Naked Greed (Stone Barrington)

by Woods, Stuart

  “Break it. Tell him I’m not caught up yet.” He hung up and tried to go back to sleep, but couldn’t. He got up and used his private powder room, then went back to his desk and called Stone. “Hey,” he said.

  “Hey, how are you feeling?”

  “Like shit, but don’t tell Viv.”

  “Of course not. I looked at you last night and thought you weren’t ready to go back, but I didn’t say anything.”

  “Fifteen minutes after I got here I was asleep on my sofa.”

  “That’s what a sofa is for,” Stone said. “Where’s Viv today?” Viv traveled all the time.

  “Chicago—should be back for dinner, she says.”

  “Why don’t you go home and go to bed?”

  “I can’t, Eva would rat me out.”

  “Come over here, then, and use my sofa.”

  “Love to,” Dino said. “I’ll be there in twenty minutes, if I have to use the siren.” He hung up, got his jacket, and opened the door. “Tell ’em to bring the car around,” he said.

  “Where you going?”

  “Private meeting, confidential informer.”

  “That’s what my last boss used to say. He’s divorced now.”

  “Nothing like that. I just can’t stand being in the office for another minute. I came back too soon.”

  “I knew that the minute I saw you.” She picked up the phone and called for the car. “Go home and get some rest.”

  “Don’t tell anybody,” he said.

  Ryan and Vinny were picked up by Charlie at noon and driven to a disused garage west of Lauderdale. Charlie had a stolen van fixed up with a legend on each side that said QUIK PEST CONTROL, and he outfitted them with gray jumpsuits with a logo on the breast, military surplus gas masks, and baseball caps, again with logos. Then some guy Charlie had hired to drive came in.

  “I parked the car where you told me,” he told Charlie. “We’re all set.” He was carrying some light canvas duffels, and he dumped them, along with three riot guns, on a table, along with a box of shells.

  “Let’s load up,” Charlie said.

  Everybody put four shells in a shotgun, racked the slide, and put one more round in, then set the safety. They followed Charlie into the van, their masks around their necks. “Okay,” he said, “when we get there, we stop out front, put our masks on, and walk into the bank, like we’re providing a service. As we walk in, you, Gene, and you, Vinny, take a guard each. Disarm them, and don’t forget to look for a backup piece, then make them lie on the floor. Then give me your duffels. I’ll deal with the manager and take him to the vault, which will be open, and we’ll start stuffing cash into the bags while you two keep an eye on the folks in the bank. Don’t shoot anybody—that’s important. We’ll leave by the back door, where Ricky, here, will be waiting with the van. We drive to where the getaway car is, torch the van with the clothes and masks inside, and drive to the Sea Castle Motel, where we divvy up. Any questions?”

  Ryan and Vinny both shook their heads.

  “Let’s go, then,” Charlie said, checking his watch. “We’re right on schedule.”

  They piled into the van. Half a block from the bank, Charlie donned his mask, and the others followed suit. The van stopped; Charlie slid the door open, hopped out, and walked into the bank, followed by Ryan and Vinny.

  “All right, everybody,” Charlie hollered, “just stay where you are and don’t move and you won’t get hurt.”

  Ryan and Vinny were already dealing with the guards. There were only two customers in the bank, men standing at a table, filling out deposit slips. Ryan liked the Glock he took from his guard’s holster, and he dropped it into the pocket of his jumpsuit for a keepsake. Neither guard was carrying a backup piece.

  Charlie grabbed the empty duffels, and he and the manager disappeared through a door. Ryan checked the clock on the wall; they had been there a little over half a minute, and they had another minute and a half before cops started showing up. They’d hear the sirens first.

  Charlie came out with the manager. “Grab a duffel each,” he said. Ryan and Vinny complied, and they started toward the back door. Ryan was walking backwards, keeping the shotgun pointed into the bank. Then the two men on the floor did a strange thing: they both produced handguns.

  “Back door’s open,” Charlie said from behind them, and then there was a roar of gunfire at the door and Charlie staggered back into the bank, clutching his belly.

  “Cops!” Vinny yelled, and then he took a shotgun blast and fell facedown.

  Ryan held his duffel in front of him and ran for the front door, pointing the shotgun at the two men with guns. They were bringing theirs up, so he fired a round. Nothing happened. He threw the shotgun at the men, and while they ducked, he got out his borrowed Glock and got two rounds off in their direction, causing them to hit the floor. By then he was at the front door, and he ran out into the street. A cab was parked out front, and the driver was helping an elderly gentleman out the rear door. The front door was open, the engine was running, and Ryan tossed his duffel in and dived into the front seat.

  The cab’s momentum closed both doors, and the driver and his passenger were left standing in the gutter. Ryan, breathing hard, pulled off his mask and drove quickly, but not too quickly, down the street. He took a left and stayed in the flow of traffic. I-95 was ahead, and he got in the lane for the southbound exit.

  He drove, staying with the traffic, two exits down, then got to U.S. 1 and started north. Two blocks from his motel, he pulled into an alley, got out of the jumpsuit, stuck the Glock in his belt, grabbed the duffel, and started walking, keeping his pace to a quick stroll. He made it to the motel and went into his room.

  He sat down on the bed for a couple of minutes to get his breath, and he started to think. He wasn’t going to sit around waiting for the cops to come. He got his two suitcases out of the closet and started packing the neatly bundled bills into the larger one. That done, he crammed most of his clothes into the two bags and put the rest into a laundry bag from the closet.

  He couldn’t get on an airplane with all that money; his luggage would be X-rayed, so he had to do something else. He thought about driving his rental car to New Jersey, but that presented too many opportunities to get arrested. Then he remembered something: there was a train. The Silver Bullet—no, something else . . . Meteor, the Silver Meteor. He found a website and checked the Amtrak schedule. The train left Miami at four o’clock; he checked his watch: one forty-six. There was a stop at Lauderdale, and he found a map to the station on the website; the train departed Lauderdale at four-forty. He found a reservation button, clicked it, and looked at the choices: there was a roomette, but it looked very small. He moved up a notch to a suite. Bigger, and available. He made the choice, typed in a credit card number, and after a long, long minute’s wait, got a “Reservation Confirmed” message.

  He took a last look around the room, then took a hand towel and wiped down everything he could see. He was ready to leave the room at two o’clock.

  He checked outside for flashing lights, found none, then walked out with his bags and the empty duffel and put them all in the trunk. He drove to the office and checked out, paying in cash, then he drove to Fort Lauderdale International Airport, turned in his rental car, tossed the empty duffel into a waste bin, and caught a cab to the train station. He had an hour-and-twenty-minute wait, and it was hard. He got a sandwich and a Coke from machines and made himself consume them slowly. He bought a New York Times, put on his glasses, and pretended to read the newspaper. Then two uniformed cops walked into the station and began a stroll around the waiting room, checking everybody out.

  Ryan knew that, with his two suitcases and wearing glasses, he looked like any middle-aged guy, and if they braced him, he still had his badge to fall back on. They gave him a hard glance, then moved on.

  At four-twenty, the train was called, and
he picked up his bags and walked onto the platform. No train yet. He put down his bags and opened the paper again. A lifetime later—ten minutes—the train rolled into the station and a dozen people began to get on. A porter took his bags and led him to his suite, which turned out to be pretty nice, just big enough for a couple of easy chairs that turned into a berth and an upper berth that swung down for a second occupant. He stowed his bags, sat down with the paper, and turned to the crossword puzzle. The train began to move.

  Suddenly, a rap on the door of the suite startled him. “Come in!” Ryan said loudly, and the conductor walked in. He checked Ryan in on his handheld computer. “Welcome aboard, Mr. Ryan,” he said. “The dining room starts serving at six, or you can have meal service in your suite.”

  “Thank you,” Ryan said, and the man closed the door.

  Ryan put down the paper and rested his head against the seat. Vinny was dead, Charlie was dead, and Al was dead. He was alone in the world.

  Then the throwaway cell phone rang in his pocket. Everybody who had the number was dead. He took it out of his pocket and looked at it. “Private Call” the display said. He stood up, pulled down the window, then he took the SIM card from the phone and threw it as far as he could. He dropped the phone out the window, then pulled out the Glock, wiped it with a handkerchief, and threw the gun out, too.

  He closed the window, sat down, and looked at his watch. Twenty-seven and a half hours to go.

  Frank Russo’s secretary buzzed him. “Yes?”

  “There’s a call for Jimmy, but he’s out. The guy insists on talking to you.”

  “Okay, I’ve got it.” Frank pressed the flashing button. “Frank Riggs.”

  “This is the guy Jimmy spoke to about the job?”

  “Yes, I know.”

  “It went down like it was supposed to, except we’ve got one cop down and one of yours made it out.”

  “How could that happen?”

  “It went exactly as it was supposed to, up to a point: we got the driver and two of the other three. The third guy tried to fire his shotgun, but we gave him bad ammo. He pulled a gun we didn’t know he had and fired, hitting one of ours. It’s an in-and-out, he’ll be okay, but your third guy jacked a cab out front and disappeared. A patrol car found the cab in an alley, ditched and wiped. The guy’s in the wind.”

  “Which one is he?”

  “I don’t know. There was Charlie, then a young guy, maybe early twenties. It was the other guy made it out.”

  “Did you find anything on the other two that might help us find the guy?”

  “Charlie was carrying a throwaway phone.”

  “What was the last number he called?” Frank wrote it down. “Can you trace it?”

  “We’re taking it to the station to see if we can trace it.”

  “Call me if you find it.”

  “Sure.” The man hung up.

  Frank stared at the number. Gene Ryan had made it out. Just for the hell of it, he dialed the number. It rang three times, then made a funny noise and stopped ringing. Frank tried it again, but he got a message saying the number was not in use. The phone had been disabled. Oh, what the hell, he thought, Gene Ryan was not important.

  His phone rang again. “Yes?”

  “The same guy,” his secretary said.

  Once again, he pressed the flashing button. “Hello?”

  “I forgot to tell you: the guy who got away took nearly half of the money with him—about two hundred thousand. This wasn’t supposed to happen.”

  “I can’t help it if your people fucked up,” Frank said, and hung up. He reached into his desk drawer for some Rolaids. Gene Ryan had just become a lot more important.

  —

  Ryan dozed for a while, and when he woke up it was dark outside, and he was hungry. He opened his bag for some fresh clothes, and the sight of the money made him jump. He’d have to do a count at some point. He peeled a dozen hundreds off a stack for pocket money and put them into his wallet, then he changed into fresh clothes. He was about to stow the luggage again, but the sight of the money had made him not want to leave it. Then he had an idea; he unlatched the top berth and let it down, then put the suitcase on the bed and closed it again. There, that was better. If a thief wanted to rummage through his luggage, he could try the smaller case and steal his dirty laundry.

  He locked the cabin door behind him and made his way to the dining car. The headwaiter seated him at a table for two, took his drink order, and left him with a menu. A moment later, a Chivas Regal on the rocks appeared before him, a double, as he had requested. A moment after that, as he was poring over the menu, a voice broke his train of thought.

  “Excuse me, may I join you?” she asked.

  Ryan looked up into a very large pair of eyes and his gaze dropped to her cleavage. She was bending over him slightly.

  “Sure,” he said, half rising, “please do.”

  She lowered herself into the chair and gazed at him with Mediterranean eyes. Italian? Jewish? he wondered.

  “I’m Sylvia Mays,” she said, extending a hand.

  “Gene Ryan,” he replied. The hand was soft and warm. She was wearing a tailored business suit that swelled to accommodate her breasts, which seemed to be fighting to get out. He wanted to help.

  “You have a nice tan,” she said. “You must have gotten in some beach time.”

  “A couple of days,” he said. “I was down on business, but that didn’t work out, so I thought I’d take the train home.”

  “New York?”

  “New Jersey, formerly of New York. You?”

  “Oh, I’m a Manhattanite, born and bred,” she replied, smiling. Great teeth, or maybe just a great dentist.

  “Will you have some dinner with me?” he asked, offering her the menu.

  She accepted it and glanced through it. “I just want a steak,” she said.

  “I was thinking the same.” The waiter came and they both ordered the New York strip, medium rare, and Ryan ordered a bottle of Cabernet. She declined a drink, and he poured her a glass of wine. “So what brought you to Miami?”

  “A trade show. I’m a handbag designer. I specialize in alligator,” she said, holding up her own bag.

  “That’s very beautiful. Did your show go well?”

  “Very well—my order book is full.”

  “Tell me, what does an alligator bag go for on Madison Avenue?”

  “They start at fifteen thousand. This one is forty-two five, at Bergdorf’s.”

  “Wow, you can get a decent car for that kind of money.”

  “You can get a very decent handbag, too.”

  “And how many do you sell every year?”

  “This year, I expect to ship about four hundred.”

  Ryan’s math failed him. He wanted to get out his iPhone and use the calculator but restrained himself.

  They had a good dinner, and Ryan got out his wallet and paid cash, spilling hundreds all over the table.

  “I’d love an after-dinner drink,” she said, “but they’re looking like they want their table.”

  “I don’t think there’s a bar car. I’d invite you back to my suite, but I don’t have anything to drink.”

  She held up her handbag. “There’s a flask of some very good cognac in here.”

  They walked back to his cabin, and he let them in. As they entered, the train lurched, and the top berth opened, revealing his suitcase. He quickly closed it.

  “My, carrying valuables, are we?” she said.

  “Just a couple of Rolexes,” he replied. He found some glasses and she poured them generous drinks.

  “It’s warm in here,” she said. “Feel free to take off your jacket and tie.” He did so, hanging them on a hook on the door. As he sat down, the train lurched again, and he spilled brandy on his trousers.

  �
��You should take a damp cloth to that,” she said, “or it’ll stain.”

  “Excuse me.” He went into the little john, wet a facecloth and dabbed at it, then returned. She had refilled his glass, and he noticed that the top button of her blouse had come undone.

  She came closer as he sat down and wrapped her arm around his. “This is how we should toast,” she said, and they drank, then kissed lightly. “I must be careful not to let you get me drunk,” she said. “I might do something unforgivable.”

  “Nothing could be unforgivable,” he said.

  She rested a hand on his thigh and raised her glass again. “To the forgivable,” she said, squeezing his thigh.

  He kissed her, then had an overwhelming urge to belch. “Excuse me!” he said. “Steak doesn’t normally do that to me.”

  Her hand moved up his thigh, and he ran a finger down her cleavage. “Mmm,” she said, and he reached for a nipple. He had just found it when a wave of nausea swept over him. He stood up. “Excuse me for a minute.” He went into the john and threw up into the toilet. In a moment, he was on his knees, retching again.

  “You all right in there?” she called.

  “Just give me a minute,” he said. He needed more than a minute before he could stand. The train was slowing as it came into a station, and he bounced off the walls. Finally, he got hold of the doorknob and turned it, but the door wouldn’t open. “Hey,” he called, “can you open the door from that side? It’s stuck.”

  No reply. It was getting hot in the tiny room and he began to sweat heavily. He put his shoulder against the door, and it gave a little. He put more weight behind it and it burst open, spilling him into the little cabin. The door had been tied with his necktie. She was gone. “Goddamnit!” he muttered. “Just when I was about to get lucky.” He mopped his forehead with his sleeve and reached for his jacket to get a handkerchief. He dropped the jacket, and as he picked it up, his wallet fell onto the floor. It was empty.

  “Shit!” he yelled. Then he looked out the window and saw Sylvia Mays walk quickly past on the platform in the company of a porter, who was carrying Ryan’s suitcase. He couldn’t believe it. He reached up and unlatched the upper berth, and as it fell open he saw that it was empty. He grabbed the doorknob and pushed, but the door wouldn’t open. He turned and tried to open the window, but it opened only about ten inches.