“How about St. Louis?”
She looked surprised. “It’s clear there, I think. You want me to drive you to St. Louis?”
He didn’t speak, but just looked at her with the most desperate expression he could muster. She started the car and exited through the pay lane onto Main Street, and drove carefully on the slick street toward the interstate on-ramp leading northeast to Des Moines and east to St. Louis. On I-70, about forty-five miles east of the metropolitan area, the snow quit as they passed out of the main path of the storm moving northeast.
It was then Marshon began to chuckle, then laugh and then howl with laughter over this fortuitous turn of events. Gail smiled and then began to laugh herself, although not so outrageously. Marshon laughed so hard he began to cough and couldn’t speak for nearly a minute. He could only think about his exceptional, wonderful-beyond-calculations, once-in-a-lifetime gambler’s luck that Richey would appreciate. It was like rolling a hard eight three times in a row. Marshon just hoped that Richey had encountered the same type of serendipity.
∞ ∞ ∞
As Marshon had advised, Richey ditched the parka in the garage. He walked through the underground tunnel and up the stairs to a hallway that, on the left, led to the first floor of The Shops. If he walked up one flight of stairs, he would be on The Link leading to the office building across the street and then to the Hyatt. If he walked straight ahead, he’d come to the Westin at the end of the hallway. There, an escalator led up to the western segment of The Link leading across another street to the J.T. Warren Convention Center.
Richey ruled out the Hyatt, knowing Marshon had stayed there two nights and might again seek help from the hotel security chief, Rinaldo Morgan. Richey looked to his left and saw two policemen standing near the escalators in The Shops. That made his decision and he walked straight ahead toward the Westin, where he had originally planned to stay after Friday night’s opening, which now seemed a lifetime ago. Except he saw two security guards walking toward him from the direction of the hotel, so he abruptly turned into a men’s room. He shoved the suitcase into a stall, crowded in and stood. He just needed to catch his breath and bolster his resolve. Even though it was cold outside, the underarm areas of his shirt were soaked with sweat. He used toilet paper to dab the sweat from his face.
He could still turn himself in. He had wanted to stay in the garage, hold Carmen, kiss her, and reprise his role as Lancelot, who he played years ago when Camelot had been staged at the outdoor theater in Canyon Park. He wanted to sing to his Guinevere: “Oh no, not in springtime, summer, winter, or fall. No, never could I leave you at all!” However, he had to leave, because the cops were shooting at him! Jesus! Again, he wondered how they had missed. Or, were those just warning shots?
Everything had happened at lightning speed. Carmen had her gun! Where had it been up to that point in time. He couldn’t imagine. Obviously, it was the first time she could get to it. He couldn’t believe her luck — their luck. He smiled. It was more than luck. It was preordained; that’s why he’d had the impulse to go to Toliver’s that night and buy the guns. Carmen had guts, too! She blown the life right out of that sonofabitch, Ace Semanski, at the same time he’d fired the Sig Sauer multiple times in Country’s direction, whose attention was on the Cathy Kennedy as she fell to the ground. The shotgun went off only after Richey shot Country the first time. The pellets shattered the side window of a parked car. God bless the firing range experience! It had saved both of them.
Richey considered turning himself in and rehearsed his explanation to the police, who probably thought he was in on the kidnapping. In a way, he was. He’d been the ransom negotiator. He’d picked up the ransom. He had half of it with him. Hard telling what Kandie had told the cops. How could he explain that Ace told him about Cathy Kennedy weeks ago? Richey had ignored him. How could he explain he and Ace had talked about how kidnappers could pick up ransom money without being caught? But, who could know that now that Ace was dead? Could he be prosecuted for killing Country, assuming the dummy was dead. There was no way he could explain why he helped hide Marshon or let him get away with half the ransom money. On the other hand, he wasn’t now with Marshon. And, Marshon was certain to get away. He led that kind of charmed life.
The grand jury investigation was bound to implement him in the killings at The Wheel. He was one of the floor managers. He’d witnessed that event and kept quiet. But so did hundreds of other people. He knew Ace had fought with Hank in Kandie’s apartment, but he didn’t tell the cops when they questioned him. He’d sat mute while Kandie told her lies. It was a tangled web and he would undoubtedly go to jail for something. They would have their pick of charges. Standing there in the toilet stall, Richey decided to see how far away he could get. He’d prefer some more time to think. If they stopped him, they stopped him. He’d put on a helluva act.
Richey took a tin of gray paste from a suit coat pocket, along with a makeup pencil, and a compact. He reinforced the aging, defeated Willy Loman look as best as possible, put back on his prop granny glasses and ran a comb through his hair. He considered that the disguise could have been compromised. Surveillance cameras in the garage might have caught his image. Had Marshon thought of that? Or, would they instead broadcast his driver’s license photo and not even consider that he’d never changed from his Friday night Willy Loman costume. He looked at Alistair Murphy’s driver’s license photo. It was close enough. He could pass for Murphy if the cops stopped him. If he got an opportunity, Richey planned to go into a store and buy new clothes, perhaps a jacket with a hood.
Then, Richey thought about the nine millimeter stuck behind his belt. He pulled it out and checked the clip. He still had four or five bullets, although he couldn’t image using the gun again. The police would have his brass, with his fingerprints on them. Still, he wasn’t about to throw the gun away. He put it in an unused side pocket of the suitcase. He flushed the toilet and maneuvered the bulky suitcase around the inward opening door. He washed his hands and left the rest room.
Back in the hallway, Richey again walked toward the Westin, but saw a cop standing at the base of the escalator leading up to The Link. There was no reason to think he couldn’t walk right by him, but Richey’s fears once again got the best of him. He looked around and impulsively pushed through a door on his left, pushing the suitcase ahead of him.
“Can I help you?” a receptionist asked, startling Richey.
“Quite … a mess . . . out there,” he said, haltingly, as he stepped up to her desk, adopting a spastic gait. The speech and the walk were an actor’s improvisation to a scene that wasn’t in the script.
“Somebody’s in a lot of trouble,” she agreed. An armed security guard stood to the right of the door. He was in a bank. A goddamned bank! Colonial National Bank, according to a sign.
Richey thought furiously and then spoke tentatively: “I’d … like … to rent … a … safe … deposit … box, … please.”
The receptionist directed him to a waiting area around the corner. He jerked spasmodically in that direction and sat beside a large artificial plant that shielded him from view. The police wouldn’t be looking for him here! They also wouldn’t be looking for a man with a degenerative disease. He prepared himself to give the most important performance of his career.
A customer service representative soon appeared — a nice-looking woman about fifty in an expensive-looking gray suit. “Hello, I’m Gretchen Raintree.”
“Pleased … to … meet … you.” Richey pushed the wheeled suitcase ahead of himself as he followed Ms. Raintree. He created his role as he went — head held slightly at an angle, his free arm bouncing up and down, and his hand formed into a claw. He walked as if one leg was shorter than the other one.
The bank representative reached her desk and motioned for him to take a seat. “Do you know what all the commotion’s about outside?” she asked.
“No,” Richey said. “I’m … sorry … to speak … so slowly, … Ms. Raintree. I �
� have … Huntington’s … Disease …. Some … people … think … I’m … retarded.” He smiled widely, one part of his mouth drawn downward. He didn’t know that much about this physical disorder and he hoped she didn’t either.
Ms. Raintree avoided looking directly at him as she began to explain about box sizes and rental agreements. He’d get a 10 percent discount if he had a checking account or were to rent a box today. Special offer.
Richey couldn’t resist an elaborate lie. It would lengthen the performance and the time he could stay in the bank. The longer he was here, the less likely the cops would find him. They’d conclude that he’d moved on, and they would expand the search area and move away from the convention center complex. Therefore, Richey slowly weaved an elaborate and fictional tale about his family — a wife, three grown children, five grandchildren, all at home in Nebraska. He was here to visit his sister who was in failing health. He’d been appalled to discover that she kept valuables in her apartment, including jewelry, stock certificates, and cash. Hence, the suitcase and the need to transfer some items to a safe deposit box.
Ms. Raintree listened patiently and then said, “You can rent a box in both names — yours and your sister’s. Of course, one of you would have to have an account here with the bank.”
Richey thought furiously. “What … is … the … minimum deposit … to open … a … checking account … in … both … of our names?”
“One hundred dollars would be fine.”
“Wonderful.” He gave her part of the money he’d withdrawn Friday night from an ATM, along with Alistair Murphy’s driver’s license. Mr. Raintree copied the information and handed it back without bothering to compare the photo to his face, which wouldn’t have been easy, anyway, given the tremors rippling over Richey’s features.
“And your sister’s full name and address?”
It couldn’t be her real name. Everything would have to fit. “Carmen Salazar … Murphy. Richey recited Carmen’s address, in case the bank sent out a confirmation. He didn’t know whether he was being smart or extremely foolish. The plan was only a sprout in his mind.
Richey selected the largest safe deposit box — 15 inches wide, 20 inches long, and 10 inches deep — renting for a hundred and sixty-five dollars a year. It would easily hold a million dollars in one-hundred-dollar bills. He justified the decision on the basis that temporarily hiding the money gave him a valuable negotiating tool should the cops pick him up.
“I assume you’ll also want your sister to have access to the box, Mr. Murphy?” Ms. Raintree asked, while counting the cash payment he’d given her.
“Yes,” he replied, startled and interested in the suggestion.
“We provide two keys to the box. Here’s an authorization card for your sister to fill out and mail back. She’ll have to come in some time with her key and identification.”
Ms. Raintree handed him the card, a blank envelope, and one addressed to the bank, postage prepaid. “When either one of you comes to access the box, you’ll have to show identification that includes your signature, such as a driver’s license,” the bank lady explained. “And, of course, you’ll need a key.”
She took three keys from her desk and led him further back into the bank to an elevator that took them downstairs to the vault. An armed guard smiled at them and deferentially touched the brim of his hat. Richey felt incredibly safe in the bowels of the bank, wishing that he could stay here for several more hours. Days!
The guard unlocked an imposing barred gate and they walked through the open vault door. Richey and Ms. Raintree stepped into the room that seemed like a burial vault for very small people. It had a musty smell of permanence to it befitting the contents of the boxes that undoubtedly contained stock and bond certificates, gold, jewelry, and rare coins. Cash.
Ms. Raintree located his box and told him how to access it. “When you or your sister comes in to access your box, I or another bank representative will accompany either one of you to the vault. The bank’s key and your key are required to remove the box from the wall.” She placed her key in the lock and turned it, motioning for him to do the same. She talked slowly and precisely to Richey, as if he was not only a cripple, but mentally defective. He congratulated himself on his performance and shakily inserted his key into the lock. The performance of a lifetime. Even if his photo appeared in the newspaper tomorrow, Ms. Raintree might not make the connection.
“I or someone else always will place the box on a shelf inside one of these three cubicles,” she said, pulling out the box. She walked to an open door leading into a closet-size room. “We ask that customers try to limit their stay to no more than ten minutes. However, if you require more time, just notify us at the time of your visit and other arrangements will be made.”
“Yes, I … understand.”
“When you’re finished, just place your box in its slot and shove it all the way back. It locks automatically. If you need assistance, ring the buzzer to the right of the door and the guard will help you and let you out.”
“Great.” Apparently, it was not unusual for a bank customer to bring a suitcase into the vault area.
She laid two keys beside the safe deposit box and extended her hand. “Welcome to Colonial National, Mr. Murphy.”
After she left, Richey stepped inside the cubicle and closed the door. He began transferring the money from the bag to the metal box, again fanning each bundle to reveal any foreign objects, such as a tiny tracking device. He kept out one batch, fifty thousand dollars, and put it in an inside coat pocket. He’d always wanted to win Keno. He was rich, rich, rich, Richey! Any thought of giving himself up was rapidly fading as it appeared he was about to get away. Even if he went to prison for a few years, only he would know the location of the money. Just like Clint Eastwood playing Thunderbolt in the movie.
He put the Sig Sauer inside his belt at the middle of his back. He put both keys, the authorization card and return envelope into the blank envelope. He certainly didn’t want the key in his possession if they arrested him. Taking a pen and paper from the counter, Richey addressed the envelope to Carmen Salazar Murphy at her apartment. He wrote a short note telling her about the safe deposit box and the reason for her new last name. She’d figure out the details quickly enough if anything happened to him. He also copied Murphy’s home address, driver’s license and credit card numbers and information. “The money is yours, Carmen, to do with as you like should anything happen to me.”
His real I.D. was in his house and he'd dumped his regular cell phone hours ago. He had another cell phone provided by Marshon. Richey considered putting Alistair Murphy’s I.D. in the letter to Carmen, or putting it in the box, since he didn’t want to be caught with them in his possession. It could lead the police right back to the money, although not necessarily so. Ms. Raintree might not watch or read the news; many people didn’t. On the other hand, the I.D. might also be indispensable in his getaway. He’d need it to rent a hotel room or a car tonight.
He made a decision and pocketed Murphy’s I.D., sealed the letter and put it into his pocket. He returned the box to its slot in the wall and shoved it in until he heard the lock click. Then he buzzed the guard.
Richey took the elevator up to the main floor and walked laboriously back to his customer service representative’s desk.
“Yes, Mr. Murphy?”
“Excuse me, … could you … mail … this … for me?”
Ms. Raintree took the letter and smiled sympathetically. “Certainly Mr. Murphy. I’ll see that it gets mailed yet today.”
“Thank you … very much.”
Richey left the bank and looked down the hallway toward the lobby of the Westin, and smiled broadly. No cops in sight. He lurched down the hallway in that direction, but then diverted again into the same restroom where he’d collected himself earlier. A man stood in front of one of the urinals. Richey put the empty suitcase against the far wall and stepped up to a vacant urinal. He waited until the other urinator finis
hed, and then flushed, washed his hands, and left.
Out in the hallway, his Huntington’s Disease has been miraculous cured, although he shuffled like an old man toward the Westin lobby and escalator leading up to The Link. The cop was gone. The escalator was less than fifty feet away from the area where the reception had been held last night after the play. That seemed eons ago.
Richey looked to his right and saw a hotel bar, Rumors. He’d had drinks there once before, months ago when he’d been shopping in the mall. Richey needed a martini, for certain. Besides, in his mind, there was no hurry now. He’d been in the bank for nearly forty-five minutes. They’d expect him to be far away by now — especially if they hadn’t caught Marshon. The bar would have a television. He could find out what had happened to his friend, as well as the state of the manhunt. Richey turned into the bar and found a table in a corner, where he could still see the television behind the bar.
He ordered a double martini and a mixed plate of appetizers. He was suddenly hungry and couldn’t remember when he’d last eaten a meal. He was into his third drink when the news anchor got around to the kidnapping and ransom. Reporters had interviewed a detective sergeant, one of the Kennedy’s neighbors and a vice president at First United Bank. Richey listened in amazement to the jumbled story that was part fact and part fiction. According to the report, a “gang” of men, possibly as many as four, had kidnapped a local woman, yet to be identified. Her husband delivered a ransom to the parking garage across from The Shops. In the ensuing shootout with the police, two kidnappers were killed and the others escaped. The newscast reinforced Richey’s worst fears and validated his decision not to turn himself in just yet.
Then, suddenly, the news flash showed photos of him and Marshon. One photo of Richey was from his driver’s license. More alarming, they showed a photograph taken last night at the cast party. He remembered it as a group shot, but they’d blown it up, and cropped his image. Richey Stanton, in full costume as Willy Loman. Richey suddenly felt incredibly conspicuous. He dropped on the table the four remaining twenties from his Friday night ATM withdrawal, stood, lowered his head and left the bar as inconspicuously as possible.
The Money Game Page 47