by David Grace
“What about the guy?”
Danny shrugged. “He’ll have to disappear.” Kyle frowned and drained his glass. “What?”
“You don’t think somebody’s going to notice when a guy goes missing and his bank accounts get drained and wired offshore?”
“How are they going to find us? It’s all electronic. We hack somebody’s wi-fi and dump the laptop when were done.”
“That will work maybe once,” Kyle said, shaking his head. “Then the feds will be on it. They’ll trace the money and the next time we try it they’ll be waiting for us.”
“No, you don’t understand. Those banks down there, they won’t cooperate.”
“They won’t have to. The feds are big on this cyber-crime stuff. I’m not doing federal time and it’s not worth it for just one score.”
“It doesn’t have to be one score. We make it look like a simple robbery gone bad instead of a kidnapping. So long as the family doesn’t find out we cleaned out one of the guy’s accounts then we’re home free,” Danny said, a hint of desperation creeping into his voice.
“How are they not going to find out? As soon as somebody dies the lawyers file the will and they start looking at all his paperwork. We take a million or two out of some account they’re going to notice.”
“OK,” Danny began, “OK, I understand where you’re coming from. . . . What you’re saying is that we need to separate who dies from where we get the money.” Danny closed his eyes as if trying to work out a math problem in his head. “Like a ransom,” he added a moment later.
“A ransom means we’d have to kidnap somebody and that gets us back to the feds again, plus once we make the demand they’ll be watching the money like a hawk.”
Danny was silent for a moment, then began to smile.
“What if we just threatened to do something? What if we went to the target in advance and said, ‘Wire the money or else we’ll kill whoever’?”
“Then what? He pays the money and calls the cops.”
“No, he won’t call the cops because we’ll tell him that if the cops find out that we’ll do the job anyway.”
“So, he hires bodyguards for the target then he calls the cops,” Kyle said.
“No, he won’t because we’ll tell him that we’re patient and we might wait a year or two before we make good on the threat. We ask him, ‘How long can you keep your wife and kids under guard 24/7?’“
Kyle thought it over and waved for the waiter to bring him another drink.
“Why would he believe us?” Kyle asked a couple of minutes later. “These guys didn’t get rich by letting people scare them into paying protection money.”
“He’ll believe us because we’ll have proof that we’re serious. Like World War II. We dropped the bomb on Hiroshima and then we told the Japanese, ‘See what we can do. If you don’t want that to happen again, surrender.’ Of course, they didn’t believe us, not right away, not until we dropped the second bomb, then they gave it up.”
“You’re saying that we’d need to do it bloody once or twice,” Kyle said, turning the idea over in his head.
“Scorched-earth bloody. Are you up for that?”
“How much are we talking about?”
“At least a million per job, maybe more once the media plays it up.”
“You’re sure you can move the money around so nobody can trace it back to us?”
“All I’ll need is some time, a few days, a week, and if anybody comes looking for it after that, if that ever happens, I’ll have moved it so many times they’ll never find out where it ended up,” Danny promised.
“You said fifty-fifty but my guys are taking all the risk. All you’re doing is feeding us a lead and typing on a few computer keys.”
“You can’t do it without me,” Danny replied.
“And you can’t do it without me.” Kyle stared across the room. “Sixty-forty or no deal.”
Danny thought about it for a moment, but Kyle could tell he was hooked.
“All right, sixty-forty but you take care of your men out of your end.”
“Deal,” Kyle said and finished his drink.
* * *
Thinking back on it, Kyle was amazed that it had worked as well as it had. Not every target had paid off but enough had to make it worth the effort. Right now he had three million dollars divided up among six different Cayman Island and British Virgin Island bank accounts, not to mention a storage locker full of coins, silver, paintings, jewels and the rest of the loot. He figured he’d wait six months, a year, then fence it in Miami, L.A. or San Francisco when the heat died down.
Right now all he had to do was put some mileage between himself and Detroit and lay low, then he’d take a little Carribean vacation and visit one of his banks.
Chapter Forty-Eight
Kyle drove past the chain hotels like Courtyard and Hampton Inn. If his new ID was ever burned their nationwide-computers could be used to track him down. Instead, late in the day he pulled into “The Hoosier Pride Motor Inn” just off the 69 near Warren, Indiana. His room smelled of bug spray and the TV was an old-fashioned CRT with basic cable.
“Shit hole,” Kyle muttered, but it would do for one night. He just had to focus on the Penthouse Suite he’d soon be occupying at some fancy resort in Road Town or Alice Town or Nassau, someplace full of sun and beaches, great food, cold drinks and hot women. That’s what he had worked for. That’s what he had earned. If he had to endure a few nights in some cheap-ass motel room in Armpit, Nowhere, well, that’s what he would do. Eye on the prize, he told himself as he waited for the ancient TV to flicker to life.
While he flipped past some South American soccer game and the Home Shopping Channel, LED screens in sheriff’s cruisers and city police cars all over the mid-west were filling with his picture above the legend:
BE ON THE LOOK OUT for Kyle Neddick. Wanted for multiple counts of murder, armed robbery, and rape. Armed and extremely dangerous. Reputed to be the ringleader of a group of home-invasion robbers popularly known as “The Mad Dog Gang.” Caucasian, six feet one inches tall . . . .
A link led to several other images taken from the video supplied by Georgia Purcell. At the bottom the form contained Virgil’s and Stan’s cell numbers and a request for any and all information regarding any sightings of the subject. As yet the BOLO had only been electronically distributed to law enforcement. By tomorrow morning Kyle Neddick’s picture would be on every TV and newspaper in the Midwest.
* * *
Kyle stopped pressing the Up-Channel button when he stumbled across a broadcast of Scarface. He settled back and smiled. He hoped he hadn’t missed the part where Tony ripped them all apart with his “Little Friend.”
By seven-thirty p.m. boredom and hunger drove Neddick from his motel room and into the barely more exciting attractions in Warren, Indiana. He ordered a hot roast beef sandwich from the Farmhouse Diner and ate it as fast as he could shovel the sliced meat and gravy-soaked Wonder-Bread into his mouth. From there he moved on to The Hometown Bar which was mostly populated by overweight white men listening to a random mix of songs by either Blake Shelton or Bruce Springstein. The most complementary term Kyle could think of to describe the women was “corn-fed” and, in a foul mood, he left after one scotch that tasted like the Target house brand.
May as well buy a bottle and drink it in my room, he thought, and pulled into a Gas & Go a half a mile from the motel. A long-faced girl barely old enough to sell beer manned the cash register. In between customers she watched some vampire movie playing on the TV monitor on the wall behind the counter. Two boys who looked like brothers, around nineteen or twenty, came in a couple of minutes after he did and made a beeline for the beer cooler.
The store didn’t sell whisky, but Kyle grabbed a couple of bottles of water, a six-pack of beer, some Doritos and, remembering the microwave in his room, a frozen “breakfast box” of waffles, syrup and a side of sausage. He was reaching for a plastic bottle of lemonade when he heard th
e girl say, “I need to see your ID.”
“Oh, come on, it’s just beer.”
“You gotta be twenty-one to buy beer,” she insisted.
“Hey, we’re twenty-one, well, he’s twenty-one. I’m twenty-two.”
“Fine, show me your ID.”
The first boy slapped his pockets. “Shit, now where’d that go? Hah!” he laughed. “I must’ve left it in my other pants.”
The second kid thought that was hilarious, and slapped his brother on the shoulder.
“No ID, no beer,” the girl told them, though Kyle could hear a little concern creeping into her voice. Fuck this! he thought and pushed past them to the counter.
“Hey, wait your turn!” the first kid snapped. Kyle just stared at him and after about three seconds both boys took a couple of steps back. The girl rang up Kyle’s purchase and he paid with cash. He was about to turn away then he paused and tossed her a couple of twenties.
“Forty dollars worth on pump two out there,” he told her. She hit a couple of buttons on the panel next to the register.
“You’re all set,” she said and gave him a weak smile.
The boys wandered around fingering packages of Slim Jims and Twinkies until they saw Kyle drive away, then they headed back to the counter.
“How about that beer?” the first one said, waving a twenty at her.
“No ID, no beer,” she repeated with an irritated whine.
The kid’s phony smile degenerated into a frown and he looked at his little brother. The thought, If I let her get away with this he’s gonna think I’m weak, raced through his head.
“Fuck this and fuck you!” he half-shouted, turning back to the girl. “That there twelve-pack is fourteen dollars. I’m givin’ you twenty. If you’re smart, Charlene, you’ll take it and keep your mouth shut. Grab it Bobby and let’s get the fuck out of here,” he ordered, throwing down the bill. Bobby hesitated for a moment then grabbed the beer and they both hurried out of the store. The girl waited until they were gone then dialed 911.
“I’ve been robbed,” she told the operator. While she waited for the night-shift deputy, Trey Carlson, to show up, she washed her face, applied fresh lipstick and makeup and brushed out her hair in the hope that maybe he’d get the message and ask for her phone number.
* * *
“So, they didn’t actually steal the beer,” Trey said when she had finished giving her statement.
“Sure they did, I mean I didn’t sell it to them so they had to steal it. Here, it’s all on the security camera.” Charlene fiddled with the controls for half a minute then the horror movie was replaced by the feed from the surveillance system.
“See, that’s them,” she said, hitting ‘Pause.’ “They asked for beer and I told them that I couldn’t sell it to them without an ID.” She tapped the button and video resumed.
“Who’s that guy?” Trey asked, pointing at Kyle.
“Oh, just some customer. He bought some stuff and got forty dollar’s worth on pump two. He left before they took the beer. Now watch, see, he leaves and this is the part where they steal the beer.” Trey watched the clip through to the point where the boys grabbed the twelve-pack and ran out of the store. “See, just like I told you.”
Trey scratched his head. “Well, they committed some kind of a crime, that’s for sure. I’ll let the sergeant figure out how to write it up,” he said, half staring off into space.
“Will you need me to testify?” Charlene asked hopefully.
“Nah, they’ll probably plead out to something.”
“What if they don’t?”
“What do you mean?”
“If they don’t and it goes to court won’t you need me to be a witness?”
“I guess. Is that a problem for you?”
“No, I mean, that’s my job, right?” She pulled a flyer off the counter and began to write on the back. “Here’s my address and phone number in case you need me to come down and give a statement or anything.”
Oh, now I get it, Trey thought and gave her another look. Hmmm, nice tits.
“Great, thanks.” Smiling, he shoved the folded page into his shirt pocket. “Well, I guess I’ll go track those knuckleheads down. They’re probably in their mother’s basement drinking the beer.”
“Let me know if you need me,” Charlene told him as he turned away. Trey got about two steps, then stopped. “Did you forget something?”
“No, well, I’m not sure. It feels like I did, but I don’t know what.”
“I hate when that happens,” Charlene said, giving Trey her warmest smile.
He looked around the store then back at Charlene. “Hmmmm,” he muttered, “I know it’s something. . . . Well, it’ll come to me. See you, Charlene.”
“Yeah . . . call me.”
Trey tracked down Donnie and Bobby Wilcox at their mother’s house, loaded their drunk asses into his patrol car, booked them on a charge of petty theft (Let the sergeant figure out if that was going to stick), went home, went to bed, woke up with a full bladder around five-thirty in the morning, and halfway through peeing said out loud, “Fuck, that guy looked like the armed killer they had on that Detroit BOLO!”
By five after six he was back at the store, comparing the image on the security footage with the face staring out of the wanted poster from Detroit. It sure as hell looked like the same guy to him. Two seconds later he had his cell in his hand and had started dialing.
Chapter Forty-Nine
When the phone dragged him awake in complete darkness Virgil’s first thought was, Another phone call in the middle of the night? immediately replaced by, Did they find him?
“Quinn,” Virgil answered, shaking his head to clear the fog of sleep.
“Detective, this is Huntington County Deputy Sheriff Trey Carlson. I think I’ve spotted your guy, Kyle Neddick.”
“Huntington County? Where’s that?”
“Warren, Indiana, just off the I-69. We had a little incident at the Gas & Go, and when I looked at the video I saw a customer who looked a lot like your guy.”
“Can you send me the clip?”
“I pulled a couple of frames that show his face pretty good. I can send them to your phone.”
“Email them. I want to put them up on my laptop.”
Thirty seconds later Virgil was zooming in on a picture of Kyle Neddick holding a shopping basket.
“That’s my guy,” Virgil told Trey, excitement creeping into his voice. “Did you get a picture of his vehicle?”
“The clerk sold him forty-dollars worth on one of the pumps. He’s driving a silver, 2007 Infiniti G35. I can give you the plate.”
Virgil glanced at the glowing numbers on the digital clock – six-fifteen a.m.
“How fast can you get a BOLO out on that car? Armed and dangerous. Nobody should take him on alone.”
“You got it. Any idea where he’s heading?” Trey asked.
“Where does the 69 go?”
“Indianapolis. After that he could take the 70 to St. Louis or the 65 to Louisville. After that,” Trey unfolded a map on the Gas & Go counter, “Ahhh, Nashville, Oklahoma City, anyplace south or west.”
“When was this, when he was in the store?”
“The time code says nine-twenty-three last night.”
“OK, OK,” Virgil said, trying to run the numbers in his head. “If he was just driving through that’s about nine hours ago. How far is Indianapolis from you?”
“About a hundred miles.”
“He’ll be long gone by now. . . . What did he buy?”
“Excuse me?”
“Can you tell from the tape what he bought?”
“Hang on.” Trey ran the part of the clip where Charlene rang up his purchases. “Ahhh, water, a six-pack of beer, chips, a bottle of lemonade and, ahh, it looks like one of those frozen breakfast things, waffles and sausage.”
“He wasn’t going to pull over and eat that in his car,” Virgil said, his excitement returning. “He must have taken a
room someplace with a microwave. Can you check the motels in town for that Infiniti? But do it carefully. If he feels threatened he’ll shoot you dead without a second thought.”
Trey felt a little shudder and took a quick breath. More than once he’d fantasized about catching some really bad guy, a kidnapper, a bank robber, a serial killer, but now that he might actually have to go toe-to-toe with a cold-blooded murderer, the prospect suddenly seemed far less appealing.
“Yeah, OK, we can do that,” he said with an edge of worry in his voice.
“I’m going to jump in the shower. Call me in fifteen.” Virgil hung up then spent five minutes bringing Stan up to speed before dialing Peter Fineman’s private number.
“Marshal, did you catch him?” Fineman asked instead of ‘Hello.’
“We’re close. He’s been spotted in Warren, Indiana. We’ve ID’d his vehicle and the locals are starting a search, but I’ve got to get there ASAP.”
“You need a plane,” Fineman said.
“I don’t think Chief Rogers is going to authorize our leasing one on the department’s dime.”
There was a long pause, then Fineman asked, “This Neddick, he’s the last one?”
“Three dead, one in the hospital, one in custody. The guy on the run is the ringleader. He set the whole thing up.”
“Hmmmm,” Fineman hummed, imagining the Mayor’s press conference announcing that the Mad Dog Gang had all been captured or killed. “Yes, all right,” he said a moment later. “I’ll make some calls. I’m sure that some civic-minded corporation will be willing to lend us the use of one of their jets for a worthy cause. Head out to Detroit Metropolitan. That’s off of I-94. I’ll call you with the hangar location as soon as I get something set up.”