She tried to look as normal as possible as she walked along the covered sidewalk, down the full length of the nondescript little strip mall. In her tight-fitting Levi’s and her short, jet-black hair and matching onyx eyes, she knew she was attractive, even at thirty-six, and her quick, light stride showed it. A couple of college-age guys approached her head-on, and as they passed, she could feel their heads pivot to watch her going-away side. Ordinarily, those glances felt nice, but today they reminded her that this was a day to be invisible, and she worked harder at being anonymous.
She’d made it nearly all the way to the bank door when she froze. I’ve got nothing to carry the money in. The original plan had called for her to bring an ugly, oversize purse from home, but it lay stuffed into the same closet as the duffel bags. What was she supposed to do now? The little fashion bag slung over her shoulder this morning was barely large enough for her wallet and keys. Even her sunglasses didn’t fit inside.
The persistent flutter in her stomach grew larger by the second. You’d better come up with something fast. She took a few moments to inspect her surroundings, then…
The Safeway!
She turned abruptly and headed back the other way, drawing yet another look from the college boys, who by now had to believe that she was on the prowl. She smiled politely but otherwise ignored them as she walked through the automatic doors and into the cavernous grocery store.
“Excuse me,” she said, approaching the first cashier.
A haggard woman with mostly gray hair and an unhealthy pallor turned to face her. With no one in her line, she looked vaguely relieved to have someone to talk to. “Hi!”
The cheerfulness of the greeting caught Carolyn off guard. “Um, hi.” She tried to match the lighthearted lilt but fell way short. “Listen, I’m wondering if you could do me a favor.”
“I’ll certainly try.”
Carolyn did her best to smile and keep eye contact, but she couldn’t stop her eyes from darting all around. She felt… exposed. “Well, I’m not sure if you’re allowed to do this,” she began, conscious of an unnatural waver in her voice. “I’m wondering if I could have a shopping bag?”
If the clerk suspected anything out of the ordinary, she showed none of it. “Of course,” she said as she reached for a shelf somewhere below the register. “Plastic or paper?”
Carolyn grinned. “Paper, please.”
The Johnston’s Corner branch of Phoenix Bank and Trust was nothing special-just a community bank, serving the needs of suburban families and the service businesses that supported them. Jake had felt that a smaller bank would have fewer rules and regulations to deal with. In homage to its clientele, the place was devoid of pretense; no big chandeliers, marble floors, or gilded teller cages. Phoenix Bank and Trust was a working-class establishment, catering to customers for whom tile floors, fluorescent lights, and wood-paneled teller stations were just fine.
The lobby was packed, as it usually was around lunchtime, and Carolyn waited as patiently as she could, seated in one of the imitation-leather guest chairs in the tiny lobby. Elusive bank logic prohibited tellers from helping customers with their safe-deposit boxes. Such was the domain of the manager and assistant managers whose elevated status was marked by tiny desks in a carpeted corner, separated from each other by shoulder-height glass partitions. Of these various anointed ones, all were serving other customers; mostly young couples with the sheepish look of people trying to qualify for loans they weren’t sure they could afford.
As Carolyn waited, the chairs around her filled with still more customers, each awaiting his or her own audience with the senior staff. Conversation flowed easily among these people, allowing her to relax just a bit. No one seemed to suspect anything. In the ten minutes that Carolyn sat waiting, she checked her watch at least twenty times.
Every second is a liability. She was oblivious to the constant, nervous tapping of her heel against the floor. What can possibly be taking this long?
As if on cue, all the meetings concluded at once, and the desk-dwellers motioned for the next wave. It didn’t seem fair to Carolyn that the lady who’d been waiting for only a minute or two got to speak with someone at the same time she did.
A hunky young guy-maybe twenty-five, with eyes that matched his blue Oxford button-down-extended his hand to Carolyn. “Hi,” he said, flashing an expensive smile. “My name’s Jeff. How can I help you?”
His voice was so smooth and his smile so genuine that Carolyn wondered just how many pretty young hearts had melted under the heat of his greeting. Fifteen years ago she might have been one of them, but today she was in a hurry, and the tone of her voice said so.
“I need to get into my safe-deposit box,” she said, handing him her key ring.
Jeff’s smile changed from personal to businesslike but never disappeared completely. “Yes, ma’am.” He left for a few seconds, then returned with the other key and a signature card. “Here,” Jeff said. “I need you to sign this.”
After Carolyn scrawled her name on the card, Jeff compared it to the sample signature above it. “First visit in five months,” he observed.
Carolyn launched a glare that rendered Jeff instantly repentant. “I’m very sorry, Mrs. Brighton. That’s none of my business.”
Carolyn said nothing, but her look told him that she couldn’t have agreed more. Together, they walked into the vault, and Jeff used a set of rolling stairs to reach the Brightons’ box. The lock seemed stiff, resisting his efforts to turn it. Finally, he pulled the door open and slid out a long black metal container. He handed it down to her. Carolyn could tell that he wanted to comment on its weight, but he wisely kept his thoughts to himself.
“You want a viewing room, I trust?” Jeff was sucking up to her now as he climbed backward down the steps.
Carolyn smiled patiently. “Yes, please.”
Jeff led the way to one of two six-foot-by-four-foot cubicles and opened the door for his customer. “Take your time,” he told her.
“Thank you.”
Inside, Carolyn locked the door, and after a quick scan overhead for security cameras, she opened the box and smiled. There it was: $62,000 cash. She’d forgotten what that much money looked like, all broken into hundreds. She pulled the Safeway bag from under her jacket, and as she stuffed the banded bills inside, she tried not to think about how much interest the money could have earned over the years, had they invested it properly. Yet another reality of life on the run.
Not that there’d been much choice. IRS regulations required banks to report large cash transactions, so that was out of the question. So were other standard investment vehicles. The key to this particular fund was instant and total liquidity. If and when the day came that the Brightons needed their cash, they would want it right by-God now; there’d be no time for a phone call to some broker. They could have kept it in the house, she supposed-in fact, for a while, they’d done just that, but not here in Phoenix. Farm Meadows was such a frequent target for burglars that many of Carolyn’s neighbors had stopped locking their trailers during the day, just to save the wear and tear on their doors and windows. Then there was the risk of a fire. All things considered, the safe-deposit box made the most sense.
Carolyn wondered if the bag would be big enough to hold it all. The space seemed to be filling up faster than the box was emptying. It was heavier than she’d expected, too.
What’s this? As she reached back to get the last of the bills, she found a pistol: a little. 380, just slightly bigger than her hand. She didn’t remember this from the memorized plan, but leave it to Jake to think of everything. She dropped the magazine out of the grip and took a look. Sure enough, loaded to the top. Like there was ever a doubt. She eased back the slide and found one more in the chamber. Jake was a planner, all right. He must have envisioned some scenario where she’d have to use more than words to get to the staging area, and he wanted her to be prepared. For the hundredth time over the years, she wondered if she’d have the guts to fire a g
un, then she shooed away the thought and concentrated on her next move.
It turned out that there was plenty of space in the bag for the money, with enough room left over to fold the top closed. Slipping the. 380 into her jacket pocket, she hefted the bag under her left arm and, with her right arm clutching the deposit box, opened the door to retrieve her keys from Jeff.
“Carolyn!” a lady’s voice boomed. It was Mary Barnett, her next-door neighbor, sounding for all the world like they hadn’t seen each other in years. “How wonderful to see you!” Virtually deaf, Mrs. Barnett-“Mrs. Bullet Boobs” to the boys-was incapable of quiet speech.
Oh, God. “Hi, Mary. How are you?” She waved to get Jeff’s attention. He acknowledged her with a nod but appeared to be stuck on the phone.
“Happy and hearty as can be,” Mary bellowed. With her girth and baggy yellow dress, she looked like a have-a-niceday balloon. “The question is, how is little Travis? He looked awful last night.”
This I don’t need.
If Mrs. Barnett had dedicated one-fifth the effort she invested in other people’s business to a real business of her own, she’d have been a millionaire. “Oh, he’s fine,” Carolyn said, her spirit dancing as she saw Jeff hang up his phone.
“I didn’t see you go to a doctor.” Mrs. Barnett’s comment was leaden with disapproval.
Carolyn ignored her, concentrating instead on Jeff’s return. “Here you go,” she said, handing him the box.
He walked back into the vault and returned in twenty seconds with her keys. “Thank you, Mrs. Brighton,” he said earnestly.
Mrs. Barnett followed Carolyn to the door, chatting the whole way. “That’s some bag you’ve got there. Didn’t rob the place, did you?” She tittered at her little joke, until Carolyn froze her with a startled glare. “Oh, dear, Carolyn,” she apologized. “I’ve offended you. “
Carolyn smiled just a hair too slowly and shook her head. “Oh, no, not at all,” she said. “I’m just a little tired, I guess.”
Mrs. Barnett returned the smile, but absent her typical humor. “I’m sure. I understand.”
Dammit, Carolyn cursed herself. The problem with busybodies was their keen sense of human nature. Clearly, Mrs. Barnett knew something was wrong. Put another nail in the coffin.
Hurrying, but not running, back to her Celica, Carolyn checked her watch: 12:48. Damn. Every second…
CHAPTER THREE
Phoenix Police Chief Peter Sherwood had way too much on his administrative plate to suffer any more of this catfight. If Lucas Banks said that this Brighton guy was a straight shooter, then he was a straight shooter. He’d seen enough of Lucas’s courtroom antics to know when he was in his defense-lawyer mode, and this wasn’t it. Sometimes it wasn’t about winning and losing. Sometimes it was about justice. And as far as Sherwood could see, Lucas had a point.
Under different circumstances, he’d have cut Brighton loose by now. Unfortunately, this case belonged to the FBI, and the lady cop they’d assigned to running it was playing her role as Queen Bitch to the hilt. What was it about that agency that made them so damn difficult to deal with? God knew that DEA and Secret Service boys had huge egos, but at least they pretended to show respect for the eagles on Sherwood’s collar. The FBI, on the other hand, seemed to think that everyone they encountered was either an idiot or a criminal.
This Rivers lady was a case unto herself. Barely a first grader when Sherwood was busting his first felon, she was an arrogant bitch, with what looked to be a God complex. At maybe forty years old, this well-moussed Charlie’s Angels wanna-be thought she had the world pegged, and Sherwood wanted desperately to eat her and her attitude alive. In deference to Lucas and his client, however, he found himself playing peacemaker.
“We’ve been over this twice already, Irene,” Lucas said evenly. It was a struggle, but he forced himself to remain in his faux-leather guest chair, legs crossed, while he strangled paper clips from the dish on Sherwood’s desk. “Brighton is not a threat to you or anybody else. He’s got a business here. And a family. What do you want from him?”
Rivers slumped in the other guest chair. “You’re right,” she said. “We have been over this twice-three times now, in fact. And he’s a friend of yours. I heard you every time. Problem is, Counselor, that you keep forgetting the part where he drew a gun on me.”
“Bullshit!” That was it. Without even thinking, Lucas launched forward in his chair and bounced a dead paper clip off the polished desktop, causing Sherwood to dodge the ricochet. He knew that shouting was a mistake, but the genie was out of the bottle now. “He didn’t draw a gun on you! He drew a gun on a bunch of strangers with automatic weapons! You said yourself that he never even brought it to bear, for Christ’s sake! What the hell would you do if you saw a swarm of terrorists flooding your office?”
Rivers shook her head. “I’m not a terrorist. I’m a federal officer.” Her elbows were planted on the upholstered arms of the guest chair. As she spoke, she steepled her fingers and studied them. “Plus, I didn’t like what I saw behind his eyes. I know he didn’t shoot, but he sure as hell thought about it.”
“Oh, for God’s sake. Now you’re a mind reader!”
The time had come for Sherwood to intervene, before Lucas really pissed her off. “Come on, Irene. I’ve known Lucas since we were kids. If he says the guy’s okay, you can believe him. Don’t get me wrong, he’ll cut off your balls in a courtroom…” He stopped himself. There definitely was some eye contact now. “Well, you know what I mean. He’s a lawyer. But this isn’t a courtroom. You haven’t formally filed charges yet, right?”
Her eyes narrowed. Clearly, she didn’t appreciate the tag-team approach. “Why is this guy so important to you?” In sales, they would have called the question a buying signal.
Sherwood’s eyebrows scaled his forehead, as if to say, “Damn good question.” He left that one for his lawyer friend.
Lucas shrugged. “He did me a favor. He really worked with us to get our car fixed up before vacation, so I owe him one.”
She tossed her hands in the air. “Oh, well, there you go,” she mocked. “He takes a ding out of your car, and I should look the other way on a felony? What the hell kind of deal is that?”
“What felony?” Lucas insisted again. “Jesus Christ, Irene, how can I say it more simply? He didn’t know you were a cop. He saw the guns, and he responded. Why is this so unreasonable to you?” Sensing a crack in Irene’s resolve, he lowered his voice and sat back down in his chair. “Look. You came for a drug bust, and you got a drug bust. Let’s call it a successful day for justice and let my client off the hook.”
Irene inhaled deeply through her nose and held it for a few seconds before she let it go. When she looked up at Sherwood, and then at Lucas, they knew the good guys had won.
“This is a mistake,” she said, seemingly to herself. “I just know in my bones that this is a mistake.”
Sherwood let the words hang for a moment, not sure if it was his turn to speak. “No, it’s not,” he reassured her. “It’s a solid decision.” He stopped there, not wanting to push any harder.
She sighed one more time, then rose to her feet. “You win, boys,” she said, extending her hand. “It’s a mistake, but I’ll do it. Won’t be the first.”
Lucas rose with her and grasped her hand. “Agent Rivers, I appreciate this. Trust me, you’re doing the right thing.”
She smiled, the first show of warmth in twenty minutes. “I hope so, Counselor,” she said. “For all our sakes.”
Jake shifted his position as best he could with his right wrist shackled to the leg of his wooden chair. He’d have paid twenty bucks to be able to sling his arm over the seat back; fifty to stand and stretch.
Many years had passed since he last visited a police station, thanks to a DUI problem when he was eighteen, but from what he could tell, Phoenix police headquarters had been designed and decorated by the same team who’d put together its much larger counterpart in Cook County, Illinois
. The place was a jumble of desks and chairs that seemed more scattered than arranged, making it impossible for anyone to walk a straight line from one side of the squad room to the other. Every horizontal surface was littered with papers and files-including the floor. As uniformed officers and plainclothes detectives came and went, those same files and papers were kicked, walked on, or otherwise ignored. A stickler for neatness in his own shop, Jake wondered how people in this dimly lit, nicotine-stained hellhole ever got anything done.
The clock on the wall behind him buzzed noisily each time the minute hand moved, and as he struggled to find a spot for his butt that would ease the stress on his back, his eyes were drawn to the clock for the one hundred thirty-fourth time since he’d been deposited there. It was going on three hours since they’d taken his fingerprints and allowed him to make his phone call. He was cutting this way too close.
He wondered how long Carolyn would wait for him before she headed off on her own with Travis. Part of him hoped she was already gone, but he knew better. They’d been through a lot together. She wouldn’t leave him behind until the very last minute, any more than he’d have left her.
Still, it was getting late. One-fifteen. In the absolute worst case they’d rehearsed, she should have taken care of everything by now, even working by herself. That left her waiting with Travis in the staging area, biding time till her patience gave out.
One way or another, Jake figured this would all be a done deal within the next sixty minutes. Surely, the cops had zapped his prints off to be identified by the FBI. When the results came in, he was done. Christ, he’d be lucky if they didn’t just shoot him there on the spot. That was the negative side. In the plus column, Lucas Banks seemed genuinely pissed that the feds had arrested him in the first place, and truly committed to getting him off. If Jake had ever doubted the value of excellent customer service, he was a devoted believer today. The lawyer’s promise to get him out was a genuine source of hope.
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