“I bought all of these down here,” Stimmer said. “They go right into a canal when we’re done.”
She set the Glock back down. “I put together a list of what I think we’ll need,” she said. She tapped a printout. “We were looking at those balconies.”
“So was I,” Stimmer said. He laid the MP5 across his lap. “The room with the game is on the beachside, 1102. The balconies are wider there, better for us. There’s no way we’re getting in the front door of that room while the game’s going on.”
“We’ll need to figure a way to get through that sliding glass door,” she said.
“Not an issue. No one smokes in the room, they have to go outside. So they leave the door unlocked.”
“We’ll need rappelling equipment for two people. Can you swing that?”
“Shouldn’t be a problem. I’ll take care of it tomorrow.”
“Black jumpsuits for two of us,” she said. “A blue one for the third. We have to fake some stitching on the back, name of a maintenance company. Doesn’t have to be perfect, just enough to pass casual inspection.”
Stimmer nodded. “Masks and gloves, too. I can do all of that.”
“About this rappel thing,” Chance said. “I don’t know if I’m down with that.”
“You don’t need to be,” Stimmer said. “I’ve done it. All you’ll have to do is help organize the equipment up top, watch the safety lines.”
“That’s better.”
“We need someone to take a look inside,” she said. “Maybe get some pictures.”
“I’ve been in there,” Stimmer said. “Couple weeks back. I stayed there one night, walked around the place. Eleventh floor, too.”
“Sure that was smart?” she said.
“I used another name and credit card. Nothing to worry about. Eleven-oh-two is at the end of the hall, north side. I was in 904, two floors down and one room over. Layout’s probably the same. I sketched it all out.”
“Good,” she said.
“If it’s different, we’ll play it by ear when we get in there. Players start arriving about nine, but the game doesn’t pick up speed until midnight or so. I figure we go in around one. Too early for people to start dropping out, but late enough that they’re starting to get tired. Easier to handle.”
“That sounds right,” she said.
“Now, on every hall there’s a maintenance closet,” he said. “Locked, but easy to pick. Each one has a trash chute that goes down to the basement, directly off the garage. That way we don’t have to carry anything downstairs. We pack it all into a pair of duffels—money, guns, masks, everything—dump them into the chute. We walk away clean, just in case we’re stopped. Then we meet up in the basement, pick up the bags, and get gone.”
“How do we get into the basement?” Chance said.
“It’s a maintenance shop as well, open during the day. I was able to get a look inside. There’s tools in there, so they lock the door at night, but it’ll be easy to get through. No alarm. There’s a reserved parking spot in the garage, right outside the door, for the maintenance company van. They’re independent contractors, only there during business hours or emergencies. I got a couple shots of their vehicle.”
“So we’ll need a van?” Chance said.
“I got that covered. The van’s old, white. Easy to match. I found one like it over in Davie, bought it for five hundred cash. They’ll keep it there until I pick it up. We’ll need to do a paint job on the side, re-create the logo, but we’ve got the pictures to match it against.”
“So who’s paying for all this?” Crissa said.
“I am, so far,” Stimmer said. “Afterward we’ll do a normal split. Expenses off the top, then a three-way divide.”
“What about your inside guy?” she said.
“That comes out of my share. I’ll take care of him.”
Or maybe he’ll end up in a canal, too, she thought. Stimmer seemed the type. Cheaper than paying him, and one less loose end. In the long run, though, it was a bad way to do business. Bodies had a way of turning up, and greed and paranoia could ruin the best of plans.
“We’ll have another car parked nearby,” Stimmer said. “We roll out of there in the van, split up when we reach the car. Whoever’s driving the van takes the equipment and the money. Then we meet up later, here.”
He nodded at the Glock. “You want to take that now?”
She shook her head. “Night of. We’ll leave everything here until we’re ready.”
“Fine with me,” he said.
“I think we’re done here,” she said. “We’ll meet tomorrow, get the equipment sorted out, run through everything again. We don’t have much time.”
“That’s an understatement,” Chance said. “One day to get ready. Can we even make that work?”
“We will,” she said.
* * *
Chance dropped her at her hotel in Deerfield Beach. She went up to the room and got the disc Leah had given her, then let herself into the hotel’s business center with her key card. The room was empty, the three computers and fax machine shut down for the night.
She sat at a terminal, powered it up, and slid the disc in.
There were twelve photos on it, all recent. Maddie at a swimming pool, water wings on her arms, splashing. Another on the front lawn of the house, Maddie crouched and smiling up at the camera. In the next, she was blowing out candles on a birthday cake, Jenny beside her. Then a class portrait on the school steps. The bottom of the photo read GRADE FIVE — ELKTAIL ELEMENTARY SCHOOL — TWO RIVERS, TEXAS — 2011.
She clicked through all the pictures twice, with that same pull inside she’d felt at the playground. You’re a beautiful little girl, she thought. But you’re not really mine anymore, are you?
This was a mistake, she realized. She should have waited until she got home to look at the photos, when the work was over. Right now she needed her edge, needed to be cold, smart. No tears.
She ejected the disc, punched the power button, watched the screen fade to black.
ELEVEN
She rode the elevator to the tenth floor, then got out and took the stairs. At the top, a fire door said NO ADMITTANCE. She pushed through, went up the short flight of stairs to the roof.
She’d come in the front door with a group of drunk conventioneers, joined them in the elevator. The doorman hadn’t seemed to notice her. The conventioneers had gotten off at the fifth floor, gone noisily to their rooms, left her alone.
She opened the roof door and stepped out into the night. In front of her was the immense blackness of the ocean, the moon a glow behind clouds.
Stimmer and Chance were waiting in the lee of the big air-conditioning unit, sitting with their backs against it. They’d arrived an hour apart, Stimmer first, Chance dropping him off, then coming back with the van. She’d taken a cab, had it leave her four blocks away at another hotel, then walked here.
The air conditioner rattled and thrummed, the only sound up here besides the wind. Heat lightning pulsed on the horizon.
They got to their feet when they saw her. Stimmer was already in his jumpsuit, Chance in the maintenance uniform, both wearing gloves. Chance opened a duffel bag, began to draw equipment out.
The blacktop was warm through her sneakers—residual heat from the day. She looked around. On both sides were more hotels, a long curve of them following the beach. To the front, traffic moved on Seabreeze. The far right lane emptied onto the bridge that spanned the Intracoastal Waterway and led to the city proper.
Chance held out her jumpsuit. She pulled it on over her jeans and T-shirt, a tight fit, zipped it. There was a Velcroed pocket on each side, big enough for a weapon. Chance handed her the Glock. She checked it, slipped it into the right pocket, smoothed it shut. The bundle of plasticuffs he gave her went into the other pocket.
Stimmer had two nylon ropes anchored around the air-conditioning unit, was pulling on them to test them. Chance held up one of the harnesses for her. She stepped into i
t, tightened the belt, tugged on the leather rappel gloves he gave her.
Stimmer drew the MP5 from the duffel, the stock retracted. He’d jury-rigged a harness on his back for it, strapped it in place. Chance helped him into the rappel gear.
They got busy with the lines, feeding them through the carabiners and belay devices. She double-checked hers, tugged on the rope to test it. She gave Stimmer the thumbs-up.
A gust of wind blew in from the ocean, lifted grit from the rooftop, swirled it in the air. It was stronger than they’d expected. They’d have to take it into account when they went over the side.
She paid out rope, walking backward to the roof edge. She turned, looked down, felt a hollowness in her stomach. Thirteen floors below was the concrete patio, the blue light of the swimming pool, closed for the night, a stack of plastic chairs beside it. Beyond the patio, the empty beach. Light came through the ground-floor windows, illuminated a brief stretch of sand.
If the rigging failed, she’d have two choices. Push away and hope she cleared the patio and hit the sand, or angle in and try to make the pool. Either way, she knew, the fall would probably kill her.
“You ready?” Stimmer said. She nodded. He pulled on a black ski mask, handed her another. She tugged it down over her face, adjusted the eye holes. She tried to swallow, couldn’t gather enough saliva.
She repositioned herself, looked down again. Directly below was the dark shape of an unlit balcony—1202. They knew it was vacant, had called the room twice tonight to be sure. Below that, the balcony of 1102, the flagstones faintly illuminated by light coming through a sliding glass door.
Chance was by the air-conditioning unit, checking the rigging. He gave her the thumbs-up. She hitched the harness to a more comfortable position, leaned back until the line grew taut. Then she stepped backward over the edge, planted her feet against the stucco wall.
She played out rope, the nylon stretching as it took her weight. Her right hand worked the belaying device at her hip. Don’t look down and don’t look up, she thought. Concentrate on what you’re doing.
She lowered herself, testing the tension, letting the rope out in increments through the cinch links, her sneakers scuffing on the wall. She juddered in stages down the side of the building, the wind pushing gently against her. She felt exposed, waited for someone on the ground to see her, cry out.
She let out more rope, and then suddenly the first balcony was under her. The wind blew her toward the building. She braced her feet on the wrought-iron railing, let it take her weight. Three seconds of rest and then she let out more line, pushed away. She could hear the ocean.
Stretched across the railing, the line held her farther out from the building now. She looked down, saw the balcony of 1102 just a few feet below. More line, and then she swung her weight out—once, twice—let the momentum carry her back in, her legs extended. On the third try, she hooked the railing with her feet, pulled herself in. Then she played out a final three feet of rope, swung her hips over the railing, and landed soft on the balcony.
She crouched there, not breathing. The sliding glass door was open two inches, the breeze stirring the curtain inside. The room beyond was half-lit. A wind chime sounded from another balcony.
She put a hand on the flagstones for balance, used the other to undo the harness. She eased out of it, then double-knotted the trailing line around one of the carabiners.
Movement above her. She looked up, saw Stimmer coming down. He tried to swing in to the balcony, missed. She caught his ankle on the second try, guided him in. His feet touched the flagstones, and she pulled him down beside her.
They waited, listening. He eased his harness off, knotted the line, tugged twice. The two harnesses rose off the flagstones, brushed once against the railing, and were gone.
She looked at the door, remembering the layout Stimmer had sketched. The living room here, then the dining room beyond, where the game was. To the left, a bedroom where the bank would be. The living room was big. They would have to cross it fast and silent.
Stimmer had the MP5 free, was cradling it in his arms. Clouds parted and the moon brightened. She put a hand on his shoulder to hold him there. They waited, heard the distant rumble of thunder out over the ocean.
When the clouds closed again, she crawled across the flagstones. She took out the Glock, used her other hand to hook the lip of the door. It moved smoothly as she pushed. Cool air flowed out. Wind billowed the curtain.
She could hear voices now, terse statements punctuated by silence. She got to her feet, Stimmer rising beside her. She eased the curtain aside.
When she stepped into the living room, there was a small white-haired man coming toward them, an unlit cigar in his mouth. She aimed the Glock at him, touched an index finger to her lips. Stimmer moved to her right, the MP5 up. The old man looked at them without fear, said nothing.
Light spilled from the dining room, but she and Stimmer stood in shadow. She pointed at the man with her left hand, made a circular motion. He took the cigar from his mouth, looked at both of them, then turned and began to walk back. They followed him.
When he stepped into the dining room, he looked at the nine men at the table and said, “Bad news.”
TWELVE
“Sit down,” Stimmer told the old man. He moved to the head of the table to cover them all, the MP5’s stock extended now. “This is a robbery. Don’t make it a murder.”
The old man took his chair. Crissa pointed the Glock into the room. Ten men at the table, one of them in vest and tuxedo shirt, a deck of cards in his hand. The dealer. Green felt cloth on the table, a pile of multicolored chips in the center, more stacked in front of each player. Against the wall, a table full of room service food, silver trays and liquor bottles, a coffeepot.
She felt their eyes on her as she moved past, into the corridor. A big man in a Hawaiian shirt was coming out of the bedroom, the door half open behind him. She aimed the Glock at his face. He stopped, looked at her, the gun, raised his hands to shoulder height.
There was a TV on in the bedroom behind him. In the hall, a big tank full of bright tropical fish bubbled softly. Those were the only sounds.
“Ricky,” the old man called from the dining room. “Do as they say. It’s all right.”
She pointed at the floor. Ricky sank slowly to his knees on the carpet, hands still up.
“All the way,” she said.
He stretched out on his stomach. She straddled him, half-facing the bedroom doorway, reached beneath his shirt, felt the automatic in the clip holster. She pulled it out, patted him down again, took a BlackBerry off his other hip. She dropped both in the fish tank.
“Stay there,” she told him and went into the bedroom.
Inside, a bald man in a suit was cramming stacks of bills into a steel attaché case on a table. Beside the case was a teak box of chips.
She tapped the Glock on the door frame to get his attention. He froze, didn’t turn.
“Step away from that case,” she said.
He raised his hands.
“Back up. That’s good. Now kneel.”
She crouched behind him, took a walnut-grip .38 from his hip, tossed it on the bed. She pulled a cell phone from his jacket pocket, dropped it beside the gun.
“Facedown,” she said. She pushed the Glock into her pocket to free her hands, took out a pair of plasticuffs. He crossed his wrists behind him, and she slipped the cuffs on, drew them tight.
“Stay quiet,” she said. “Or I’ll gag you.”
She took the gun and phone, went back into the hall, dropped them in the tank. Fish jetted away in irritation.
Ricky hadn’t moved. She took out another pair of cuffs, bound his hands behind him. He grunted as she tightened them.
She went down the hall to a mirrored foyer, tapped lightly at the front door. When the answering knock came, she worked the locks, opened the door. Chance came in carrying a duffel bag, the ski mask pushed up on his head. The bag clanked as he set it down. She
shut the door behind him, and he pulled the mask over his face, adjusted it.
She pointed at the bedroom door. He nodded, drew a folded canvas bag from his jumpsuit.
Back in the dining room, Stimmer stood as before, the MP5 unwavering. The men at the table turned to look at her. Two were Asians in resort wear. Across the table from them sat a young, slim man in a red and white cowboy shirt with pearl snaps. To his left, a heavy man with a pockmarked face, black and silver hair slicked back. He wore a suit jacket, his white shirt open to show a gold Italian horn on a chain. The stack of chips in front of him was the smallest on the table.
“Everybody stay calm,” the old man said. “Let them take what they want.”
“Sam,” said a man in shirtsleeves and thick glasses. “What is this bullshit?”
“Easy, Morrie,” the old man said. “Everybody take it easy.”
“Gentlemen,” Stimmer said. “Wallets and cell phones. On the table.”
A groan came up. Sam put the unlit cigar back in his mouth, then pulled a thick leather wallet from his back pocket, tossed it onto the chips in the center of the table. “No cell phone,” he said. “Hate ’em.”
One by one, the others added wallets and phones to the pile. The heavy man didn’t move.
Stimmer came around behind the Asians, faced the heavy man across the table. He leveled the MP5 at his chest.
“Do it,” Stimmer said. The heavy man met his eyes.
“Lou,” Sam said. “Come on, don’t fuck around.”
Crissa raised the Glock. “Do what he says.” It was taking too long. They were losing the element of surprise, giving the players time to think.
After a moment, Lou said, “Punks.” He took a leather billfold from an inside pocket, tossed it with the others, sat back.
“Phone,” Stimmer said.
Lou looked at him, then took a thin black cell from another pocket, dropped it on the table.
“Morrie,” Stimmer said, looking at the man in glasses. “Take the cash out of those wallets, pile it on the table.”
Cold Shot to the Heart Page 8