Criminal Enterprise
ALSO BY OWEN LAUKKANEN
The Professionals
G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS
Publishers Since 1838
Published by the Penguin Group
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Copyright © 2013 by Owen Laukkanen
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.
Published simultaneously in Canada
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Laukkanen, Owen.
Criminal enterprise / Owen Laukkanen.
p. cm.
ISBN 978-1-101-60928-6
1. Government investigators—Fiction. I. Title.
PR9199.4.L384C75 2013 2012028673
813'.6—dc23
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
For Line D’Onofiro,
in loving memory
Contents
Also by Owen Laukkanen
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Chapter 78
Chapter 79
Chapter 80
Chapter 81
Chapter 82
Chapter 83
Chapter 84
Chapter 85
Chapter 86
Chapter 87
Chapter 88
Chapter 89
Chapter 90
Chapter 91
Chapter 92
Chapter 93
Chapter 94
Chapter 95
Chapter 96
Chapter 97
Chapter 98
Chapter 99
Chapter 100
Chapter 101
Chapter 102
Chapter 103
Chapter 104
Chapter 105
Chapter 106
Chapter 107
Chapter 108
Chapter 109
Chapter 110
Chapter 111
Chapter 112
Chapter 113
Chapter 114
Chapter 115
Chapter 116
Chapter 117
Chapter 118
Chapter 119
Chapter 120
Chapter 121
Chapter 122
Chapter 123
Chapter 124
Chapter 125
Chapter 126
Chapter 127
Chapter 128
Chapter 129
Chapter 130
Chapter 131
Chapter 132
Chapter 133
Chapter 134
Chapter 135
Chapter 136
Chapter 137
Acknowledgments
1
THEY CAME INTO the bank around one-thirty, a man and a woman. Both of them wore ski masks, and both carried guns. The teller was busy with a customer, the last of the lunchtime rush. She didn’t see them come in. She helped her customer cash his paycheck, and when she looked up, they were there.
Two of them. The man about six feet tall, the woman almost a full foot shorter. The woman carried a shotgun, sawed off and menacing, the man an assault rifle. Bank robbers. Just like in the movies.
They swept in to the middle of the bank before Larry, the big guard, could react from the door. The man fired a burst with his machine gun through the ceiling, and customers screamed and scattered. Larry half stood at the door, his hand on his radio. The woman pointed the shotgun at him. “On the ground.” Her voice was hard. “Don’t be a hero.”
The man with the rifle carried a duffel bag. He tossed it to his partner, who held her shotgun on Larry, waiting as he sunk, sheepish, to the floor. “Everybody on the ground,” the man said. “Whatever you’re thinking you’ll try, it’s not worth it.”
The customers hit the floor, all of them, ducking for cover in their suits and heels and nylons, hiding where they could behind countertops and in doorways. The teller snuck a glance at Cindy beside her. Cindy was shaking, staring hard at the man and his big machine gun, her hand on the silent alarm.
The man caught her gaze and walked over. “I said get down.” Cindy shook harder, tears in her eyes. The man hit her, hard, with the butt end of his rifle, and Cindy made a little grunt and went down. Sprawled out on the floor behind her station, her nose bloody, her breathing fast and panicked. She stared up at the teller, but she didn’t move.
Down the line of tellers, the woman was emptying the tills, filling her duffel bag with cash. The man with the machine gun turned, and the teller started to duck away. “Wait,” the man said. The teller flinched, stuck halfway between standing and kneeling. The gunman came closer. “Stand up.”
The teller obeyed. “Please don’t hurt me.”
The man studied her as his partner worked her way down the long row of tellers. He had blue eyes behind the mask, icy blue. Unnatural. He looked like he might be smiling, but there was no warmth in his eyes.
“I could kill you,” he said. He leveled the big gun at her chest, and she watched it, surreal. Felt her legs start to give, and reached for the counter to steady herself. “I could just pull the trigger,” he said. “It would be easy, wouldn’t it?”
She nodded.
He stared at her for another moment. His partner had reached Cindy’s station. The man gestured to Cindy’s till with the gun. “Open it.”
The teller obeyed.
The woman with the shotgun put the duffel bag on the counter, and the teller reached inside Cindy’s till and took out a stack of twenty-dollar bills. Mechanically, she started to count them. A reflex. “Don’t count the money,” the man told her. “Just put it in the bag.”
She cursed herself. Of course you don’t have to count it. She put the stack in the duffel bag and reached back into the till. Took out the last of the money.
“Good,” the man told her. “Now yours.” The teller crossed to her own till and started to empty it. The man walked to the middle of the lobby as she worked, swinging his machine gun on his hip, watching the customers on the floor. In the distance, the first sirens started to sound.
The woman with the shotgun watched the teller. “Hurry up.” There was nothing kind in her voice, nothing human. The teller kept her head down until she’d removed the last of the money from her till. Then she dared to look up.
“There’s no more,” she said.
The woman glanced in the till. Zipped the bag closed and turned back to the man. “Let’s go.” The man picked up the bag as the woman started for the door. The teller waited for the man to follow. He didn’t. He stared at the teller until she met his gaze. Then he leveled his gun at her chest again. He winked at her.
“Pow,” he said. Then he turned and walked out the door. The teller watched him until he disappeared into the sunlight. Then she sunk down beside Cindy, shaking
and sobbing, her knees to her chest. She didn’t look up until the police arrived.
2
CARTER TOMLIN IGNORED the sirens in the distance as he walked, slow as he dared, to the Camry parked at the curb. Ahead of him, Tricia had the backseat door open and was sliding inside. Tomlin closed the last few feet of sidewalk and dropped the money bag in behind her, then slammed the door closed and climbed in the passenger seat as Dragan pulled away from the bank.
“Go slow,” Tomlin told him, twisting in his seat to watch the first police cars slam to a stop behind them. “We need to blend in.”
Tomlin sank low in his seat, sweating through his clothes. He pulled off his ski mask and rolled down the window, savoring the cool air as Dragan made for the highway.
Tricia peeled off her own ski mask. “Holy shit,” she said, her face flushed. “That was awesome.”
Outside, two more police cars sped past, their cherry bomb blinkers clearing a path down the wide street. Dragan pulled over with the rest of the traffic. Neither cop glanced in their direction.
When the police cars were gone, Dragan pulled out toward the highway. Made the Interstate on-ramp and did the speed limit up the west side of downtown Minneapolis, everything calm, just three everyday rubes in a midsize sedan.
In the backseat, Tricia unzipped the duffel bag. “Jackpot.” She looked up at Tomlin. Smiled at him, big. “Must be thirty grand, boss. And no dye packs.”
“Thirty grand,” Tomlin said. He was shaking.
—
DRAGAN TOOK the Washington Avenue exit and headed south into downtown Minneapolis. Drove into a pay parking garage a few blocks from the downtown core, and parked on the fourth level, between a black Jaguar sedan and a silver street-racer Civic. Tomlin climbed out of the Camry, and Tricia followed, dragging the duffel bag with her. “It’s heavy,” she said. “Thirty grand, easy.”
Tomlin took the bag from Tricia and opened it on the hood of the Camry. Peered in at the money and felt an electric thrill. Thirty grand, he thought. Easy money. He took out a stack of bills and handed them to Dragan. “Here’s a down payment,” he said. “Tricia will settle up when we get a count.”
Dragan thumbed through the bills. “Tomorrow,” he said.
Tricia kissed him. “Tomorrow, babe. Promise.”
Dragan glanced at the money again. “Thirty grand,” he said. “Rock and roll.” He kissed Tricia and climbed in the Civic. Backed out of the stall and drove off.
Tomlin unlocked the Jaguar. Stowed the money in the backseat while Tricia hid the guns in the trunk. Then he slid behind the wheel and fired up the engine and drove out of the garage with Tricia.
They took the Interstate east to downtown Saint Paul, Lowertown. Tomlin parked on the street in front of a squat office building and exhaled, long and smooth. He closed his eyes and inhaled. Exhaled again. Then he opened his eyes and tied his tie in the rearview mirror, fixed his hair. Reached in the backseat for his briefcase and glanced at Tricia. “You ready?”
She grinned. “Just waiting on you.”
They walked into the building, carrying the duffel bag with them. Took three flights of stairs and a featureless hallway and stopped in front of a frosted-glass door. Tomlin fumbled with the key, pushed the door open, and ushered Tricia inside.
Tricia waited until he’d locked the door behind them. Then she squealed, and her arms were around him. “We did it,” she said, squeezing him tight. “Didn’t I fucking tell you we would?”
Tomlin let her hug him. He could smell her shampoo, feel her warmth. “You told me,” he said. He nudged her away and walked to his inner office, where he unzipped the duffel bag and dumped the money onto his desk.
Tricia squealed again. “Look at that cash.”
Piles of bills—twenties, tens, some bigger, some smaller. Rumpled, well used, untraceable. And lots of it. Tricia hugged him again. Kissed his cheek. “Let’s count it.”
They counted. Tricia was close: thirty-two thousand and change. Fifteen each for Tomlin and Tricia. The rest a bonus for Dragan tomorrow. Tomlin shoved his share into the bottom drawer of his desk, locked the drawer closed. Tricia gathered her money and disappeared with it.
Tomlin sat down and turned on his computer. Fifteen grand, he thought, as the machine booted up. Not bad for a few hours’ work.
Tricia poked her head back into his office. She’d calmed her pixie pink hair and looked presentable again. Professional, even. “Don’t forget, you have a three o’clock with Mr. Cook.”
Tomlin frowned. “Cook.”
“The hypochondriac with estate-planning problems, remember?” She winked at him. “And your wife called. Wants you to pick up your Madeleine from dance.”
Tomlin inhaled deeply, then exhaled again, a regular guy now, the money and the guns forgotten. “Cook,” he said. “Dance class. I’m on it.”
3
TWO HOURS AFTER Carter Tomlin and his gang walked out of the First Minnesota branch in Stevens Square, Carla Windermere stood in the middle of the bank’s tiny lobby, surveying the now-chaotic crime scene. The thirty-two-year-old FBI Special Agent cut an unusual figure amid the confusion: tall and slender, dressed smartly in a white blouse and razor-crisp pantsuit, Windermere looked more like a TV news anchor than a successful investigator.
Her eyes, however, were a cop’s eyes. They were drawn tight and narrowed, calculating as she looked over the bank lobby.
The place was a mess. The whole building was packed full of law enforcement—mostly Minneapolis city cops, first responders—standing in corners and doorways, drinking coffee and bumming cigarettes, shooting the shit and getting in her way. Here and there, a plainclothes cop poked his nose into something—the fingerprints on the tellers’ counter, the bank manager’s office—steadfastly ignoring Windermere and the rest of the FBI investigators who’d taken over the scene.
Windermere looked around the bank, then out into the street. “Eat Street,” they called this place. A couple of miles of trendy restaurants a few minutes south of downtown Minneapolis and conveniently located near Interstates 94 and 35, two quick getaways for bank robbers with wheels.
Windermere caught the eye of a technician kneeling on the floor over a bunch of shell casings nearby.
“What’s up, Laurie?” she said, her voice still betraying the last vestiges of a southern accent. The accent had accompanied her from Mississippi to her first FBI posting in Miami; despite her best efforts, it had followed her north to Minnesota five years later. Along with her cool demeanor, and, she sometimes suspected, the color of her skin, it served only to reinforce her position as an outsider within the Bureau.
The tech didn’t look up. “Two-twenty-three Remingtons,” she said. “Probably an assault rifle. His partner had a sawed-off shotgun.”
Windermere ran her hand through her hair. “An assault rifle,” she said. “Shit.”
“Probably an AR-15.” Laurie looked up at Windermere, caught her blank expression. “It’s like an army M-16, but for personal use. Hunting, home defense.”
“Bank robberies.”
Laurie shrugged. “Hubby keeps one around. Says it’s for deer season. I figure he just likes to play army with the boys. Men and their guns, right?”
Windermere studied the shells and didn’t like what they told her. Most bank robbers were amateurs, impulsive degenerates, for the most part unarmed. The Bureau tended to catch up with their lot pretty quickly. Kept a high clearance rate. Today’s contestants, though, didn’t look quite so primitive. Assault rifles and sawed-off shotguns hardly ever meant amateur hour.
Windermere straightened again, and looked across the lobby to where the bank tellers stood huddled in the corner. She locked eyes with the youngest of the bunch, a pretty little twentysomething who kept looking at Windermere like she wanted to talk. Your witness, Windermere thought, and she started over.
The teller shrank like a scared kitten as Windermere approached. Not uncommon. Witnesses, suspects, cops, hardened criminals, male and female alike: They all tended to take a step backward when Windermere turned her gaze on them. Most of the time, she didn’t mind it. Most of the time, she let someone else coddle the wallflower witnesses. Focused her efforts on breaking down suspects.
No such luck today, though. Windermere forced a sympathetic smile and tried to look warm and fuzzy. “What’s your name, hon?”
The teller looked away. “Nicole.”
“Nicole,” said Windermere. “Okay. So what happened, Nicole?”