever seen a roadblock on the 5?”
“No,” Cash responded.
“Well,” she said. “I doubt they’re going to start tonight.”
She was right. I’d seen countless crimes much worse than the one we’d just committed, and I’d never seen them block the 5 to check traffic. In SoCal, escaping a cop’s grasp in a high-speed chase was just another ho-hum day.
In fifteen minutes, we pulled into the garage. Baker was leaning against the hood of his rental car with a bottle of beer dangling from his fingertips. When he saw the red paint, his eyes went as wide as saucers.
He leaped away from the car and rushed to Ally’s window.
Baker was the most superstitious human being to ever walk the face of the earth. Red vehicles were a no-no, as was any other well-known superstitious bullshit, including anything to do with the number thirteen.
I realized we had thirteen boxes in the back of the SUV.
“What in the fuck happened?” Baker blurted. “That cop was behind me, and I didn’t even realize it was a cop. His lights came on and I about shit myself. Fucker passed me and took off after you.”
Everyone got out and started talking at once.
“Ally outran the cop…”
“We got in a high-speed chase with the law.”
“Took the fucking on ramp at 160.”
“Ripped off the wrap.”
“That bitch can—she can—Ally can fuckin’ drive.”
Baker raised his hands. “Stop!”
“Everyone’s okay?”
“Fine as frog’s hair,” Reno said. “Chick can drive, Boss. Never seen anything like it.”
Baker shifted his eyes from Reno to Ally. “You okay?”
She grinned. “Peachy.”
He glared at me. “Why are you in a RED car? You know how I am about—”
“Wait till you hear how many boxes we loaded up,” I said.
“Boxes?” he asked.
I nodded.
“Boxes of what?”
“Ally says it’s money. A lot of money.”
“How many you get?” he asked.
“All of ‘em.”
“How many? Better not be thirteen.”
“Maybe you ought to just go home for the night,” I said. “We’ll call you down when it’s sorted.”
He pressed the heels of his palms against his temples. “This entire night is going to be bad fucking luck. Just wait. It’ll be one thing after the other. I guarantee it.”
“Oh fuuuuck,” Cash said.
Baker spun around. “What?”
Cash patted his back pocket. “My wallet.”
“Tell me you didn’t lose it.” Baker’s eyes narrowed to slits. “Tell me you weren’t even carrying the motherfucker while you were robbing a fucking bank!”
Cash swallowed hard. “I don’t have it.”
“You dumb cocksucker!” I bellowed. “You probably dropped it when you double dribbled that shit in the parking lot. Fucking great. The cops are going to be here before we know it.”
Ally looked at Cash. “You didn’t lose it again, did you?”
Cash swallowed hard. He nodded.
“Shit,” she said. “I bet it was when you dropped those boxes.”
“What happened?” Baker asked, his tone elevated. “What’d you do, Cash?”
“I’m going back,” Ally said.
A lump rose into my throat. “Back where?”
“To the bank,” she said. “I’m not going to let this entire crew get hemmed up because they find Cash’s wallet in the parking lot. I’ve got to get it before they do. We were fifty yards from the back door. They won’t be sweeping that part of the lot until morning.”
“That place will be crawling with cops,” I argued.
She shrugged. “That’s a chance I’ve got to take. I can talk my way into it.”
“Cash ought to be the one going to get it,” Baker seethed. “He dropped it, it’s his risk.”
Ally shook her head. “They’ll be looking for a six-six guy with a half-assed Mohawk. He stands out. I blend in.”
My heart sank. I couldn’t chance losing Ally. Not for a mistake Cash made. “Baby, you can’t—”
She leaned forward and kissed me. “I’ll see you in half an hour or so. If I don’t make it, you can come bail me out.” She handed me her throw-away phone and grinned. “Love ya, Babe.”
While the five of us watched with open mouths, she turned toward her car.
“Ally!” Baker shouted.
Mid-stride, she glanced over her shoulder. “Yeah?”
“I appreciate this,” he said. “You’re saving our asses, here.”
She grinned. “Anything for my Brothers, Boss.”
40
Ally
I drove my Bug from the clubhouse to the all-night coffee shop in old town. I ordered a cup of coffee and a Danish. Still high on adrenaline, I took a seat in the corner and scanned the sparsely occupied lounge.
Cash’s wallet sat inside, right where it’d been since I took it from him at the beginning of the night.
I planned to waste thirty minutes or so and return to the shop with a wild tale. The “risk” I’d taken to retrieve the wallet would cause Cash to give me the respect I deserved. In his eyes, I’d be saving him from a trip to prison.
In reality, I was relaxing with a cup of coffee while the crew pulled the lockbox locks. In time, I’d tell everyone the truth. Everyone except Cash, that is.
It had been years since I had as much fun as I had running from the cops. Nothing beats the adrenaline rush from outrunning a police officer in a high-speed chase. Thinking two or three steps ahead while speeding at rate so fast that a quarter of a mile passes in five seconds takes nerves of steel.
As I sipped my coffee, I filled with guilt. Not for taking Cash’s wallet. I felt I needed to drive by the scene of the crime and see what was going on. The men were going to ask me what I’d seen. Lying to them wasn’t something I was willing to do. At least not any more than I must to play the prank on Cash.
With some hesitation, I went to my car, took off my sweater, and began driving north.
Before I reached the exit, I could see the flashing lights. The entire parking lot was filled with police officers, police cruisers, and a few crime scene vans. Many more than what was needed to collect evidence, that’s for sure.
I took the Carmel Creek Road exit, and immediately turned on Carmel Mountain Road. I grinned at the thought of driving on the very same road only an hour prior at over 140 miles an hour.
I crept along at fifteen miles an hour until I reached the back of the bank. The lot was filled with haphazardly parked cop cars, all sitting at odd angles with their lights flashing.
An odd sense of satisfaction washed over me. The thought of being at the crime scene of a crime I committed, and the police having no idea that I was the one they were after was strangely gratifying.
Satisfied that I would be able to safely say I’d returned to the scene of the crime without lying, I came to a stop and took one last look at the chaos before leaving. While struggling to get the gear shifter in reverse, a nice-looking plain-clothes officer approached my car.
Just as the gear shifter clunked into gear, he motioned for me to roll my window down.
“Is there something I can help you with?” he asked.
“No, just looking,” I responded. “What happened?”
“I’m not at liberty to say,” he said.
I nodded. “I see.”
“Do you have reason to be here?” he asked.
“It’s not a military installation, is it?” I asked.
“No, ma’am.”
“Government facility?”
“No, ma’am.”
“So, it’s not off-limits?” I asked.
“No, ma’am, I guess not. It is an active crime scene.”
I weighed my options. Getting a little more information from him, if possible, could really help us on planning future jobs. I rolled the dice. “I was going to Del Mar heights earlier for a cup of coffee, and I saw a black SUV being chased by a police car.” I gestured behind me. “Right over there.”
“Did you get a look at the occupants of the vehicle?” He pulled a notepad from his pocket. “Their facial features?”
“No. I was on the highway, headed north.”
“What business did you have in Del Mar Heights?” he asked.
“I just told you, I was getting coffee.”
“Who did you meet?”
“Did I say I was meeting anyone?”
“I assumed a nice-looking girl like you would be meeting someone for coffee. What time was that? Two am?”
“Seven minutes after one,” I said dryly.
He laughed. “Seven?”
“Yeah. Seven. After one.”
“You sure about that?”
“Sure enough to say it.” I pointed at a digital clock I’d retrofitted to the dash. “This said 1:07. I looked at it right after I saw the flashing lights.”
“So, you saw the lights, but you didn’t see the occupants faces?”
I scowled. I nodded toward the mass of cop cars that were parked a hundred yards away. “See those flashing lights?”
He glanced toward the commotion. “Sure do.”
“Can you describe the cops standing over there?”
“Point taken,” he said.
“Do you have a business card?” I asked.
He reached into his pocket. “I do.”
He handed me the card through the window. “What’s your name?”
“I’d rather not say. I try to stay out of databases and such.” I held the card under the glow of the digital clock and studied it. “Well, Detective Watson, if I think of anything I’ll have my people get with your people.”
He laughed. “You have people?”
“No.” I flashed a smile. “But it sounds cool, huh?”
“That it does.” He shoved his pad into his pocket. “Have a nice night.”
He stood with his arms crossed and waited for me to turn around. Instead of doing so and giving him a full view of my license plate, I backed all the way up the road in reverse. When I reached the first access road to the adjoining neighborhood, I was well out of sight, so I turned around.
A quick check of the rearview mirror revealed him walking away, toward the flashing lights.
Going there was an undoubted risk. I was an avid risk-taker, as long as there was promise of reward.
Detective Marc Watson’s business card was my reward.
41
Goose
My stomach was doing back flips. I’d been to the bathroom half a dozen times, physically sick over the thought of Ally returning to the bank. If anything happened to her, I’d be emotionally—and physically—incapacitated.
Four of us paced the floor while Cash attempted to drill the lock on one of the boxes. We’d taken ten-minute shifts drilling and had yet to get through the first lock. A ding from the elevator sent a chill of hope along my spine.
I spun around.
Wearing white undershirt, jeans, and her new sneakers, she emerged from the elevator. Relief washed over me. She looked adorable.
Cash looked up. “Did you get it?”
She tossed Cash the wallet without responding. As she strolled in my direction, she pulled a business card from her back pocket and handed it to Baker. “This is the cop doing the investigation. That might come in handy at some point.”
“You actually talked to the cops?” I asked. “Are you crazy?”
“I couldn’t help it,” she said. “The asshole came up to me and started asking questions. I told him I saw a black SUV being chased by the cops, and I wondered what was going on. Told him I was headed to Del Mar Heights when I saw it happen. Said when I was on my way back, I saw all the lights, and thought I’d see what was going on.”
Baker looked at the business card. “Did you give them a description of the criminals?”
“Yeah,” she said. “I told ‘em it was a bunch of pasty-faced high school kids.”
Baker chuckled and patted her on the back. “I appreciate everything. We’d have been fucked if the cops found that wallet.”
“Agree with you on that one, Boss. And, no, I didn’t tell them shit. I said I couldn’t see anything other than the black SUV. I took his card and said if I thought of anything, I’d let him know. Before you ask, I didn’t give him my name, and I backed out of there, so he couldn’t get my plate number.”
“You don’t have a front plate on your car?” Baker asked.
“I’ve got Connecticut plates. My car’s exempt from having two. It’s an antique with no place to put it.”
“Good work,” Baker said.
Cash looked through his wallet. Upon satisfying himself that everything was there, he shoved it deep into his front pocket. “I’m not carrying this fucker in my back pocket anymore. I can tell
you that.”
“You ever carry it to a job again, and I’ll see to it that you’re scratching your unemployed ass,” Baker warned.
Ally kissed me in passing. She looked at the boxes. “Holy crap. What have you fuckers been doing?”
“They’re impossible to drill,” Cash said. “We can’t cut ‘em with the plasma, or we’ll torch the money. Gotta drill ‘em. We’ve only got one drill bit that’ll work, so we’re taking turns.”
“Pull ‘em,” she said. “With a slide hammer.”
Cash gave her a puzzled look. “A what?”
“Slide hammer.” She glanced in Baker’s direction. “You’ve got a slide hammer, don’t you?”
Baker shrugged. “I don’t have any idea.”
She looked at me. “Did Ghost build the Shelby in the garage downstairs?”
I nodded. “Yeah.”
“Is his tool box still down there?”
“It’s the big red one,” I said.
“Key?”
“It’s unlocked.”
She got on the elevator and returned in a few minutes with a slide hammer. She situated the twelve boxes so the locks were all facing her. Five minutes later, she was done.
She tossed the last lock onto the table. “That, gentlemen, is how a locksmith pulls a lock.”
“I’m still waiting for one of these to have a bomb in it.” Baker’s eyes darted between the boxes. “Something’s going to happen, I know it. Red getaway car. Thirteen boxes. Dropped wallet. That’s not the end of it, I’m sure.”
Ally shielded her eyes with her hand, jokingly protecting herself from the potential bomb blast Baker spoke of. She flipped the lids of the boxes open.
“There,” she said. “I’m not superstitious.”
The five of us stared at the boxes in disbelief.
The twelve identical boxes were filled with equal amounts of banded hundred-dollar bills.
“Holy. Shit.” Baker gawked. “What did we stumble onto?”
“Looks like a Federal Reserve withdrawal,” Ally said.
“Someone’s going to be pissed,” Baker said.
“How much you think it is?” Cash asked.
“We’ll know in a few minutes,” Baker said. “It’ll be easy to count.”
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