by Robert Rand
Conversation was slow to come. Both had weighty matters on their mind. Eventually, April told her husband about an event that she considered her most embarrassing. She then asked him what his most embarrassing event was.
Sullivan Rourk stared blankly out the window as the thoughts raced through his mind. Sweat beaded up on his forehead. His skin paled.
April was suddenly worried by his appearance. “Honey! What’s wrong?”
Pulled back from the horror he was reliving, Sullivan was able to answer, “I’m fine. I just. I. I don’t want to talk about it.”
While the Rourks were nibbling on nachos, L.A. and Henry were talking to the local cops at the B of A.
“Same as the previous two. Plastique used to blow apart the ATM; about sixty grand taken; no witnesses; motorcycle heard leaving the area,” the local cop told them.
The only new information was that they were now sure that the rider of that motorcycle was probably living in Indian Wells and that they were looking for a white street bike capable of speeds in excess of 120mph.
The restaurant closed at 11 P.M. Sullivan walked April out to her Jeep and told her to follow him home.
She leaned into him and kissed him. She closed her door and watched him walk over to his car. “Hey mister, anyone ever tell ya you got a nice ass?” April hollered out the window.
“Just you, Mac,” he replied, then started his car and headed for home.
He parked in the driveway, afraid to let the bike be seen in the garage right now. April parked next to him a minute later.
Chapter 9
By the time Agent Kellerman walked in the front door to his house it was nearly midnight. He had been at work for twenty-nine hours.
“Happy Anniversary, Sweetheart,” he said to his wife, June.
“Oh, darling, you look terrible! Go straight to bed, and I’ll bring you something to eat,” she began fussing over him.
He told her he wasn’t hungry and walked in to the nursery. He stood over his sleeping children, watching their little chests rise and fall with each tiny breath. It made him happy. He leaned down and kissed each one, in turn, on the forehead. First his little boy, Henry Jr. who would be a year old in a few weeks. Then he kissed his daughter, named after his wife’s sister. That reminded him of something.
Back in the kitchen, June was making him a bowl of clam chowder that he really didn’t want, but would eat because she fixed it for him.
“There was another ATM blown up tonight,” he told her.
She looked up from the pot of soup that she was stirring, “Nobody hurt, I hope,” her concern was genuine.
“No, but I chased him”, her expression told him to go on, “but I lost him over near your sister’s place. Maybe you could ask her if she has noticed a white street motorcycle in the area when you talk to her next?”
“I’ll call her right now!” June exclaimed. She turned off the fire on the stove and grabbed the phone.
After three rings, a machine picked up. “Either we’re here or we aren’t. Leave a message and we might just call you back,”
“April, this is June. I hear there was some excitement in your area tonight – call me when you get in…. or up! Bye.” She replaced the phone in its cradle.
“Sorry, I guess it’ll have to wait until tomorrow,” she said, apologetically, as if it were her fault that her sister wasn’t answering the phone.
“It’s okay, sweetheart. I’m really too tired to think right now, anyway”, he told her.
She poured a huge mug full of the hot white New England style chowder and handed it to her husband with a spoon and a promise to get a hold of April in the morning.
He ate the soup as his eyelids drooped. Somehow, he made it to bed before exhaustion overtook him.
As June Kellerman tugged the socks off her sleeping husbands feet, a thought came to mind that she told herself that she should mention to Henry in the morning, since it was such a funny coincidence. April designed some plans to install a bunch of ATM’s a couple of years. Now a mad ATM bomber is chased through her neighborhood. How funny.
June forgot all about mentioning that funny coincidence to Henry by the time he had awakened. Little April was being a monster, and little Henry was cutting a new tooth. The children kept her busy. Their fussing kept her fighting for her own sanity. Thoughts of bombers and chases were now far from her mind.
April didn’t check the messages until long after Sullivan had left for work. She cleaned the house and took a long bath, then watched Days of Our Lives curled up on the couch dressed in one of her husband’s silk, French cuffed dress shirts. It wasn’t until late afternoon that she played the messages on her machine.
Her sister’s interest meant that her brother-in-law was investigating the bank bombings, as the news media was referring to the robberies. She grabbed the phone and dialed her sisters’ number.
“Hello” came her sisters’ voice over the line.
“June, it’s April. I just got your message.”
“Oh, yeah, I almost forgot. Henry said that he was chasing that bank bomber through your neighborhood last night and I was calling to ask you if you knew if anyone in the area rode a white motorcycle.” June explained.
Relief washed over April. They had gotten close, but not close enough. “No, I don’t think I’ve seen any white motorcycles around. And last night I noticed all the cops, but I was stranded at the market with a dead battery,” she answered.
“A dead battery? Why don’t’ you get rid of that old MG? It’s been nothing but trouble for years!” said June
“The MG? Where have you been? I got rid of that hunk-a-shit six months ago!” April exclaimed.
“Well, that’s news to me, Sis. Just goes to show how little we talk anymore. Come to think of it, I haven’t seen you in over six months. You could at least come visit your niece and nephew! Little Henry is walking now and Little April is as mean as you are!” she complained.
“I’m sorry. I’ve got to get over there. I’ll come by this weekend, I promise. But I’ve got to go now. Give the kids a kiss! Love ya, June!”
“Love you, too. You’d better be here this weekend or I’ll have the FBI storm your place and take you into custody!” she joked, as she hung up.
April needed to talk to Sullivan. She showered and changed then drove out to the casino, suddenly leery of using the phone.
April went up the stairs and asked the receptionist to tell Mr. Rourk that she was there to see him.
Kyle announced her presence and showed her in.
Sullivan didn’t seem surprised to see her. “Hi, you”, he said, as he looked up from the papers on his desk.
April came around, sat on the corner of his desk, and began filling him in on the phone call she had with her sister, and the fact that her sister’s husband was one of the FBI agents on the case.
Sullivan sat back and listened as she poured out all her worries. When she was done, he told her not to worry. He only needed to do a few more to tide things over until the cruise ship deal he’d been working on would begin paying enough in cabin sales to pay back his debts. Then he asked her to drive to San Diego and get a room at the Hilton, but to take the Vette. He would park her Jeep in her garage and meet her in San Diego on the bike later in the evening. He would do the rest down there.
She agreed that would be best and accepted the keys to his car. “I’ve got to stop and get clothes. I’ll pack stuff for you, too, and get that box of stuff from the shed so you won’t have to carry it on the bike.”
“That sounds great” Sullivan replied, before asking, “Can you grab those empty money boxes too, and toss them out someplace along the way to Diego?”
“Sure.”
“Thanks” Sullivan said as he got up and gave April a long kiss good-bye.
After she left, Sullivan called his floor manager and told him that he needed to go out of town for the rest of the week, and for him to care for operations while he was gone. After taking care of some pr
eviously unfinished details, he went down and got into the Jeep. He drove straight home and locked the car in the garage before slipping into his leather jacket, jeans and boots. Just before he went out to get on the bike he went into his bedroom, pulled a .380 Beretta automatic handgun from his gun cabinet, and shoved it along with two fully loaded clips, into his jacket pocket, then zipped the pocket closed.
“This guy’s cocky,” L.A. Michaels began his briefing, “He is a risk taker and he is greedy. I believe that he will hit another bank tonight or tomorrow night. I’ve got the surveillance schedules posted. I want to set up a web that he can’t fly through on that bike.”
There were two-dozen Federal and local officers in the room; The “Bank Bomber Task Force”, of which L.A. was now the commander. He filled everyone in on the latest developments and gave out assignments to various individuals in order to follow up on the few leads they had cultivated.
Henry Kellerman studied the computer-generated printout L.A. had given him. It contained all the names and addresses of all registered owners of street bikes in the Indian Wells area, as well as the make, model, year and color of those motorcycles. His job was to cull those whose addresses fell within the area of town that he had been assigned to investigate; including his sister-in-law’s neighborhood.
Following the morning briefing, Henry and his Taskforce partner, L.A. Michaels, drove out to Indian Wells and began the tedious door-to-door canvassing of their assigned areas. They would first contact neighbors of those listed as owners of motorcycles, then, depending on what they learned, either directly approach the person in question or add them to the surveillance list.
After seventeen interviews without coming any closer to developing a suspect than when they had begun, Henry parked his unit in front of his sister-in-law’s next-door neighbor.
“My wife’s sister lives next door, L.A,” Henry said to his partner.
L.A. looked around and noticed the living room curtains open at the house across the street, and someone standing inside the room, but far enough back from the window to make it impossible to tell anything about who it was. He pointed this out to Henry and led the way across the street. “This is going to be the one who knows everything that goes on in this neighborhood; she’ll be our ‘Mrs. Kravitz’”, Michaels was saying, referring to the nosey neighbor on the old TV show ‘Bewitched’. Henry thought his partner was right, but since the lady was coming out of her front door as they walked up her driveway, he kept his mouth shut.
“Well, it’s about time! I just knew they were up to no good!” She talked like she hadn’t had an ear to bend in weeks, “Fancy cars and high-browed parties all the time, don’t ya know.”
“Yes, ma’am”, Henry interrupted, as he withdrew his credentials, showing him to be with the FBI. “I’m Special Agent Kellerman, and this is Supervising Special Agent Michaels. We are conducting an investigation, and….”
“FBI! Lord sakes! I didn’t reckon you gentlemen to be G-men!” she interrupted “I thought you were private eyes, like that handsome Magnum P.I. fella!”
“No, ma’am”, Michaels broke in, “Could we maybe go inside and talk for a minute?”
“Now where are my manners?” she bustled, “Come in. I’ll pour some iced tea!” She turned and led the two agents into the house.
Henry pointed to the name on the mailbox mounted next to the front door and had to force himself from laughing. ‘Dolores Kravitz’ was printed in white raised letters with red background on AVCO tape.
“Are you Mrs. Kravitz?” asked Agent Michaels, while trying, unsuccessfully, to suppress a grin.
“And have been for 51 years, don’t ya know,” she replied, “Sit. Sit. Sit,” she insisted.
As the agents sat on the floral print couch that was covered in clear plastic, Mrs. Kravitz hurried into the adjoining dining room/kitchen to pour tea. The agents looked around the living room. Bric-a-brac filled the entertainment center as well as two tall glass-front cabinets. Collector plates covered the walls with scenes ranging from Elvis to Fergi and Andrew’s wedding. Mail order catalogs were neatly stacked next to a timeworn rocker/recliner - ‘with vibrating heat massage, don’t ya know.’, thought Henry. Mrs. Kravitz returned with the tea on a serving tray of polished silver.
With a ‘thank you’, Agent Michaels began the interview. They found out that the registered owner, Sullivan Rourk, did live at the house across the street, and did, indeed, own a big motorcycle. But it was black, ‘don’t ya know’. Mrs. Kravitz suspected that Sullivan Rourk was, most likely, one of those drug king pins you see on television. Mrs. Kravitz was an early to bed, early to rise kind of woman. That had been Mr. Kravitz way, may he rest in peace, and she had made it hers as well. Therefore, she knew nothing of the nighttime shenanigans of her Godless neighbors, who wouldn’t be able to get away with such behavior back in Minnesota, ‘don’t ya know’. They did find out that he was at home now, and had come home in April’s black Jeep, while April had come and gone, suitcases in hand, and hour earlier, and she was driving his fancy yellow sports car, ‘don’t ya know’.
They thanked Mrs. Kravitz for the tea, and the information, as they left. They then headed across the street to speak with Sullivan Rourk.
Sullivan heard footsteps coming up his driveway as he was getting ready to start his bike. He froze. Quietly, he set his helmet on the floor and got off the bike. The doorbell rang. Sullivan pulled off his gloves and jacket and set them on the seat of the bike, then tiptoed out of the garage and into the kitchen. The bell rang again before he got to the door.
Sullivan had no problem recognizing his brother-in-law.
“Henry! What brings you around today? Hell, we haven’t seen you and June in months!” Sullivan said, as he opened the door.
Showing their ID’s, Agent Michaels spoke for both, “Mr. Rourk, FBI. We have some questions we would like to ask. May we come in?”
“Sure,” Sullivan said as he stepped aside to let them in, “have a seat.”
The agents sat on the couch Sullivan had motioned to while he sat in the bentwood rocker. “Is this is a professional visit? Is there a problem at the casino?”
“Casino?” asked Michaels.
“Yeah, the Desert Pueblo. I run it, so I thought maybe something was wrong there, since I don’t cheat on my taxes and I don’t rob banks, so it must be some regulatory problem with the casino,” Sullivan offered.
“No, sir, we have information that you own a motorcycle”, Agent Michaels pulled his notebook from his coat pocket and flipped through several pages before finding the precise information and reading it aloud, “Nineteen ninety-four Kawasaki, model KZ one-thousand, California license number 2JLL000. Do you still have that motorcycle?”
“Yeah, it’s in the garage. Why?” countered Rourk.
“May we take a look at it?” asked Kellerman.
“Sure, Henry.” he answered, as he got up to show the agents to the garage,
Henry looked uncomfortable at having A potential suspect also be member of his family
They walked into the garage through the kitchen and laundry room. “There it is. Runs great. In fact, I was getting ready to take it for a ride when you rang the doorbell.” Sullivan offered. As much of the truth as he could give, he figured it would be the best approach.
Agent Michaels was making a note of the tire size and manufacture and Kellerman began a give-and-take question and answer probe with Sullivan Rourk.
“I don’t see your car anywhere. Are you riding the bike everywhere these days?” he asked.
“Actually, I’ve still got the sixty-seven Vette. It’s my baby and April is using it at the moment.” Truth.
Kellerman asked, “Were you riding your bike last night around eight p.m.?”
“No.” A lie.
“Can you tell me where you were at that time?” pressed Kellerman.
“I was at the market.” Another lie.
“Grocery shopping?” asked Agent Michaels, jumping into the conversatio
n.
“No.” Truth.
Both agents looked at Sullivan waiting for more of an explanation. What they got was a sudden surge of what Sullivan hoped would appear to be righteous indignation.
“What are you trying to get at here, anyway?” Sullivan walked over and pressed the automatic garage door opener button on the wall. As the door rose up, he looked at Kellerman and Michaels, waiting for a reply.
“Sullivan, we just want to know if you were out on your bike last night, and the night before, and if you can account for your whereabouts for the past 48 hours.” Michaels tried to put softness into the response in an attempt to reduce the animosity that was building between his partner and the suspect.
Sullivan realized that they weren’t going to give him any information, so he spoke directly to Kellerman in a tone both sarcastic and hostile, “I resent you coming into my home and asking questions without giving me a reason why you are asking me these questions
Kellerman took a half step toward Sullivan, anger showing in his dark eyes. L.A. Michaels stepped between the two men and said, “Thank you, Mr. Rourk. I think we’ve got everything now. If we happen to need to ask you anymore questions, I’ll give you a call.” He emphasized the use of the singular to let him know that Agent Kellerman wouldn’t be asking any questions next time, if there was a next time.
Henry Kellerman walked out through the open garage door, Michaels following. “Easy, Henry”, cautioned Michaels when they had gotten back into the car.
Henry took a deep, calming breath and let it out slowly before speaking. “The bike is the wrong color, L.A., but because I’ve never liked the bastard, I pressed him. I shouldn’t have. Thanks for keeping things cool.”
“Oh, the bike isn’t the color you saw racing through the area, but it is the right bike and he is our man,” commented Michaels, as he put the car in gear and pulled away form the curb.