Ready. Set. Psycho.

by John Griffin

  “How long does she have?” Solomon asked.

  Justin brought over his laptop and placed it between Solomon and the room. On the screen was Hyacinth, as well as heads-up display showing her vital signs. Everything was green and beeping consistently.

  “A few hours,” Justin said. “Won’t be too long. And you get to spend all that time with me! Plenty of time to contemplate your failures and decide how you’ll end it. I suggest seppuku. If I get a vote, I vote for that. But like I said, you’ve got plenty of time to think about it.”

  Solomon smiled and stared at the laptop. “Plenty of time.”

  “Yes,” Justin said, taking a step back. “What do you mean?”

  Solomon said nothing.

  “Plenty of time to think about how you’re going to kill yourself. Plenty of time to think about your failures. Plenty of time to think about how I won, you lost.”

  Solomon said nothing, but continued to smile.

  “It’s checkmate, Sol. It’s over and you know it.”

  Justin walked away from Solomon and over to another computer nearby. He sat listening to loud death metal and watching hardcore porn for a few minutes — and a few minutes was all it took for three people in SWAT uniforms to come smashing through the large windows of the loft. Another five breached the door simultaneously, tossing in flashbangs. Solomon had ducked for cover when he saw it happening. Justin did not notice and was rolling on the ground trying to cover his ears and eyes at the same time.

  One of the SWAT members cut Solomon loose with bolt cutters. Solomon touched his wrists where they were raw. Three others had put quickties on Justin’s wrists and were holding him upright on his knees.

  Justin was laughing.

  The room was empty. Hyacinth was not inside.

  Justin laughed as they pried the door open, more and more as they peeled away the layers of rubber and plastic to discover that there was nothing inside. “So wonderfully predictable, Sol. Really, you have outdone yourself. She’s not here, man. She’s not here.”

  Solomon kneeled in front of Justin to look him in the eyes. “It’s over. You’ve lost.”

  “She’s not here. You’re not dead. I’m not dead. You don’t win. You know, I knew this would happen. I did think it would happen at the shop. I thought it might happen on the road. I genuinely did not think we would get all the way here — but boy I’m glad we did. I’m glad, Sol. I’m glad I spent the fucking money to get a dozen of these places all around the city. You’ll never fucking find her. It’s the sort of plan you could never pull off, you cheap fuck.”

  “I’m not cheap,” Solomon replied. “I’m frugal. Now admit you lost. It’s over.”

  “No. You haven’t done it yet. You brought some SWAT. Good for you. They have rules of engagement. They won’t kill me. And they won’t kill you. The girl dies. Unless you take one of their guns right now and fucking kill yourself.”

  “Has anyone ever told you the difference between being frugal and being cheap?” Solomon said, standing upright and towering over Justin. “A frugal person is willing to spend the money when there’s value. A cheap person wouldn’t. A cheap person would call the cops. A cheap person would bring the SWAT. But I am not a cheap person. I am frugal.” Solomon nodded at one of the SWAT team members. The man handed him a gun.

  “You know what it costs to embed a GPS panic button in your finger?” He stopped talking and waved his right index finger. He rolled his fingers into a fist and clicked the panic button several times, demonstrating an audible click that sounded like knuckles cracking. Justin gulped. “That wasn’t all that expensive. Maybe five grand. You know what it cost to set it up so that when I push this button, the signal goes to security specialists who then dispatch a helicopter and a band of rather awful but terribly well-controlled and well-paid men to my rescue?” Solomon put the gun on Justin’s temple. “Five million dollars or so. Worth every penny. Best money I’ve ever spent. Best value. I would have paid triple. Say it.”

  “Where’d you get the money for that? Spent your own? I knew you had money, Sol!”

  “No,” Solomon said. “I did the only thing better than spending my own money to kill you.”

  “My father,” Justin said instantly.

  “True, and worse than you can imagine. He paid me ten million to kill you. I would have done it for free. Say it.”

  Justin smiled. “The entire back wall is a false wall. She’s in a room behind it. The painting is with her.” Solomon nodded, and three of the men headed toward the back of the room. Using explosives, they blew out the wall, exposing another room behind. Solomon waited, his gun still on Justin’s temple.

  “She’s here. She’s fine,” one of the men called back. “She’s unconscious but alive.”

  “Pay the price,” Justin said. “Me or you.”

  “Say it,” Solomon said.

  “Checkmate,” Justin said.

  Solomon emptied the clip into Justin’s head, firing twice and letting the body fall over before continuing. He reloaded the gun and then emptied it again up and down his torso.

  “Did you need the whole two clips?” a mercenary asked.

  Solomon turned to him. “This guy is one of those assholes who just comes back to life if you only shoot him once or twice.” He took out his phone and snapped a few photos.

  “Fair ’nuff,” The mercenary said. “I’ve had my share of those. Need anything else?”

  “The girl needs an ambulance, and I could use a ride back to town?”

  “It’s your dime.”

  Solomon rode in the back of an armored Navigator twenty blocks uptown. He got out of the car with a tube carrying case and walked another three blocks to a parking tower, climbing the stairs to the third floor. In the northwest corner of the third floor, Vince was pacing in front of a midnight blue BMW X6. “You’re late,” Vince said.

  “My fucking caper,” Solomon said, “my fucking time.”

  Vince put up his hands, surprised. “Alright, old-timer. Alright. Take it easy. The guys have been calling, is all. Wondering if we are cancelled.”

  “Are you ready?” Solomon asked. He was checking the trunk for his duffle bag and then taking the painting out of the case he was using to carry it and putting it into his bag. When finished, he opened the passenger door.

  “Yes,” Vince said, getting into the driver’s seat.

  Vince started the car and peeled out of the parking spot.

  “Another stunt like that and I’ll kill you,” Solomon said. “Don’t draw fucking attention to us. This is not a fucking joke.”

  “Damn,” Vince said. “Alright. I get it. Nice and slow, Miss Daisy.”

  Solomon slapped Vince in the head. “I hate the sound of your voice.”

  Vince drove carefully. He stopped fully at stop signs and slowed when coming to yellow lights. He pulled into a lot a block away from the Lincoln tunnel. Reginald and Sham were waiting with their duffle bags. They got into the car.

  “Everything alright?” Sham asked.

  “Don’t ask,” Vince said.

  “I think we should know if something went wrong. This isn’t a good start,” Reginald said.

  “Everything is fine,” Solomon said. “I had a rough night. We started late. The guy isn’t home, and it doesn’t matter. We have all night.”

  “Oh, them you talk to, but me, I get slapped?” Vince said.

  Solomon slapped Vince again. Everyone laughed — even Vince.

  “Damn, son,” Sham said. “I knew I liked you, Sol. But now I fucking love you. Shit just got real. Let’s fucking do this!” He put his head out the window. “Let’s burgle something!”

  “That’s not a word,” Reginald said.

  The ride to Short Hills was loud. At Sham’s request, they listened to the entire first side of the Beach House album Bloom, which he called, “essential pre-heist listening.”

  Solomon repeated, “This music is terrible,” or any of a dozen variations of that every chance he could. But he
smiled and looked out the window and gazed at the homes that became more and more beautiful as they got closer to their destination.

  As they passed the sign for Short Hills, Solomon turned around in his seat. “So where do we go in, Reginald?”

  “Entrance off his balcony on the second floor. Only entrance without an alarm, and a battery was never installed on the motion sensor.”

  “And your safe, Sham?”

  “The brown credenza in the study on the second floor. First door on the right after going down the stairs.”

  “Vince?”

  “I’m in the bedroom opening the safe behind the wall. It is a digital lock, and the code is 5-4-4-6-7-5-6.”

  Solomon turned forward again in his seat. “Okay. Good. It’s one thirty in the morning now. We are eight minutes out. We are going to be a little over ninety minutes behind schedule, so let’s be efficient. The vic isn’t home. We will turn the alarms off. We will go in and out of the second floor entrance. You have pictures in the bags of the stuff you are supposed to target. You can leave everything else behind. No, you must leave everything else behind.” Solomon took the bottle of pills from his pocket and downed one. The three other passengers looked away as he did.

  He put a hand on Vince’s shoulder. “I mean it, Vince. Take nothing else. Don’t be greedy. It gets people killed.”

  “I don’t know what kind of rep you think I have,” Vince said, “but I didn’t get here because I’m a fucking idiot. They didn’t bring me in to drive the car and get caught.”

  Solomon looked out the window and smiled. Other than the terrible music, the next eight minutes were silent.

  Vince pulled into the driveway of the target house. All four men stepped out simultaneously. It was quiet, but the street was well lit. Vince opened the trunk and each man grabbed his bag. Vince closed the trunk, and the four walked around the side of the house. At the gate to the backyard, Solomon pulled the blue cord that opened the latch on the other side. They walked through. Sham was last, closing the door behind them and latching the gate again.

  On their left a porch rose that rounded the corner of the house. They climbed the stairs and walked around the corner to the back. There was a ladder in the backyard and debris from workers who appeared to be replacing the eavestroughs. Sham and Reginald took the ladder and leaned it against the railing of a second-floor balcony. The four climbed up.

  At the top, Solomon went to the door and produced a key. He slipped it into the deadbolt and turned. He engaged the handle, and the door opened. He pointed at Sham, who went in first, found the stairs on his left, and went down. Reginald followed. Vince went to walk in, and Solomon put a hand on his chest. “I know you can do this, Vince. You’re the lynchpin of this heist. Without you, it just couldn’t happen. Without you, we’d all get caught.” Solomon smiled.

  Vince smiled back and lowered his head. “I got this. And thanks. For what it’s worth, I’ve really enjoyed working with you on this.”

  Solomon allowed Vince to go in. Vince went in and then right and into the bedroom. Solomon went in and then down one flight of stairs to the main floor. He went to the front door, and at the touchpad next to the door he shut down the alarm. He turned around and found the stairs to the basement, descending. He was alone. He sat in front of the red chest and sighed. He took a key from his pocket and slipped it into the lock. The lock gave, and he opened the top of the chest. This revealed a long, hard metal safe shaped to fit in the chest. There was a digital keypad with a red LED. Solomon started typing the code, heard a thud, and a scream, and Vince yelling, “Fuck!” Solomon did not stop typing. He hit “enter” and the red LED went green. He opened the safe and saw a painting lying flat. He opened his duffle bag. Inside was the round, long cylinder that he had custom made with Kevin. He unzipped the cylinder. Inside was the painting he had taken from Justin’s apartment when he rescued Hyacinth. He rolled up the painting from the chest and slid it into the cylinder.

  By now, Sham and Reginald were heading upstairs. Vince met them on the stairs and was telling them that the homeowner was home as Solomon emerged from the basement.

  “What did you do?” Solomon asked, half-whispering.

  “He’s fucking here, Sol. Fucking here. This is all fucked up. He was in the bathroom and came out right into the room, and there I am,” Vince said.

  “And what did you do?” Solomon asked.

  “I fucking tackled him and tied him up. He’s on a chair in his room.”

  “Did you get into the safe?” Solomon asked.

  “I didn’t have time,” Vince said.

  “Well then, what the fuck are you doing standing here? Get it done,” Solomon responded.

  “Fuck,” Vince said, heading back upstairs and into the bedroom.

  “I’m gonna check this out,” Sham said.

  Solomon put a hand on Sham’s chest and shook his head. He put a finger to his lips and shushed both Reginald and Sham.

  Solomon sat on a couch in the living room. Reginald and Sham went back to their safes but did not have enough time to open them before they heard the sirens.

  “Fuck!” Vince said. “The police are here! Fuck, there’s like five squad cars out there!”

  Vince came running down the stairs. “What the fuck are we gonna do, Sol?” he asked. Reginald and Sham came into the living room.

  “You’ve got two options, Vince. You leave the gun in your waistband on the table to your left — the gun I told you not to fucking bring — and walk out that door with your hands on your head and go to jail, or you get killed by pulling that gun out and fighting with the cops. Your call. Let me know when you’ve decided, because I’m not going out there until you decide.”

  “How did this happen, Sol?” Sham said. “He wasn’t supposed to be here. We saw him leave.”

  “Shit happens,” Solomon said. “But you gotta know when you’re beat.”

  Vince pulled the gun from his waist and looked out the window. He counted eight cops, each with guns drawn and pointed at the house.

  “We should make this quick,” Solomon said. “They’re not going to be patient.”

  Vince looked back and started a stream of consciousness tirade of curse words as he put the gun on a table near Solomon.

  “Good,” Solomon said. “Let’s get out of here.”

  Solomon opened the door and showed his hands. He called out that he and his men were all unarmed, and one of the cops called back that they should come out with hands above their heads one at a time. Solomon went first and was tackled roughly by three cops waiting next to the door. Sham went next, and then Reginald. Vince went last, still swearing, now sweating and crying a little, and adding, “I can’t go back,” every so often.

  Sham and Reginald were put into the same squad car by a short Latino fellow with teardrop tattoos and a giant man who did not say a word. When that car left the scene, it went west. Vince and Solomon each had their own car. Vince’s went west and then north.

  Solomon’s followed but continued west.

  Vince sat in the station handcuffed to the desk of one of his arresting officers as the officer filled out paperwork. He was quiet. His shoulders hunched downward, and he gazed at his feet. Not far away, the homeowner was giving his statement.

  “Did he take anything?” an officer asked. He had a nametag that said Denninger. He was short, stocky, with salt-and-pepper hair.

  “Nothing,” the man said nervously. He was wearing a pair of faded designer jeans and a white shirt. He had silver hair and looked respectable. “He didn’t have time to get into the safe before I got out of the bathroom. You guys showed up real fast after I tripped the alarm.”

  “There was a safe in the basement that was open. There was cash and other valuables in it. You took a look? He didn’t get anything?”

  “Nothing,” the man repeated, fidgeting with his hands. “I’ve accounted for everything.”

  “And he acted alone?” Denninger asked.

  “Yes,” the
homeowner said. “There was no one else there.”

  The officer did not ask any follow-up questions.

  “What are you talking about?” Vince yelled at him across the station. “I wasn’t alone!”

  His officer told him to shut up. Vince tried to struggle out of the chair. “I wasn’t fucking alone! I had three fucking accomplices! And this wasn’t my fucking caper! I was working for Solomon Roud!”

  “Sol? Detective Roud?” his arresting officer asked.

  “Yeah.”

  “That guy is a fucking hero,” the officer said. “So sit the fuck down and shut the fuck up and wait for your goddamned lawyer.”

  “I wasn’t alone,” Vince said. “And we did take something. A painting. An important painting.”

  “That true?” Denninger asked.

  “No,” the home owner said quickly. “I don’t know anything about any painting. I don’t own any originals or anything valuable.”

  Reginald and Sham watched as the Latino and the giant who arrested them got back into their squad car. They stood on the side of a busy intersection as the two men, who introduced themselves as friends of Sol’s, drove off. Before leaving, the officers had removed Reginald and Sham’s handcuffs and dropped the duffle bags from the heist at their feet.

  Reginald and Sham looked at each other.

  “What the fuck was that?” Sham asked.

  Reginald shrugged. He knelt down and opened his bag, pulling it open to show Sham the stacks of cash. Sham opened his. He laughed.