by Robert Rand
Henry looked at his partner, mouth hanging open, dumbfounded by what he had just heard. After a full minute of staring in disbelief, Henry asked, “What are you talking about?”
Agent L.A. Michaels smiled inwardly, self-satisfied by being able to make his partner feel like a fool. “He put a tee shirt over the gas tank. I could see bits of material stuck to the petcock where he had probably tore it off after he lost you.”
“Why didn’t you cuff him?” Henry was incredulous.
“It’s not proof, Henry. We couldn’t get a search warrant on a piece of tee shirt. But he will slip up. And we will be there.” Michaels would build his case now that he had a prime suspect.
Sullivan put on his jacket, gloves and helmet, and then started the motor on the bike. He was so preoccupied with the events of the last half hour that he forgot to close the garage door as he left. Sullivan cut over to Highway 74 and rode up Mt. San Jacinto, through the small mountain town of Idyllwild and down the other side through Hemet and Winchester, before finally reaching the 15 freeway as it cut through Temecula. Traffic was light and he kept up a safe cruising speed of 70 mph as he drove south into San Diego.
It was a two and a half-hour ride from his place to the Hilton at Mission Bay. Sullivan spotted the Vette in the parking lot and parked the motorcycle in a nearby slot.
He got the room number from the suntanned beach bunny working the desk and took the elevator up to the sixth floor. He knocked on room 6111. April opened it right away.
Chapter 10
“That’s it,” April was saying, “There is no way we can do any more!”
After Sullivan had relayed the talk he had had with Henry, April had become emphatic about not doing any more banks. Even down here in San Diego.
“I’m not worried about the Feds, April,” Sullivan assured her.
“We’re looking at going to prison for God’s sake!” April exclaimed.
“Prison has crossed my mind,” he took both of her hands in his, “But you stay on my mind. Listen, what we’re doing has its risks, but I’m in too deep to turn back now.”
Sullivan finally talked April into one more job. They would drive to Orange County and do it there, then come back to the hotel. There they would make themselves seen in order to provide an alibi. She had brought all the explosives up with her when she first checked in. Sullivan went about making his charges while she changed into jeans and a gray Pendleton.
He followed her up Interstate 5 to Costa Mesa before pulling around in front of her to lead the way to his intended destination. They changed freeways at the 55 and took it north to Chapman Avenue in Orange. Sullivan led her over to Tustin Avenue and pulled into the Regal Lanes bowling alley parking lot.
“Just wait here. I’ll pull back through, dump the backpack in the car, and pull the shirt off.” April handed him a white tee shirt, then got out and put a strip of duct tape across the license plate of the bike. She kissed him on the nose before closing his visor.
“Thank you, Mrs. Kravitz, but I’ll pass,” L.A. Michaels declined the old lady’s offer to refill the empty coffee cup in front of him. He had been watching the two houses across the street all night and was ready to go get some shut-eye. L.A. Michaels was dozing lightly on the couch and two more agents were in a surveillance van half way down the block. Neither Sullivan nor April Rourk had shown up; and no ATM’s had been blown up. L.A. trusted his instincts, but his hate of all night surveillance was making him weary of continuing this stakeout. After all, there was every possibility they were just two people out having some fun.
The relationship between Kellerman and the suspects was troubling. He had reassigned Kellerman to other aspects of the investigation and if things came to further indicate that his sister-in-law might be involved, then L.A. would have to pull him from the case all together. He would lose all of Henry’s testimony if he had to take her in to court. The U.S. Attorney had rarely bothered with trying to use an agent’s testimony against a relative. The defense lawyers would make too much of the personal relationship and claim evidence that was gained violated Miranda vs. Arizona or Messiah vs. United States, or some other Supreme Court decision that made it that much harder to be a cop.
“I know you’re supposed to be watchin’ across the way, but I don’t allow anyone to eat in my livin’ room, so wake up your friend and come in here and eat”, ordered Mrs. Kravitz, as she set out plates and silverware at the adjoining dining room table.
Agent Boatwright shook his head and smiled as he tapped L.A. Michaels on the shoulder. “We’ve been invited to breakfast. Get up.”
L.A. was instantly awake and alert. “Sounds good to me,” he said, as he moved to the table.
Halfway through, the meal was interrupted by the ringing of the phone.
“It’s your dime, so speak your mind, don’t ya know.” answered Mrs. Kravitz. After a moment she said into the receiver, “Well, sure, he’s here, but he’s eatin’ breakfast, don’t ya know, so how ‘bout I take your number….”
L.A. jumped out of his chair. “Mrs. Kravitz, I’ll take it, if it’s for me.”
She shrugged her shoulders and handed him the phone. As L.A. listened to the person on the other end, Mrs. Kravitz said to Agent Boatwright, “Never would Mr. Kravitz get up from the table to answer a phone and only once did he ever get up to answer the door, that was back in nineteen-sixty-nine, when that gentleman from the Army showed up. He come to tell us that Paul had been killed in the war. Vietnam, don’t ya know.”
L.A. replaced the handset in the cradle of the old rotary dial phone. “That was Sutcliff from ATF in Orange County. Seems another ATM robbery did happen last night.”
“Same MO?” asked Boatwright, as he chewed a bite of buttermilk biscuit covered in creamy country gravy.
Mrs. Kravitz had disappeared into he back of the house. There was ‘man talk’ that needed to be given its due respect, don’t ya know.
“Yeah, same MO. The only difference was that this time they hit a local savings and loan that wasn’t FDIC, so we weren’t on the top of the need-to-know list.” Michaels was gathering his coat and notebook, “I’m going to have Dave chopper me down to Orange County and check things out myself. Stay with things here and when Rourk shows up, I want him brought in for questioning.
“Who is it?” Sullivan called out after hearing the knock at the door.
“Room service,” was the reply.
Sullivan wrapped a towel around his narrow hips before opening the door. “Bring it in,” he told the busboy, as he stepped aside.
The busboy pushed the serving cart into the room just as April pulled open the bathroom door. She didn’t look up until she nearly ran into the serving cart. “Shit!” She dashed back into the bathroom and slammed the door.
The busboy had seen a lot of beautiful women in these rooms over the past few years, but this was the first time he had seen one completely naked.
“Fuck!” Sullivan muttered, as he picked up his wallet from the dresser. He handed the busboy a fifty to cover the $47 bottle of vodka and tipped him with a hundred-dollar bill.
Sullivan opened the bathroom door as soon as the front door had closed. April sat on the closed toilet seat, smiling. “Well, do you think we will be remembered?” April asked.
Yeah, we have our alibi.” Sullivan Rourk smiled back at his pretty wife.
“Henry, I just don’t believe that my sister and Sullivan are bank robbers!” June nearly yelled at her husband.
“Honey, calm down,” Henry said, as he put an arm around her shoulders and pulled her close to his chest. He was regretting having told her about the run-in with Rourk. “June, you, yourself, admit that you haven’t even seen your sister in six months. Last time she stayed away for any period of time was when you found out she was living with Sullivan. Remember how you felt when you found out that she was engaged to that playboy casino operator? That is how you classified him isn’t it?” he reminded her.
“That was fo
ur years ago and she’s shown me that she has been happy ever since.” She was getting defensive.
Henry gave up. “Go back to sleep, sweetheart.”
June lay with her head on his shoulder in the queen size bed they shared. After nearly ten minutes of silence, Henry felt moisture on his bare shoulder. He stroked his wife’s long soft hair.
“Don’t let her go to jail, Henry”, she pleaded through her tears, “She’s my baby sister and I love her, Henry. Please. Please….”
Henry Kellerman, the loving husband, promised what Agent Henry Kellerman of the FBI never could, “I promise. Hear me, honey? I promise.”
June sniffled back her runny nose and wiped her tears with the heel of her hand. “I love you, Henry. Thank you.”
Henry Kellerman lay awake for a long time before he finally reached out in the dark and picked up the bedside phone. It’s illuminated buttons glowing in the otherwise lightless room allowed him to find the numbers he needed and punch them in turn. When the phone went directly to voicemail he left a message. “April, we know that Sullivan is responsible for the ATM robberies and that you are involved. Get out now. I won’t be able to help later.” He hung up the phone.
“Thank you, Henry.” June Kellerman held her husband a little bit tighter.
April and Sullivan carried their luggage, such as it was, down to the car. He told her to go rent a mini-storage in Hemet before going home. She was to put the cash and backpack in it, and to lock it with a combination lock so he could get in easily without going back to Indian Wells for a key.
“Where are you going?” she asked.
“Since I’m down this way, I’m going to stop at the Sycuan casino and finalize the cruise trips they were interested in. I’ll call you around three. I may stop at the Barona reservation, as well,” he told her.
After a long kiss, she got in the car and drove off. “I love you, Sullivan Rourk,” she whispered to his reflection in the rearview mirror.
Chapter 11
“One-hundred and twenty thousand dollars. One-hundred and forty fucking grand. Double your pleasure, double your fun. Blow these side-by-side ATM’s and run.” A smile turned at the corners of Sullivan Rourk’s mouth as he whispered the words.
He and April had parted company a couple hours earlier. After leaving the Sycuan casino with a check for $36,000 to cover the 30 Bingo Cruise vacation packages they had purchased, he found himself parked at a 7-11 in Escondido, looking across to the dual, side-by-side ATM’s mounted in the red brick wall of the Wells Fargo Bank on the opposite corner. Sullivan felt in the pockets of his jacket. He had kept some of the explosives and detonators. April didn’t know. He probably couldn’t really recall exactly when he had loaded the multiple pockets of his leather ‘Biker’ jacket with these items. That they were there now was all that mattered.
Working by touch as best he could, Sullivan assembled five charges. That would leave him with one charge to either use or dispose of after this job. He surely didn’t want to have it on him when he went back home.
Sullivan watched as customers came and went. He saw his chance and took it. Knowing that he would be seen and that the risk was greater here and now than ever before, he threw caution to the wind, started the bike, rocketed out of the driveway, across the intersection and up the curb. The motorcycle lost traction in the wet grassy embankment that separated the sidewalk from the bank parking lot. Sullivan had to take his feet off the foot pegs and fight for balance. The back tire ate a swath into the manicured lawn as it dug for purchase, leaving a muddied trough in its wake. The motor whirred as the R.P.M.’s soared into the red line, then suddenly dropped as the tire gripped into the ground and the bike surged forward onto the solid pavement. Sullivan tapped the shifter lever with his foot until the green neutral indicator light glowed in the control panel between the handlebars. Then, with the heel of his boot he shoved the kickstand down. He bent the license plate in half as he got off the bike to keep it from being seen. He rushed the dozen steps necessary to round the corner of the building and reach the ATM’s. The plastique was in his gloved hands as he took the final step. Sullivan slapped the gray-black clay-like material into one machine, then the other. The wires were linked from one detonator to the next in line, until terminating at the actuator. He took four steps back and crashed into an elderly couple who were walking up to use the ATM’s.
“Hey, watch it!” hollered the old man, as he placed a steadying hand on his wife’s arm.
Sullivan panicked. Snatching the pistol from his waistband, he pointed it at the old people. “Get back!” came his scream, muffled by the helmet that surrounded his head.
The woman screamed, nearly falling as she backed away. The old man stepped protectively between his wife and the gun. While the old woman turned and fled to the safety of their Oldsmobile, the old man stood his ground.
“I fought the Germans, then the Koreans. I’m not going to let some punk put fear in me now!” The old guy thrust out his chest, the bravery of his youth returning to become the stupidity of his golden years.
Sullivan pressed the actuator button. The dual explosions were deafening. The veteran of two American wars dropped to one knee as he covered his ears in reflexive response.
Sullivan shoved the gun back into his waistband and turned to the ATM’s. He snatched one cash box after another and shoved them into his partially open jacket. When he turned back around the corner to get on his motorcycle, he saw that the old man was clutching at his chest.
“Bill! Bill!” The old woman’s fear of the gunman had been replaced by a greater fear; that of losing her husband. She ran toward him on swollen legs.
Sullivan wanted to stop and help the old man. He was obviously having a heart attack. However, there was nothing he could do, and staying around meant going to jail.
As the old lady kneeled down and cradled the head of her fallen husband, Sullivan jumped on the bike and rode off into the night.
“Agent Michaels,” the helicopter’s pilot spoke over his shoulder, “plug your headset into that overhead. You’ve got someone calling from ATF.”
L.A. Michaels had just wrapped up his inquiry into the Orange County robbery and managed a two-hour nap at John Wayne Airport while waiting for the chopper to fly back from Palm Springs. He plugged in the headset cord where the pilot had indicated. “Michaels,” he announced.
“L.A., it’s David,” came the voice over the radio.
“Didn’t I just leave you at the airport?” Michaels joked.
“Yeah, and I’m airborne. We’ve got another one,” said David Sutcliff, the Bomb Squad Commander for the Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms, Southwest Region.
L.A. Michaels sat up straighter as the news got the adrenaline flowing in his body. “Where and when?” he asked.
“Escondido, twenty minutes ago,” he paused before adding, “There were witnesses, L.A. One of them is on his way to the hospital with a heart attack.”
Michaels took a moment to absorb the new information. “David, is this one an FDIC bank?”
“Oh, yeah, it’s a Wells Fargo.” Knowing what the FBI agent was thinking, David answered without being asked, “This is your show, L.A. The locals will clear you a spot to land in the bank parking lot if you want, but your best bet is the hospital where they took the old guy and his wife.”
L.A. tapped the pilot on the shoulder, “We’re going to Escondido, on the double!”
The pilot nodded his head, and then eased the helicopter to the south, bringing the airspeed up to 170mph.
L.A. got the name of the hospital from the ATF commander and relayed it to the pilot, who in turn radioed for coordinates from the FAA.
Patrick Boatwright set his poem book aside as he heard the deep rumble of the Corvette, even before it came into view. Fully alert, he grabbed his walkie-talkie and notified the agents in the van at the other end of the block. “Watcher two; watcher one – one bird back in the nest.”
“Roger watcher 1. We’ve got the yellow b
ird in view,” came the reply.
“She’s landed in the nest.” Boatwright called back, informing the other agents that April had parked the Vette in the garage.
April grabbed her overnight bag and got out of the car. She hit the door closure button and went into the house. She had been surprised to find the garage and front doors open. After making sure the house hadn’t been burglarized, she walked into the bedroom where she found her phone, right where she had left it. “Imagine, making it thirty-six hours without a cell phone.” She was amazed at not missing the damn phone after forgetting to put it in her purse before leaving for San Diego.
After setting her bags on the bed, April set she poured herself a drink and checked her phone messages.
“Message one,” then, “April, we know that Sullivan is responsible for the ATM robberies and that you are involved. Get out now, I won’t be able to help later.”
The machine played through a half-dozen other messages, but April only heard her brother-in-law’s voice echoing in her head.
As tears streamed down her pretty face, she deleted all of the messages on her phone and left the house.
The moment April’s garage door began to open, Agent Boatwright depressed the send key on his walkie-talkie. “Watcher two; watcher one. Movement at the nest. Looks like this bird is getting ready to fly.”
“Roger, watcher one,” came the rapid reply.
“Watcher three, copy,” chimed in an anxious sounding female voice.
Agent Boatwright sat in the darkened recesses of Mrs. Kravitz living room and watched April back her Jeep out of her driveway and into the street. The garage door began to close as she spun the steering wheel to the left and accelerated. “All watchers, bird is flying west. Repeat, bird is flying west. Watcher three, take it by the tail. She’s in the black Jeep Copy?”