Stolen Prey p-22

by John Sandford

  He’d told Turicek and Sanderson about the cops. He’d been cool about it, getting them back in an isolated hallway at the bank, in case there were monitors they didn’t know about.

  “They think it might be me, but they’ve got no idea about you two, or Edie,” he said. “They think it might be me because those assholes at Polaris tried to shift the blame onto me.”

  “Correctly,” Sanderson observed.

  “Still a fucked-up thing to do,” Kline said. “Anyway, they may be watching. I may get another visit. I’m not going to talk to you or call you outside of work, and you better stay away from me, too. I can’t help with the gold.”

  Both Turicek and Sanderson said that he’d done well, but he could see that both were sweating. He’d seen Turicek studying him, past his computer monitor, during the afternoon, and it occurred to him that if something should happen to him-call it like it is, he thought: if somebody killed him-then there would be no connecting thread between the theft at Polaris and Turicek and Sanderson.

  Would Turicek be capable of killing someone?

  He didn’t know. He suspected, though, from stories Turicek had told about his life in post-Soviet eastern Europe, that he’d know somebody who would not only be capable of it, but would do it for ten bucks and a pair of hubcaps.

  Huh.

  He got a kettle out and dropped in a package of spaghetti, blew more smoke. He could just begin to smell the sauce starting to get hot when there was a knock at the door.

  He went and asked, “Who is it?” and a voice said, “Police.”

  He opened it and started to say, “Hey-”

  Not careful enough.

  The two Mexicans blew through the door and smashed Kline back across his kitchen table, over the chairs, into the living room, and when he finally stopped rolling and twisted to look up, there was a gun in his face.

  “Do not say a thing.”

  Kline’s jaw worked but no sound came out. His mind was working, though: and his mind told him that these two Mexicans would find a way to get him out of his apartment, and then they’d cut him into sausages. Getting shot would be far preferable, and the only rational way out, if he couldn’t think of anything else.

  The second Mexican had shut the door; he had a small backpack and took out a roll of tape, and Kline figured that if they taped him up, he was dead. He loosened his bowels as much as he could, and tightened his stomach, and cried at the Mexican over him, “I shit my pants. Oh, God, I shit my pants.”

  The stench confirmed the fact; the two Mexicans were disgusted at this sign of abject cowardice, and Kline thought, Gotta get in the bathroom.

  The Mexican with the tape said, “Put your hands up,” and Kline sobbed, “I shit my pants, man. I got a load in my pants…. Oh, God, I’m still shitting myself….”

  The older of the two Mexicans looked around and said, “The bathroom,” and Kline thought, Please, Br’er Fox, don’t throw me in the bathroom, and he sobbed, “Aw, Jesus, it’s still running out of me….”

  “Get in the bathroom,” said the Mexican with the gun. The muzzle was four inches from Kline’s eyes, and, still sobbing, and now holding the seat of his pants, he pushed himself to his feet and hobbled toward the tiny bath. The toilet sat directly in front of the door. To the left, there was a vanity counter with an absolutely critical drawer, part of an incompetent remodel: the vanity was too big for the tiny bathroom, but had been on sale at Home Depot.

  To the right of the sink, a tiny window, no bigger than Kline’s head, which might once have been intended to provide ventilation, was sealed shut with years of paint and silicone. The window looked out over the bookstore; or would have looked out, if somebody hadn’t painted the glass yellow.

  To the left of the door, an old cast-iron bathtub.

  Kline hobbled into the bathroom and turned and undid his belt, and dropped his pants, and the stench got worse, and Uno frowned and stepped back, but kept the gun pointing at Kline. Kline kicked off his jeans, and then his underpants, and then unrolled about ten feet of paper from the toilet paper roll, and looked down between his legs.

  The Mexican looked away, not wanting to witness this, and quick as a snake, Kline kicked the door closed and pulled the drawer out of the vanity.

  The open drawer blocked the door as effectively as a chain lock; Kline threw himself into the bathtub as the Mexican outside kicked the door, once, twice, and then Kline reached across with the handle of the toilet plunger and punched out the small window and began screaming for help.

  He screamed, at the top of his lungs, “MURDER! THEY’RE MURDERING ME! HELP! FIRE! FIRE! THEY HAVE GUNS! MURDER!..”

  The first bullets punched through the door and took out the toilet tank, and Kline dropped lower in the tub, but the tub was short, and his knees stuck up, and the Mexican, still kicking the door as Kline screamed, finally simply sprayed the bathroom with bullets, one of which went through both of Kline’s thighs and he began screaming even louder, “I’M SHOT, THEY SHOT ME, MURDER…”

  Uno fired the whole magazine through the door, angling the gun around, heard the whank-whank-whank as a few of them hit the tub, but he didn’t know what the sound was. He was using hollow-points, which began coming apart as they went through the old-fashioned oak-paneled door, and didn’t have enough residual energy to pierce the tub. He continued to kick, but the door wasn’t moving, and finally Tres shouted at him, “We go, we go, the police…”

  They were making a lot of noise; and the sound of Uno’s silenced pistol still sounded like a gun when it was fired quickly: it went bop-bop-bop-bop, and while it was quieter than an unsilenced weapon, it still sounded like a gun and nothing else. In the meantime, Kline was screaming for help.

  Uno shouted, “Son of a whore,” at Kline, and he and Tres turned and ran out of the apartment and away from the direct stairway down, to the back of the building. They came out in an alley and heard sirens, sprinted to the end of the alley, walked a hundred feet down to their car, did a U-turn, and rolled away through the dark streets.

  Kline, in the bathtub, was bleeding from four through-and-through holes caused by one slug, and from about a hundred oak splinters. When the shooting stopped and he thought he heard the Mexicans running, he continued to scream and managed to reach over the side of the tub to his pants. He fumbled out his cell phone and called 911.

  “I’m shot, it’s the Mexicans, it’s the fucking Mexicans.”

  The woman on the other end sounded almost robotically calm. “Sir, please tell me where you are and the situation there.”

  “Get me some help! I’m shot, I’m shot, you stupid shit!” He screamed the address at her, and then screamed, “Get that cop Davenport. Davenport knows, it’s the Mexicans, they shot me, I’m bleeding, I’m shot….”

  The firemen who eventually got him out had to use an ax to open the door, and the paramedics wearing yellow toxic-waste gloves lifted him out of the tub and bundled him onto a stretcher and off to the hospital.

  Both the cops and the paramedics were talking to him as they went, the paramedics asking about street drugs he may have ingested, the cops wanting to know who did it. Kline, in deeper pain than any he’d previously experienced, managed to say, “It’s those Mexicans. The ones everybody wants. Davenport the cop was here today. They think I took that money…. Call Davenport.”

  Eventually, the cops did.

  Lucas found Kline sedated but still conscious at Hennepin County Medical Center, conscious but woozy, but not so woozy that he still wasn’t pissed, and when Lucas came through the door, the doc trailing behind, Kline asked, “Who told them about me? Who told them?”

  Lucas said, “We’re trying to figure that out. We’re thinking that they may have an insider at Polaris.”

  “Man, I gotta get out of here,” Kline said. “You know what happens. They’ll come in here while I’m sedated and they’ll put some shit into my drip bag and that’ll be it. That’ll be it! Game over, man! Game over!”

  “That�
��s mostly in the movies, where they do that,” Lucas said. “There’s about fifteen people right outside your door, including a couple of cops. Nobody’s coming in here that we don’t know about.”

  “Aw, Jesus, they killed my legs.” Kline began weeping. “You guys did this. I don’t know anything about any money. You guys sicced them right on me. I’m suing you guys for everything you got.”

  Lucas calmed him down enough to get him to describe the shooting, and when Kline was done, Lucas said, “That’s the smartest goddamn thing I ever heard of. You’re the only one who survived these guys, and you did it with a gun in your face…. Man…”

  “They would have cut me up like a summer sausage,” Kline said.

  “Yeah, probably-but most people would have frozen,” Lucas said. “You came up with a plan.”

  “I shit my pants,” Kline said.

  “You’re still here, it was a hell of a move,” Lucas said. He patted Kline on the arm. “You look like a stoner and wastoid, but you got some major balls.”

  “I’m still gonna sue you,” Kline said. His eyelids dipped. “They’re giving me the good stuff, but when I come out of it, I’m gonna hurt. If the Mexicans don’t get me first…”

  Two minutes later, he was gone, sound asleep.

  The doc said, “He’ll be gone for a while. You get what you wanted?”

  Lucas looked down at Kline, then shook his head. “There wasn’t much. They crashed his door, he got them to put him in the toilet, and he started screaming…. Hell of a thing, but he doesn’t know anything.”

  “Well … want somebody to call you when he wakes up?”

  Lucas shook his head. “If you don’t mind, I’m just going to sit here with him for a minute, until I’m sure he’s not going to wake up.”

  “He won’t.”

  “If you don’t mind.”

  “I don’t mind, but you’re wasting your time.”

  Not really, Lucas thought, as the doc moved on. He sat looking at Kline for a couple minutes, then peeked out of the room at the nurses’ station. There were four or five people there, all busy with paperwork. In the other direction, the hall was empty. Lucas walked around the bed, around the monitoring equipment and the drip-bag rack, and pulled open the top drawer of the bedside table.

  The first thing he saw was Kline’s wallet, and next to that, his cell phone. Excellent. He picked up the cell phone and carried it back around the bed to the chair he’d been sitting in, got out his notebook, turned the phone on, and started going through the call log.

  He got an instant hit: starting the day of the murders, there were two dozen phone calls from a Kristina and just as many from an Ivan; there were other calls from a Kristina and Ivan before the murders, but only a couple. The murders, he thought, had caused a ripple.

  He took down the phone numbers of Kristina and Ivan, went looking for their last names, and failed to find them.

  Going back into the call log, he looked for more telltale contacts, but nothing jumped out at him. He moved to the contact directory, touched Kristina, went to History, found a list of messages, and clicked to them.

  All very short:

  Call me. Urgent. Urgent.

  Jacob, call me.

  Jacob, look at TV news. Call Ivan.

  Jacob, you need to take an office shift tomorrow. Call me.

  Not much information, but he’d learned that Kristina knew Ivan. There were no outgoing messages to Kristina, but Kline had made calls in response to a couple of them. He made one in response to the “office shift.”

  He got a break with Ivan. His messages were also short and cryptic, but one said, See you at the office.

  Lucas thought: Ah. They all work with him.

  The phone might have more information, but he didn’t know how to get at it-Kline listed dozens of contacts, far too many to copy in a short time, but listed no information other than names and phone numbers.

  He checked the apps, looking for photos, found none. He also found a password vault, and it was operational, but he had no idea what the password might be.

  Lucas closed down the phone, slipped it back in the drawer.

  He listened, heard only distant chatter from the nurses. He took Kline’s wallet out of the drawer, went through it quickly. He found only one thing of interest: a card from Sirius satellite radio, and on the back, an apparent password, 6rattata6.

  He noted it and replaced the wallet.

  There was not much chance that the Sirius password also would be the password for the vault. Most vaults, Lucas knew, gave you a prescribed number of chances to enter the password. If you got it wrong, it would then warn you about the number of remaining chances before it scrambled the contents. If he tried entering a password and it didn’t work, then Kline would know that somebody had been working on his phone.

  Not worth it, he thought.

  He looked down at Kline, now sleeping deeply, said, “Huh,” and headed for the door.

  ICE had left Polaris National after she and the security people cleaned the booby traps out of the computer system, and she’d gone back to Sunnie to see if she could find the incoming system.

  In the meantime, the DEA agents were trying to track money that, in earlier months and years, had been shipped out of the Bois Brule account … and to find out how it got to Bois Brule.

  Not much for Lucas to do but let them work. Still, he was right there, at the hospital, two blocks away…

  Lucas walked over to the bank, identified himself to the guard, and got him to call O’Brien in the systems center. Bone actually came to collect him.

  “Working late, for a Sunday,” Lucas said, as they went through the big glass doors to the elevator.

  “I’m having trouble getting across how serious this is,” Bone said. “We’ll talk about it sometime-but I have to tell you, it’s a hell of a relief to hear that it’s probably an inside job.”

  “ICE told you that?”

  “Everybody tells me that. It’s somebody in the company, or it’s this guy Kline,” Bone said. “If it were somebody in Russia, or China, which would suggest that we had a major undetected system vulnerability, I’d be sweating bullets.”

  “Kline just got jumped by the Mexicans.”

  “What!” Bone almost missed a step, caught himself and turned. “Is he dead?”

  “No, he managed to get out of it. But he got shot.” He told the story as they went through the door at the bottom of the stairs and started down the hall to Systems.

  “How’d they find out about him?” Bone asked.

  “Don’t know. ICE said a bunch of people in Systems had been talking about Kline. It’s probably all over the bank by now, and it’s possible that somebody here is monitoring things for this Mexican gang.”

  “Ah, Jesus. But you don’t know that.”

  “No.”

  O’Brien and his accountants were busy with two bank computer-security experts. When O’Brien saw Lucas come in, he broke away and said, “This Bois Brule account is a ghost. The money comes in, but we can’t backtrack it. From here, the money goes out to the Islands, the Caymans, where we’re temporarily bogged down. We won’t get any information from them before tomorrow morning at the earliest.”

  Bone said, “We gotta talk,” and pointed them to a cluster of furniture at the end of the room, and they went over and sat down.

  Lucas: “What’s up?”

  Bone said, “We’ve got a management problem. I don’t care so much about the dope money coming in, or going out, because I understand it now: we were scammed about the source of the money, but all of our systems stayed intact and worked as they’re supposed to. We might figure out some way to do a statistical study of our accounts, to isolate odd behavior, but that’s off in the future. I’m more worried about these hackers-if they attacked one account, they could attack more. We don’t even know for sure that they haven’t. I really need to get them caught.”

  “We’re working on it,” Lucas said.

  �
�But not so hard. What you’re really interested in are these killers,” Bone said. “In the meantime, the DEA is up to its ass in killers, and they don’t care that much about individual gangbangers who’ll be dead in a year, anyway. What they want to do is break into the gang’s banks. So they want the banks, you want the killers, and I need to stop the hackers. But I’ll tell you, Lucas, if the BCA catches these killers, you personally won’t have much to do with it. Somebody will see them, somebody will rat them out. It’ll be luck or routine, not brains.”

  “Maybe,” Lucas agreed.

  “I’ll make it even simpler,” Bone said. “You’ve got three crimes here. First, you’ve got the dopers laundering their money. The DEA’s covering that. Second, you’ve got the killers murdering people. Shaffer’s got that. Third, you’ve got the thieves who took the money out of the bank. Nobody’s interested. But that’s the most important one-I can’t seem to make that sink in. Somebody has to cover it-I mean, like you.”

  “What am I supposed to do?” Lucas asked.

  “Let the other cops, this Shaffer guy, let them do the routine work,” Bone said. “Let the DEA do the accountancy, you don’t know anything about that anyway. You should be going after the thieves, not the gangbangers.”

  “I don’t know any more about them than I do about the shooters,” Lucas said.

  Bone disagreed. “Sure you do. They’re thieves. They had to have some access inside the bank, so you do whatever it is you do when you’re looking for any thieves. Look for opportunity, motive, all that shit you see on TV. I can tell you a few things about them-I can tell you what they’re doing right now, for one thing.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah. Not the small details, but I can probably get close even to that. At some point, after running through five or six banks, the Caymans, the Dominican Republic, Venezuela, Panama … at some point, they have to get cash or an equivalent. Gold, silver, diamonds, rare stamps or coins. Probably not silver, come to think of it, because it’d be too big to move. But they’re going to have to get something to break the paper trail, and it’ll have some intrinsic value. Can’t be unique-can’t buy a Picasso, because that would have its own kind of trail. So it’s probably gold, in some form. Coins, ingots, something. Or maybe diamonds, if the paper trail ends in Amsterdam or Tel Aviv. And…”