T
OMLIN STARED
IN
at Stevens, struggling to keep his breathing steady. The BCA agent stood poised by the control panel, a few feet away from where Tony Schultz’s sawed-off shotgun lay hidden in its cradle.
“What the hell are you doing?” Tomlin said again. “How did you get down here?”
Stevens took a step back. Held up his hands. “Carter, I’m sorry.”
“You shouldn’t be down here.” Tomlin felt his heart pounding, and he glanced at the mountain that housed the assault rifle. “You shouldn’t be down here. Why are you here?”
Stevens didn’t reply.
He knows,
Tomlin thought. He felt his heart start to pound as he realized he would have to kill the BCA agent. Schultz’s Sig Sauer waited in a box below the train table, hidden under a pile of spare parts. Stevens didn’t look armed.
If I can get to that gun,
Tomlin thought,
I can kill him.
—
S
TEVENS STUDIED TOMLIN.
Tomlin stared back like a dog in a fight, his body tensed, his eyes unsteady.
There’s something going on here,
Stevens thought.
This is more than a guest wandering off at a party.
The floorboards creaked above. Laughter filtered down through the ceiling.
Sooner or later, someone’s going to notice we’re gone.
Stevens looked at Tomlin again and wished he’d brought his sidearm.
“I’m sorry, Carter,” he said, raising his hands. “Your wife said you had a train setup down here. I guess I wanted to see it.”
Tomlin looked past him again, to the trains. Said nothing. Stevens gestured to the setup, smiling sheepishly. “It’s really something, anyway. The detail. Amazing.”
Tomlin looked at him, hard.
“Must have taken you months.” Stevens smiled and tried to look friendly. Inside, his whole body was tensed, waiting for Tomlin to spring at him or pull a weapon, or whatever he was thinking about doing.
There’s something here,
Stevens thought.
A couple minutes more and you might have found it. Instead, you might have to fight your way out.
T
OMLIN KNEW
the BCA agent was bullshitting. He could see it in the way Stevens’s muscles stayed tense, even as he cast Tomlin that same friendly smile across the train room.
You blew it,
Tomlin thought.
Now he knows you’re hiding something.
What now?
The rifle was behind the mountain. The shotgun under the table. The pistol in the box below the benchwork. But if he made a move for any weapon, did anything sudden, the BCA agent would tackle him.
Anyway, none of the weapons were loaded. Tomlin made sure to empty them every time he returned to the house. Safer for Heather and Madeleine. The ammunition was close, but Tomlin knew there was no way he could grab a weapon and load it before Stevens was on him.
Stevens had his hands up, still waiting. Still smiling.
He wants to get out of here as much as you do,
Tomlin thought.
He’s prepared to bullshit his way out. That means he doesn’t have enough to take you.
If you show him a weapon, your life is over
.
Right now, Stevens has nothing. No evidence whatsoever, and no warrant. You keep calm, and you’re safe.
Really, what were the other options? Try and fight Stevens, overpower him, kill him. And then—what? Go back to the party? Start running?
No. Stevens was ready to bullshit. Tomlin was ready to bullshit, too. He matched Stevens’s smile. “Becca thinks I’m crazy.”
Stevens nodded. “Yeah?”
“Women never get it,” Tomlin said. He shrugged. “Come on back upstairs, huh? Let’s have another drink.”
Stevens didn’t answer for a moment. Then he nodded again. “Sure,” he said. “A drink sounds good about now.”
Tomlin stepped back and let Stevens lead him out of the room. Glanced around the train room one more time. Then he switched off the light and followed Stevens upstairs, his whole body still tense, his heart pounding.
Y
OU’RE QUIET,”
Nancy said, as Stevens started the Cherokee and pulled away down Summit Avenue. “Did you have fun?”
Stevens looked back at Tomlin’s house in his mirror, lit up and dramatic like a Christmas postcard. He nodded. “Sure.”
Tomlin had disappeared after the incident in the train room. He came back twenty minutes later and started subtly moving people to the door. Hadn’t looked at Stevens. Hadn’t said much. It was only as Stevens and Nancy crossed the threshold, bundled up, and headed back to the car that he’d stepped out onto the porch, hand outstretched and eyes meeting Stevens’s. “Glad you could make it,” he said.
Stevens hesitated before shaking Tomlin’s hand. “Thanks for having us.”
Tomlin’s hand was damp, but his grip was tight. “Basketball Tuesday.”
“Tuesday.” Stevens took back his hand and turned toward the front steps. “See you there.”
Now Nancy looked at Stevens sideways as he piloted the Cherokee back toward Lexington. “You’re too quiet,” she said. “What’s the matter?”
Stevens drove in silence for a few blocks. He stared out at the road, thinking, his tensed muscles only now starting to relax.
A couple minutes more in that train room,
he thought,
you’d have found it. Whatever Tomlin didn’t want you to find.
A couple minutes more
.
Instead, you have nothing.
Nancy touched his arm. “Kirk?” Stevens glanced at her. Shook his head. Nancy caught his expression and frowned. “What the hell happened?”
Stevens stared ahead and didn’t answer. Then he sighed. “I’m not sure.”
“Are you sick? This is scary.”
“I’m not sick.” He kept driving. “I just have this funny feeling Windermere might be right.”
T
OMLIN STOOD
AT
the front door, watching the last of the guests drive away. He locked the door and walked back to the dining room, where Becca was helping the caterers clear up the last of the dishes. She smiled at him as he entered. “I’m exhausted,” she said, starting into the kitchen with a load of dishes. “Playing hostess is hard work.”
“You invited the Stevenses,” he said, following her. “You didn’t tell me.”
Becca put the plates in the sink. Then she looked at him. “I thought he was your friend.”
No,
Tomlin thought,
Stevens isn’t my friend. He’s a BCA agent, and you invited him into my home. If I hadn’t caught him in the train room, he could have ruined everything.
He forced a smile at Becca. “I’m just worried they were out of their league here.”
“I don’t think so. Nancy Stevens is one smart lady. She sounds like a hell of a lawyer.”
A lawyer and a cop
.
Roaming around my house. Talk about living on the edge.
“You’re not mad, are you?” Becca asked him.
Tomlin thought about Stevens again. Saw some humor in it now. The dumb cop would kill himself if he knew the shot he’d just blown. Tomlin couldn’t keep from smiling. “No,” he said, walking to her and wrapping his arms around her. “I’m not mad.”
She stiffened. “Carter, the caterers—”
“Forget about the caterers.”
Becca remained tense. Everywhere he touched felt like stone. “No,” she said. “Not tonight, honey. Okay?”
He kissed her. “Why not?”
She found his reflection in the window. Met his eyes. “Last time, it scared me. What you did.”
“Come on. We were just having fun.”
He kissed down her neck, brought his hand to her breast. She squirmed around in his grip. “Carter,” she said. “I said no.”
The last caterer walked into the kitchen, looked at them both, paused at the doorway. Tomlin ignored her. He stared at Becca’s reflection in the window, her tired eyes. He closed his eyes and imagined holding Tricia. Becca squirmed again.
“Carter.”
Tomlin opened his eyes. Met her gaze in the window and thought again about Tricia. “Fine,” he said. “Suit yourself.”
He left her there. Walked out of the kitchen and back down to the basement, where he checked on his guns and then spent the next two hours fiddling with his trains, creating spectacular, fiery collisions and imagining Kirk Stevens trapped in the flames.
D
OUGHTY DROPPED
a note on Windermere’s desk. “Message from Saint Paul homicide,” he said. “The detective from that poker game.”
Windermere picked up the note. Read it and reached for her phone. “Parent,” she said. “I’ll see what he wants.”
“Already done.” Doughty leaned over and held down the receiver. “He found us a witness.”
She looked at him. “You talked to him?”
“Set up a meeting, in fact. I also took the liberty of updating the good detective’s contact information, since he seemed to think this is your case.”
The big cop looked at Windermere like he was waiting for her to react. She didn’t. Doughty had been bitchy since she’d returned from the poker game, either pissed off or jealous, or both. So far, she’d ignored him and focused on chasing down leads, but now she struggled to stay cool, wanting nothing more than to wipe the self-satisfied smirk from her partner’s face.
Doughty held the moment a beat too long. Then he turned and started for the elevator. “Grab your coat, Agent Windermere,” he called over his shoulder. “Maybe you want to tag along.”
—
D
OUGHTY DROVE SLOWLY,
too slowly, in his department Crown Vic. Windermere sat on her hands in the passenger seat, thinking about the Chevelle and how fast it could take her.
You have to be a team player,
she thought.
You want to be a real FBI agent, you have to learn how to put up with the bullshit.
Doughty took I-94 into Saint Paul and parked downtown. He led Windermere into a Starbucks beneath a couple of big office towers. Ordered a coffee and let Windermere fend for herself. “He’s late,” Doughty said, checking his watch.
Windermere waved off the barista. “Who is he?”
“Guess we’ll find out.”
The front door opened, bells rang, and Windermere looked over as a nervous twentysomething walked in, dolled up in a flashy suit and designer shades. He took off the sunglasses, found Doughty and Windermere, and walked over, looking like a freshman who’d somehow wandered into the prom. “You guys the cops?” he said, his voice low.
“We’re better,” said Doughty. “FBI.”
“Jason Bernstein.” The kid looked at Doughty. “I guess I talked to you on the phone.” Then he looked at Windermere. “You his partner?”
Windermere nodded. “You want a coffee or something?”
Bernstein shook his head. “I just want to get this done.”
Doughty brought his coffee to a sofa and a couple of easy chairs in the back, away from the counter and the few mid-morning customers. Windermere followed Bernstein. The kid looked around, twice, before sitting down. He leaned forward, his elbows bouncing on his knees, jittery.
Windermere sat opposite the kid. Looked at Doughty, who was preoccupied, stirring sugar into his coffee. She looked at Bernstein again. “So what’s your story?” she said. “You saw this go down, or what?”
Bernstein looked at Doughty. “I don’t want my name on it,” he said. “And I want immunity.”
Doughty frowned. “What did you do?”
Bernstein looked at Windermere. Didn’t say anything. “The poker’s not our concern,” Windermere told him. “If you were just playing cards, you’ll be fine.”
Bernstein searched her eyes. “I don’t want my name on it.”
“No names.”
Bernstein swallowed. Then he launched into the play-by-play. The Friday-night game, around midnight. A bunch of the regulars there. “We’d been into it for an hour or so,” he said. “Someone buzzed the door, wanted in. Wouldn’t leave.”
“Game has a security guard, right?”
“Yeah,” Bernstein said, “but this was a chick outside. Said she wanted to party. The guard talked with Tom—with the organizer. He told her no for a while. Then he gave up.”
“Let her in,” said Windermere.
Bernstein nodded. “She came in with a dude, a guy in a ski mask. Had a big fucking gun, an M-16 or something. They emptied the safe, took our wallets, our watches, everything.”
“And killed the cook in the back.”
“Yeah.” Bernstein nodded, slow. “The guy with the rifle was saying something to—to the waitress. Toying with her. Then the guy comes out of the back with a pistol, tries to make a stand. The guy with the rifle lit him up.”
Doughty sat forward. “Nobody else has come forward from this thing. No witnesses, nothing. So why you?”
Bernstein looked at Windermere. “The kid’s dead, right? Someone should catch heat for it.”
“Probably won’t get your money back,” Doughty said. “If that’s what you’re after.”
“Fuck the money. I can’t sleep without seeing that kid’s face.”
Windermere nodded. “Okay, so what else? The guy was toying with the waitress, you said.”
“You said the guy wore a ski mask,” said Doughty. “What about the woman?”
Bernstein glanced at Windermere. “He was, like, playing with her or something. He asked her if she was scared.”
Bingo.
“And the ski mask?”
“The girl didn’t wear one.” He frowned again. “Thing is, she’d been there before. She dyed her hair since, but it was definitely her.”
“She’s a player,” said Doughty.
“No.” Bernstein laughed, hollow. “She was awful at cards. She came with Pete Schneider. Sometimes he let her play with his money. Not a lot, though. She was pretty damn bad.”
Windermere smiled at him. “Pete Schneider.”
“Pete Schneider,” said Doughty.
Bernstein looked at each of them, one at a time. Then he sighed. “I guess you guys want to know where to find him.”
C
HRIS RUSSELL
SAT
at her desk in the Hastings Police Department, staring at her computer screen, paging through Tony Schultz’s hard drive. She’d managed to convince the big dope to hand over his computer. Told him it was probably the only way they’d catch Roger Brill.
“Bullshit,” Schultz had replied. “I got personal shit on there.”
“I don’t care about your porno, Tony,” Russell said, and sighed. “Only way to track this guy Brill is to trace his e-mail backward.”
“What about his car?”
“His truck?” She laughed. “Tony, you told me Brill drove a dark SUV. You know how many Brills there are in the state driver database?”
Schultz had glared at her. “Said he was from Minneapolis.”
“And there’s sixty-five Brills in the Twin Cities phone book. None of them is your guy.” She put her hand on her hip. “You want those guns back, you gotta give me your hard drive.”
He’d glared at her some more. Then he swore, spat, slumped his shoulders, and helped her cart his yellowed computer tower out to her cruiser.
It wasn’t like she’d been lying to Schultz. Roger Brill was a goddamned wild-goose chase. Probably just an alias attached to a free Hotmail account. If she could trace Brill’s IP address, she might have a lead. And if she could pick up some intel about Schultz while she tried, hell, everybody wins.
Schultz’s hard drive wasn’t going to be much help, however. It was mostly just porn and lame e-mail forwards, a few family pictures. Russell recognized Scotty Montgomery from a couple of shots. Scotty Mo was a Hastings patrol officer; he’d married Schultz’s little sister. They had a couple of cute kids, little boys.
So the computer was pretty much a waste of time. Russell had been hoping for something drug-related, a saved e-mail or something, maybe a spreadsheet. But from the looks of it, Tony Schultz couldn’t even spell
spreadsheet,
much less figure out how to use one.
So, okay, Roger Brill.
Russell loaded up Schultz’s e-mail page. Clicked on Roger Brill’s message, snooped around. A couple keystrokes later, she had an IP address copied and pasted.
Cross your fingers,
she thought, opening up a trace program on her own office computer. She entered Brill’s IP address and waited for the results to load. Then the page loaded, and Russell shook her head. “Shit.”
TC Wireless, the page said. An Internet service provider in Minneapolis and Saint Paul. The trace program had come back with the ISP’s address, instead of Roger Brill’s.
It’s never easy,
Russell thought, as she picked up the phone.
Maybe they’re nice people, and I won’t need a warrant.
She dialed the Twin Cities phone number and a woman picked up. “TC Wireless. Claudia speaking.”
Russell introduced herself, explained the situation, the e-mail. “I was thinking if I gave you the IP address, you could get me a bricks-and-mortar on my suspect,” she told the woman.
Claudia sucked her teeth. “One second.” Disappeared. Russell waited through half a song’s worth of instrumental soft rock. Then Claudia came back. “You have a warrant?”
Russell sighed. “Not yet.”
“We can’t give out information about our clients without a warrant,” the woman told her. “It’s a privacy thing, you understand?”
“Privacy,” Russell said. “Yeah, I understand.”
She hung up the phone. Swore again.
TC Wireless,
she thought.
So we’ve narrowed Roger Brill down to about three million people.
She stared at her computer for a minute or two. Then she reached for her phone again to see about that warrant.