by Robert Rand
“I’ll put out a bulletin to all the banks and the S and L’s in the region and ask them to use only consecutively sequenced bills in the ATM’s in case this guy hits again,” Michaels was saying, “And these two came off so clean that we can almost be sure of more to follow. It’s really a matter of ‘when and where’, not ‘if’.”
The other agents agreed with that assessment.
The news vans were arriving from Los Angeles. Deputies were keeping the crews behind a barrier, but with the zoom lenses that the mini-cams had, the entire scene would be close up, live and in color when Robin Roberts would be greeting the country with a smile and a ‘Good Morning, America’.
L.A. got into his car and headed back to the office. There was a lot yet to do.
Chapter 7
Sullivan awoke to April’s yelling “Sully! Hurry! You’re on the news! Quick”
He hurried, naked, from bed into the living room where she was sitting on the edge of the black leather couch, looking back and forth from the TV to him. “See? It’s the banks!” she said excitedly.
“Hush, so I can hear,” he admonished as he sat down beside her.
The scene on the television was of the American Savings on Date Palm. The reporter was standing in front of a barricade. “….there don’t appear to be any leads at this point. According to one source close to the investigation, the thief, or thieves, made off with approximately forty thousand dollars in cash between the two locations. Though one person has indicated that both robberies were committed by a group of former military members turned anti-government extremists, that report remains unconfirmed. From Palm Springs, this is Dave Gonzalez for Channel Seven Eyewitness News.”
The scene turned to the studio where Christine Lund was now promising updates, as they became available.
April reached for the remote and turned off the set, “What do ya think, Clyde?” she asked, teasingly referring to the infamous Clyde Barrow, who had robbed many a bank with one Miss Bonnie Parker.
Sullivan smiled at the inference, but said, “I think I need to go to work.” He patted April affectionately on the knee then went back into the bedroom to get dressed.
When he left a few minutes later, hair still tousled from sleep and shirt in hand, the neighbor across the way saw him. Mrs. Kravits was sitting in her living room talking on the phone with her sister and couldn’t wait to tell her that the good looking gentleman was leaving for work at that fancy casino and he hadn’t even combed his hair properly. This didn’t happen in Minnesota, don’t ya know!
Sullivan picked up several suits from th dry cleaners on his way to work. Once there, he showered, shaved and dressed in his private bath in his office. After a cup of coffee, he retrieved the money from his briefcase. After placing the bills into several padded mailing envelopes and sealing them, he called the number that was answered by the gravely voiced person.
“I have your money,” Sullivan announced.
Rourk was instructed to bring the money to the Ralph’s grocery store in Palm Springs, where he would be met. “Park near the recycling trailer.”
Sullivan Rourk parked his yellow Corvette where instructed. Several minutes later, he noticed a woman walking his way. She was petite, bordering on anorexic, with long, stick straight, blonde hair.
The woman climbed into the passenger seat of Rourk’s car and said, “We don’t see any cops lurking around, and the taps on your phones haven’t caught any conversations with the police. You are smart.”
Rourk didn’t hear a word of what the woman had said. Her gravely, whiskey and cigarette voice was the one he had heard on the phone. Never would he have thought the voice had belonged to anyone other than a sixty year old man.
“Excuse me?” Sullivan failed to mask his shock.
“It’s the voice I was born with, get used to it because you will be dealing with me for a long time to come.”
When Sullivan pulled into his garage, his first thought was that he wanted to jump on his motorcycle and hit another bank. The rush of the robberies was intense. Like cheating death; if you cheat death once, it becomes a challenge to cheat it repeatedly. Eventually death will win, but he always wins in the end, so it was a thrill to see how many pots you could rake in before his scythe cut a royal flush in spades.
The bank robberies began as a financial necessity, but almost immediately turned into a thrill ride. That scared him. He got out of his car and walked in. “April?” he called out, as he closed the door behind him.
“In the bedroom!” she called back in reply.
He walked down the hall and into the bedroom. April was sitting at the dressing table applying her make-up. “I’m almost ready,” she said, while stroking her lashes with a mascara brush.
Sullivan chuckled as he took in her attire; black sneakers, black pants, black turtleneck sweater. “All you lack is the little black mask for your eyes and you’d be a cat burglar straight out of central casting,” he mused.
“I put this on because it was cold,” she shot back, wounded by his remark.
Finished with her make-up, she pulled the sweater up over her head and threw it at Sullivan, who was sitting on the bed. “Fuck you,” she pouted, “Fix me a drink, please, asshole.”
Sullivan got up and gave her a kiss on her bare neck before going out to the living room to pour drinks.
“Grand Mariner,” she said to his retreating back. When he returned with a snifter of the sweet liqueur for her and a lowball glass half-filled with vodka for himself, she had pulled on a crème colored velour top. It actually looked very good with the black pants and, now, matching crème low-heeled sandals that had replaced the sneakers. “Better, Mr. Blackwell?” she said snidely, but with a smile that showed that she saw the absurdity of her “Mission Impossible” outfit.
“You look great,” he commented, as he handed her the drink and sat beside her on the bed.
Sullivan took a long swallow from his glass.
Chapter 8
The FBI office in Indio was sort of a wasteland. It wasn’t on anyone’s short list of requested field office assignments. Anyone except Henry Kellerman.
Henry’s sister-in-law lived in Indian Wells. His parents weren’t too far, either, having retired to the resort town of Big Bear in the mountains above San Bernardino, an adjoining county. In addition, when the kids were school age, the area of Palm Springs where he and his wife lived had great schools. So, while most agents in the office fought to earn a transfer to someplace more exciting, Henry fought to stay right where he was; and that seemed to take up a lot of his office time lately.
“Henry, you are a good agent and you’ve got a chance for a fast track into the upper ranks” the Special Agent in Charge, L.A. Michaels, was saying.
“Sir, I’m first on scene for the first case in this explosives robbery. It would be best if I stayed here to continue in the investigation. Couldn’t you get D.C. to hold off on the transfer?” he pleaded.
With a conciliatory tone the S.A.I.C. gave in as far as he could. “Okay, Henry, I’ll get you a week stall, but, unless there is a break in the case or this guy hits again, I won’t be able to put this off again.”
“Thank you, sir,” Agent Kellerman said with a smile. He was walking a little taller as he left his supervisors office.
“What are you so happy about, Kellerman?” asked one of the other agents, as Henry walked into the squad room.
“Got my transfer stalled for another week,” he replied.
The entire office knew that Henry was supposed to be sent to the Seattle office to work the elite, high tech crimes unit. Every agent in the office wanted a spot on that team. Except Henry. Michaels wanted that assignment. Had put in for it, was interviewed for it. Then they call for Kellerman. No application. No interview. Michaels knew it was because he was black. They don’t like blacks anywhere except in the ghetto or on the basketball courts. At least that’s how Special Agent Michaels saw things.
It was nearing 8 o’clock at night. The
agents involved in the investigation were tired and ready to head for home. They had been working the case nearly 16 hours straight. L.A. Michaels sat on the edge of one of the desks and called everyone to pay attention.
“Listen up,” he began, “Just so we are all on the same page before we go get some sleep, we’ve got the following information.” He read off a list:
“A. The witness info is zero as to a possible suspect. The perp never drove within view of the ATM video cameras. All we have is a person in a full-face helmet, dark jacket and gloves. The explosion destroyed the cameras. Though we’ve had six people claim responsibility, all of them have been proven false. We do believe that the suspect drove to the area of Indian Wells after each robbery.
“B. The suspect most likely is riding a Japanese motorcycle. Probably a seven-fifty cc or larger, from the description of the speed and sound we’ve been getting.
“C. There are one-hundred and thirty-seven street bikes of foreign manufacture registered in the Indian Wells area that are of seven-fifty cc or greater. We’ll cross check the registered owners with known felons through D.C. overnight.
“Anything else?” he asked, after he completed his recitation. No one answered.
“Go home, see you in the A.M.”
The agents, nine, not counting L.A. Michaels, all got up and began heading out to their cars.
April pulled another bank that had been numbered from the pitcher.
“My bank,” Sullivan said, after checking the phone book for the 14th bank listed. “Bank of America on Manzanita.”
“Oh, no. You can’t do the bank you use,” she said worriedly.
“It’s perfect! Who would ever guess?” he exclaimed. “Listen, picking the banks like this takes the pattern out of the picture. In fact, I want to add a couple more areas so we have a better chance of not getting caught.”
April saw the logic in it. “Okay, once again, you’re right,” she relented.
At 8:02 P.M. Sullivan was pressing the explosives into the ATM. Ten seconds later he was stuffing the moneyboxes into his backpack and heading for his motorcycle, which he had left running and in neutral. The smoke hadn’t begun to clear yet and he was already pulling out of the driveway. The motor screamed as he sped through the night.
L.A. Michaels burst through the rear doors of the Indio FBI office at a dead run. The squad hadn’t yet made it to their personal vehicles. They knew when they heard the doors slam open that it was L.A., and what he was going to say.
“He just hit the B of A on Manzanita!” Frank yelled.
All the agents began heading toward L.A. at a fast trot. Michaels had had the presence of mind to grab the keys for the bureau vehicles on his way through the squad room after he had received the phone call from the county 911 dispatcher reporting an explosion and alarm at the Bank of America. He handed everyone their keys and directed them all to haul ass to Indian Wells, even though the bank was twenty five miles away from there in Palm Springs.
“Look for the motorcycle!” he yelled as he ran to his car. L.A. was playing a hunch. It couldn’t hurt. The locals would secure the crime scene, so he could afford to take his units to Indian Wells, which was closer, anyhow.
Ten identical appearing 2014 Caprice Classics, black wall tires, no hubcaps, small antennas centered high center of the trunk, with red lights flashing in the windshield, flew down the highway toward Indian Wells. L.A. had all units switch to the tactical command channels from where he was directing the dragnet.
“Delta three, break right next signal and come in from 111. Delta four, break left, same signal, go to Cactus View and head south, copy!” yelled L.A.”
“Copy three,” said Kellerman.
“Copy four,” followed Agent Allen, who was assigned to San Bernardino, but on loan to Indio at the moment.
The FBI agents fanned out around the city and cut their sirens as they began a blind search of the area. Everyone had rolled down the windows in their cars to better hear the approach of a motorcycle.
L.A. Michaels pulled into the middle of an intersection and parked his car there, his red emergency light flashing. Traffic became snarled after a few minutes, so he continued on.
Henry Kellerman had approached through a neighborhood on the Palm Springs side of town. Suddenly, in the distance, he heard the distinctive scream of a motorcycle moving at high speed. He grabbed his mike, “Delta three, Sam seven!” he shouted.
“Go!” came the one word reply.
“I’m at Cactus View and Desert Sage. I can hear a motorcycle moving fast, but can’t pinpoint it because of the mountains!”
“All units converge on Delta-three, code two!” yelled L.A.
Each unit then called in with only their car number to let L.A. know they had heard the order and were moving out, flashing light, no siren. Henry pulled forward into the intersection, looked left, then right, and back left again. A white motorcycle passed across Desert Sage two blocks to his left. “Desert Sage and San Jacinto, white motorcycle hauling ass! Southbound on San Jacinto!” he yelled into the mike as he spun the wheel and attempted pursuit.
“Delta three, you are tac!” commanded L.A. Michaels, letting everyone know that Henry Kellerman was calling the tactical positions for all units, since he was the closest to the possible suspect.
“All units converge at San Jacinto and 111. Sam seven, call s/o for air!” Screamed Henry, as he ordered the units to focus their convergence point several miles ahead of the motorcycle’s current position and for L.A. to switch to the interagency emergency response channel and ask the Riverside County Sheriff for air support, if any was near enough to be of any use.
Henry swung wide when making the right onto San Jacinto, nearly colliding with a black Jeep Wagoneer that was northbound on San Jacinto. The drivers’ door was open and he cleared it by inches, as his car raced after the receding red taillight, now a mile ahead of him.
April clutched the white tee shirt to her chest as she slammed her door. The undercover cop had nearly plowed into her as she was pulling the shirt into the Jeep. However, it was his sudden presence more than the near collision that had scared her the most. Tears spilled over her lids as she watched the cop chase after Sullivan. “Please, God, don’t let them catch him.” She whispered the prayer. More flashing lights, she turned right. Doing just as Sullivan told her to do if she saw cops after him, or just got a spooked feeling, she drove to the market.
Once in the parking lot, she wiped away her tears and pulled herself together. She called from her cell; after three rings, the answering machine picked up, “Either I’m here or I’m not. In any case, leave a message at the beep,” was his recorded voice. Following the beep, April left her message. “Hi, Baby. It’s April. If you are home, could you come to the Ralph’s market and give me a jump? My car won’t start.” She hung up the phone and waited.
Sullivan was already ripping the tee shirt from the tank when he glimpsed the flashing red light to his right. As soon as he crossed the intersection, he tossed it into the street. April was there in the Jeep, half a block up. He twisted the gas and sent the speedometer needle up to 120 mph where it was pegged. He kept on San Jacinto for a mile and a half, then braked hard, while down shifting, in order to make the left turn at Morningside. He slid sideways about 15 feet as he over-braked, but he was able to pull out of the nearly fatal maneuver just before hitting the curb. He straightened out the motorcycle and rode slow and silent, in and out of the short curving streets of his neighborhood, until reaching his house, where he parked the bike, tossed the helmet aside, and slapped the garage door button. Inside the kitchen, he saw the answering machine light flashing. He knew that April had to have seen the cop and figured it was her. He hit the play button and her frightened voice asked for a jump-start. He quickly stashed his riding gear and the backpack in the garage, where he grabbed a set of jumper cables. The Vette was in the driveway, so he went through the house and out the front door. Cops were everywhere. He watched one drive past his ho
use while getting in the Vette; another as he turned down Morningside. And maybe another one as he got on to highway 111. They all were blue, 4-door narc cars, so it was hard to tell if there were a lot of cars, or the same couple running in circles. Sullivan headed off to meet April.
“Delta three – Sam seven, your twenty.” L.A. wanted to know where Henry was.
“Morningside and Taquitz, no sign of him”, was the reply.
Henry had lost sight of the motorcycle after it had turned left onto Morningside. No other agents had caught a glimpse of the cycle, though several had heard it. That had been nearly forty minutes ago. It was time to wrap it up. L.A. ordered all units back to the office, except for Henry, who he decided he would take with him to the new crime scene.
“Lets head over to the B of A and get it over with so we can go home,” L.A. told Henry.
“Roger,” he sounded dejected.
April gave Sullivan a fierce hug when he pulled up in front of her Jeep and got out of his car. Her tears wetted the shoulder of his shirt. The relief she felt at seeing him had overwhelmed her to the point of this tear-choked speechlessness she was now in.
“Hey, April, hush with the tears. It was cake.” He tried to convince her with a sense of confidence that he didn’t really feel.
He hooked up the jumper cables, just to make it look good. April was surprised to find out that the Corvette’s battery was behind the drivers seat. Once they had the cables put back, and the hood closed on the Jeep, Sullivan suggested dinner at the taco place down the street. Neither of them was hungry, but it would keep them from having to return home right now.