When the 911 operator came up he identified himself and half-shouted the address and said, “The two Mexican shooters, I think they’re here. They’re going into the apartment building where one of our suspects lives. I need help here, fast as you can get it. These guys are shooters. I need people with vests and shotguns, I need them flooded in here.”
He was dealing with Minneapolis and expected a fast response, and a few seconds later the operator said, “We’ve got a car two minutes away. We’ve got another car five minutes out, we’ll route them in there. What are you doing—?”
Lucas was shouting back at him, “They’re on foot, five-seven, five-eight, dark hair, jeans and running shoes, red T-shirt, blue T-shirt, worn outside their pants. I’m afraid they’ll take somebody down…. If they get in, I’m going after them. Tell everybody I’m in there….”
“Do you think—”
The two men disappeared behind the glass doors at the front of the apartment building, but he could see them behind the glass, apparently waiting to get through an inner door, and Lucas shouted over the operator, “They’re inside, but they’re stuck behind the inner door. Call that apartment if you can, tell them not to answer the—Shit, they’re inside, I can see them going in. I’m going, I’m going.”
He was fifty yards up the street and he gunned the car down the block, stopped just short of the sidewalk, and jumped out, pulling his Beretta as he did it. He couldn’t see the Mexicans inside, in the outer lobby, so he ran up the four wide steps to the front door, staying to one side, remembering Rivera, peeked at the door, saw nothing, peeked again, then pushed through.
Inside the door was a fifteen-foot-square lobby with mailboxes and an intercom, and he saw a button labeled Management and he leaned on it, and leaned on it some more, and nothing happened, nobody answered, and he leaned on it some more, and finally took a look at the door.
The door was wooden, but had a long, narrow glass window down the middle. He looked through the glass and could see an empty atrium and an intersecting hallway, and the bottom of a curving stairway. He thought the chances of kicking the door in were remote—it was a solid chunk of wood with heavy brass hardware. Kicking it would make too much noise, anyway.
He leaned on the management doorbell again, got no answer, then took the end of his gun, pressed it against the glass in the door, and pressed it until the glass cracked and finally fell away, inside. He broke out more glass until he could reach through to the inside handle, and popped the door open.
Sanderson’s address said apartment 344, so she’d be up two flights. He ran up the first flight, looked both ways, and then a voice said, “Hey,” and he turned and saw a square-faced woman, red glasses, dishwater-blond hair, who saw the gun and said, “No, no,” and turned as though to run.
Lucas said, sharply but quietly, “I’m a cop. Did you just see two Mexican-looking guys come through, going to Kristina Sanderson’s?”
“Yes, I just … Oh, my God, are they…?” She looked up the stairs.
“Which way to her apartment?” Lucas asked. “Which way?”
“Top of the stairs, to the left.” She pointed.
“Did they go in?”
“They were just going to knock…. I left them when they were walking down the hall.”
“You’re the manager?”
“Yes. I’m Pat.”
Lucas went up the stairs, saying, as he went, “There are more cops on the way. Let them in.”
He took the stairs in five seconds, peeked down the hall to the left. Nothing. He looked right. Nothing. Had they gone in? Was Sanderson home, maybe not answering her phone?
He hurried down the hall, checking off the numbers on the doors, got to 344. The door was closed, no sign that it had been forced. The door across the hall was also pristine. He continued down the hall, to an exit sign, went through a fire door, looked down the stairwell, heard and saw nothing at all.
He went back: Where had they gone? If they were in the apartment, they might be torturing her … although the place didn’t look substantial enough to smother a scream….
At the door, he stood quietly for just a second, then pressed his ear to it. He got back an almost unearthly silence. The whole building was quiet.
Kick the door? He looked at the door, and again, as with the door below, he doubted his ability to get through it. The door looked like it was metal, set in what was probably a concrete block wall.
He was still looking at it when he heard some scuffling on the stairway, and he padded back down the hall, and a cop peeked around the corner at him. Lucas held up a finger and continued that way and said, quietly, “Davenport, BCA,” and the cop said, “I know you. They in there?”
Lucas recognized him, but didn’t remember his name. “I don’t know. I kind of … I’m just not sure.”
“What do you want to do? We’ve got more guys on the way.”
“Set up and wait five minutes, until we’ve got the place blocked off, and then knock and see what happens.”
That’s what they did. A SWAT team showed up, and Lucas was talking to the commander when Pat, the manager, said, “Kristina’s out on the sidewalk. Do you want to talk to her?”
“Yes, I do,” Lucas said. To the SWAT commander, he said, “If she didn’t let them in, and if they didn’t have a key … then they left. We missed them. We gotta check, but I think we’re wasting our time.”
“We’ll get a key and check it,” the SWAT guy said.
“I’ll be outside,” Lucas said. “Goddamnit, anyway.”
14
Kristina Sanderson had left her car down the block and walked to the apartment, to see why the cops had blocked it off. But in her heart, she knew. “I live here,” she told one of the uniformed cops, who’d used their squad cars to block the street. “What’s happening?”
“We’re looking for a couple of people,” a cop said. “You’ll have to wait awhile. If you have some shopping to do…”
Instead of shopping, she drifted to the side of the street with a cluster of other rubberneckers, including two that she recognized as other residents of the apartment building. They nodded to each other, agreed that they hadn’t heard anything. The manager, Pat, walked out the front door with a police officer and talked to him for a moment. At one point, Pat looked across the street and saw them, and Kristina waved and Pat raised a hand, then held up a finger—one minute?—and went back inside.
A minute or two later, a tall, well-dressed man came out with Pat, looked across the street at them, and then started toward them. He could be a police officer, she thought, but he didn’t look the part. She’d known a number of plainclothes cops, and even dated one. They generally wore jackets and pants that would not be a great loss should they get torn, vomited on, or grass-stained.
This man wore a suit that was in an entirely different league; he looked like a banker, she thought, and an athlete. One of the bankers from the top floor, with a particularly well-developed mean streak. He said, “Hello, Miz Sanderson? I’m Lucas Davenport.”
They moved away from the crowd to talk, and Davenport asked her about Kline, about whether she’d seen him doing unauthorized programming while working in the secure area. She denied seeing anything like it, and internally, she fought down the rising panic. They were, she thought, really and truly fucked. She was going to prison.
SANDERSON WAS a guilty woman, Lucas thought, more scared and less curious than she should have been. She knew what was going on: she knew about the theft, and what the Mexicans had wanted.
Lucas said to her, finally, “I have no idea whether you had any part in the transfer of funds out of the Polaris bank accounts—”
“That’s ridiculous,” she sputtered, “I don’t even get traffic tickets.”
She was lying, Lucas thought. He plied on. “If you do know about it, there’s no way we can protect you against these drug people. They have very good intelligence about what’s going on with the bank, and if they think you have their money
… you’ve seen what happened to that family out in Wayzata, mother, father, both kids. Kristina, you’ve got to talk to me. You really do. This is your life we’re talking about.”
“I don’t know anything,” she wailed, and she thought about the pile of gold at Mom’s, and Lucas saw it in her eyes.
EDIE ALBITIS overnighted the last of the packages and walked away from the FedEx store, got a cab to EWR—said to the driver, “EWR,” and he said, “Okay”—and not until she’d settled back in the cab did she consider how much of her life had come to be dominated by three-letter airport designations: LAX, MIA, ORD, MSP, PHX, DEN, SFO, ATL, LGA, MCO, DFW.
Yesterday she’d gone from LAX to ORD to LGA, and now from EWR to MSP; that is, from Los Angeles to Chicago to New York’s LaGuardia airport, and now she’d be traveling from EWR in New Jersey to Minneapolis-St. Paul.
With any luck, from there it’d be from MSP to CDG, Charles de Gaulle outside Paris, or AMS, Schiphol International at Amsterdam, and from there into the apartments of any of a number of eastern European cities. Once she was there, once she was moving by train and car, it’d take the Stasi to sniff her out, and there was no Stasi, not anymore, not since East Germany ran off the rails.
She was not a sentimental woman, and she shed no tears for the Stasi, the East German State Security.
The ride from Manhattan to EWR took the best part of an hour, traffic stacked up around some kind of a strike, with honking car horns and screaming cops, a strike leader with a bullhorn leading chants that had something to do with hotel rooms and bedbugs. All the time her Somali driver chanted along with unusual tunes from the car radio.
Ten minutes out of the airport, she took a call from Turicek, who said, “Edie, the cops are all over us. They’ve been asking about me, they’ve interviewed Jacob, and they’ll get to Kristina sooner or later.”
“How? How’d they do this?” she asked.
“Jacob. We think they just asked around Polaris, who did it, and the Polaris people blamed Jacob,” Turicek said.
“They got that right,” Albitis said.
“Yeah, but … we think they might be watching all of us, and we can’t get to the office. You’ve got to go over there as soon as you get in. The day’s packages are gonna start piling up at the door. If somebody steals one of them…”
“Ah shit, I’m five hours out, if the plane’s on time, and I don’t miss it.”
“That’s gonna have to do,” Turicek said. “You’re the only one we got. The rest of the stuff is stashed. There’s no way they know about the office, but we can’t go there.”
“We’re so close.”
“What’s that crazy sound I’m hearing?”
“Radio. Listen, when I get to the airport, I’m going to throw this phone away,” she said. “I’ll get another one at the airport, if I can. But if you get an unknown number coming in tonight, answer it.”
“Okay, but—”
“I’ll pick up the packages if it looks okay, and I’ll get tomorrow’s,” Albitis said. “Can you get to Kristina?”
“I think so. She should be coming in,” Turicek said. “There’s been nobody here at work, so they haven’t bugged us, I don’t think.”
“They’ll figure out the gold, sooner or later, and come looking for it. So tell Kristina that I’m taking it out of her mom’s place. I’ll rent a van and drive down to Iowa, or to Wisconsin. Once it’s safely stashed, we can figure out our next move.”
“I’ll tell Kristina. Call me when you get in.”
SANDERSON WOULDN’T move from her insistence that she knew nothing, and the SWAT team’s search of the apartment building came up empty, so Lucas headed back to the office. He was confused: he knew why the Mexicans had gone after Sanderson, but where had they gone? And why had they gone? They’d casually walked in the front door, like a couple of tourists, so why had they apparently fled out the back like a couple of hunted killers?
There was an answer to that question, but he didn’t know what it was.
Sandy was waiting at the office and asked, “What happened?”
“Aw, it was a clusterfuck. Wait for me, I’ve got to go talk to Shaffer.”
He’d called Shaffer after the SWAT team had begun its search, and though Shaffer was miffed by not hearing about it sooner, he relaxed when Lucas told him that nothing would be found.
“I can’t tell you what happened,” he now said, as he leaned against Shaffer’s doorjamb.
“What are the chances, really, that they were the guys we’re looking for? Our Mexicans?”
“About ninety-eight percent,” Lucas said. “They were looking for Sanderson, and they took off. They got warned, somehow. Maybe they saw me running up the steps…. Anyway, we’re no closer than we were before.”
“Well, we know they’re still here, anyway,” Shaffer said. “We’ve still got a shot at finding them.”
Lucas nodded. “So what did ICE find at Sunnie?”
“Ah—the shadow books. About a year after Brooks set up Sunnie, when they were struggling, he made a whole replicated set of books for a fake company called Bois Brule, which did the same thing Sunnie did—sold foreign language software, but a lot more successfully than Sunnie. Money would come in, in all kinds of amounts, but all on big recognized credit cards, VISA and MasterCard. The VISA and MasterCard banks would collect the payments and credit Bois Brule’s account with Polaris. They needed the Bois Brule system to make sure that whoever owed them actually paid.”
“I’m not sure I see it yet,” Lucas said.
“Okay. They sell a kilo of cocaine, collect, say, twenty K. They get it in cash. Eventually, they have this huge bundle of dollars, and no way to deposit it. You can’t show up at a bank with thirty million in ten-dollar bills without somebody getting suspicious. Not even in Mexico,” Shaffer said. “If nothing else, it’d be considered rude.”
“Okay…”
“So what they do, they have a hundred people each with a hundred credit cards. Those people charge twenty-five hundred bucks each, every month, on every card, and buy bank drafts with cash to pay off the accounts. VISA collects the cash and credits Bois Brule. Now the money is in the bank system, and goes all over the place, and pays for all kinds of stuff. Real estate, gold, whatever…”
“And the DEA guys have broken it out?”
Shaffer nodded. “Some of it, anyway. They’re over at Sunnie peeing themselves, out of pure excitement. They might be able to claw back six months of it, or a year, even. But after a while, with these kinds of deals, records get lost, accounts get closed and confused, companies turn out not to exist anymore … at least, that’s what O’Brien says.”
“Hmm. Well, better them than me. I’ll stick to murder and theft,” Lucas said.
BACK AT HIS OFFICE, Lucas said to Sandy, “All right: the Syrian woman.”
“You heard the biggest part of it: that she exists,” Sandy said. “Everybody who cooperated with me—not all of them cooperated, but of the ones who did, I couldn’t find any buying pattern. I can’t figure out where she’ll show up next. All I could think of is that you get ahold of all the different police departments, and we get the gold dealers to tip us off, and we get a squad car around to the dealers—”
“To do what? We don’t even know that she’s committing a crime,” Lucas said.
“They could talk to her,” Sandy said. “Get a look at her. Check her ID. Maybe get some fingerprints. Uh, I remember seeing these signs that say you can’t bring more than ten thousand dollars into the U.S. without registering, and she’s got all this money.”
“Okay, there’s something in there,” Lucas said. “Start calling the dealers, see who’ll agree to tip us.”
“I thought we might need your weight behind it.”
“Sandy, I’m a goddamn voice on a telephone,” Lucas said. “So are you. Tell them that you’re Rose Marie, that you’re the public safety commissioner.”
“That’d help my career,” Sandy said.
??
?Sooo … figure something out,” Lucas said. “We need this woman.”
“What are you going to do?”
“I’m gonna jack up Turicek. They know we’re coming, so we might as well show up.”
ALBITIS WAS about to drop her phone into a trash barrel at EWR, when it rang. Had to be Kline, Turicek, or Sanderson, since they were the only ones with the number for that phone, but when she looked at the screen, it said, “Delta Airlines.”
“Oh, fuck me with a phone pole,” she muttered. A man walking just ahead of her turned and looked at her, bewildered. She punched up the text message that said that her flight had been indefinitely delayed. She kept walking, through security, down to the gate, where a Delta attendant told her that the plane was broken, though she didn’t use that exact word.
“So what are we doing?” Albitis asked.
“We’re bringing another plane in from Atlanta,” the attendant said. “It should be here by eight o’clock.”
“Eight o’clock? I won’t be in the Twin Cities until midnight,” Albitis said.
“We apologize for any inconvenience….”
Albitis thought the woman sounded insincere, but she turned away and punched up Turicek and told him what had happened. Turicek said, “The cops talked to Kristina. Some of the Mexicans turned up at her apartment. She’s scared shitless.”
“So what do you want to do?” Albitis asked.
“Let me think. I’ll call you.”
TURICEK CALLED Sanderson, who was holed up at her apartment, and told her to get down to the bank. “Perfectly safe,” he assured her. “You’re inside your own parking garage, you drive straight to the bank’s parking garage, you call me just before you get here, and I’ll meet you in the garage. But you gotta take over for me. I’m really sick—I say no more.”
She recognized the “say no more.” It was part of a Monty Python sketch that Kline and Turicek, when in nerd mode, could do in endless variations: “Nudge nudge, wink wink, say no more.” It meant, in this context, that something was going on but Turicek couldn’t talk about it on the phone.