by Mary Stone
But it was all just an act. A persona he’d picked out when he was nineteen years old. Ryan O’Connelly was nothing more than a cardboard cutout.
And she wasn’t an average woman.
She’d done her research. Patrick O’Connell was his real name, and despite the cultivated Irish accent, he’d been born in Chicago, in the slums. His mom was a stripper who’d discovered the joys of crack cocaine when little Patrick was just seven. His drunk uncle had taken him in at ten, when Chrissie O’Connell died of an overdose, but life didn’t get any better. Uncle Frank was a belligerent asshole who’d liked to use his fists.
At least he’d taught little Patrick one valuable skill: how to steal and not get caught.
Most people would admire the way Patrick O’Connell had transformed himself into Ryan O’Connelly.
Heidi didn’t give a shit.
It wasn’t his moxie or his dimples that she was after. It wasn’t even his handy thieving skills. She was capable enough to pull this off on her own, far better than Ryan could.
No, Ryan was just a prop. She needed The Cat’s reputation, and nothing more. His apparent willingness to be manipulated was just an added bonus.
After watching him perform today, following her instructions to the letter, it appeared she’d chosen well.
She maneuvered the car through the busy streets with ease. Her experience driving in congested areas was limited, but being a logistical thinker served her well. As businesses thinned out to be replaced by cheap apartment buildings—probably still with sky-high rent—she kept an eye out for one in particular. With a quick, deliberate movement, she tugged her skirt up another inch to reveal more leg.
A young man was sitting on the stoop of one apartment building. When she pulled to a smooth stop in front of him and rolled down the window to give him a flirty little finger wave, he jumped like a trained seal. His face split into a grin as he headed for the passenger side door.
When he got a good look at her—the made-up face and skintight, slutty clothes that implied she was a rich woman with poor taste and questionable hobbies—his tongue almost rolled out of his mouth.
“Did you bring me what I asked?” Her voice had been modeled on Marilyn Monroe. High and breathy, promising to fulfill every one of the kid’s most prurient desires without coming right out and saying so.
He held up a bulky canvas bag in one hand.
“Good boy.” She gave him a slow, curving smile, knowing how she must look. All tarted up, like Ryan had said. She kind of liked that. “Hop in, and I’ll take you wherever you want to go.”
He did, with pathetic eagerness.
It was just too, too easy, she thought later as she walked away from the Lexus, picking her way through the rubble of the empty lot in Queens. The crackle of flames was just becoming audible.
So easy, that it almost took the fun right out of killing him.
8
It had been two days, and Winter had more questions than answers about the American Bank and Trust robbery. But after the heart-wrenching witness interviews she’d sat through the morning before, she’d put aside any thoughts of working on her own investigation in her scarce moments of off time. She was all in on this case. If, for whatever reason, Sun was right and this was only the first in a series of similar robberies, they had to figure out who did it before more people died.
The body count was already up to at least three.
It looked like Sun had resigned herself to the fact that Winter could be an asset, rather than a liability. Finding the religious medal, in her opinion, had shown Winter had beginner’s luck. They’d interviewed friends and family members of Jack Hanley the day before, and she’d even given Winter the go-ahead to take the lead.
Robbie Carter was the one who had told them through tears that Jack was only dead because he had answered a Craigslist ad.
“He said he was gonna make an easy thousand dollars,” Robbie told them, wiping away a bead of sweat from his dark skin. “All’s he had to do was to paint some lines on the road without getting caught. When he was sober, he’d gotten good gigs like that there before, but nothing that paid so well.”
Robbie had driven his friend to the “job” himself. They’d taken Robbie’s work truck out at two in the morning the night they were supposed to and put out cones. Robbie painted houses for a living and loaned Jack a paint sprayer. Robbie waited in the truck while Jack did the job.
Jack, who’d been paid the first half up-front, took his buddy Robbie out for a beer afterward to celebrate. One beer had turned into six. Robbie dropped Jack off at another friend’s house around five in the morning, where Jack had been couch-surfing. He’d even warned Jack not to oversleep, or he’d miss his meeting for the other half of his paycheck.
The next morning, Jack was dead.
Jack’s friends, including the woman he’d been staying with, all showed genuine grief at the news of his death, from what Winter could tell. Sun, in her usual, abrasive way, had taken some effort to convince that Jack hadn’t been killed by one of his acquaintances for the thousand dollars. Background checks on everyone showed no violent priors.
The San Clemente detective assigned to the case, Shelby Patterson, had dismissed her suspicions. There was no reason to disbelieve Robbie’s story.
The Craigslist ad had been pulled. So far, support at Craigslist hadn’t been able to provide any useful information. It appeared a computer glitch had wiped that ad and several others, and they had no record of it.
They didn’t hit another break on the American Bank and Trust case until their third morning.
Detective Patterson had asked them to meet at the station at nine. He was tall and skinny, about fifty years old, with the face of a sad hound dog and a bald head that gleamed in the overhead lights. He was slow and methodical in both thinking and speaking, and he drove Sun up the wall.
Winter had to like the guy, just for that.
“So,” Patterson began, his voice deep and slow. He adjusted a pair of bifocals as he looked at his notes. “We have a medal of Saint Dismas, a Craigslist ad, some Nixon masks…let me write this down.”
He got up and moved to the whiteboard at the end of the conference table. His handwriting was neat and exact, and he seemed to be just as slow and thorough with it as he was with everything else.
Sun already looked annoyed.
“So, we think that the suspects likely placed the ad on Craigslist?” Winter asked, forestalling any snide comments Sun might make. “And then reported their own homicide in hopes that it would slow down the bank call response time?”
“I think so,” Patterson agreed. He stopped writing to turn around.
Sun was gritting her teeth. The sound was audible.
“I’m just not sure about the Nixon connection, though,” Patterson added, with an apologetic look at Sun.
“It’s not a connection to Nixon,” Sun burst out. Her pale skin was flushed, and her black eyes snapped. “The Nixon masks are a nod to the United California Bank robbery in Laguna Niguel in 1972.”
“I just don’t see it.” Patterson shrugged, a slight lift of his shoulders, and turned back to the whiteboard. “Yeah, San Clemente’s close to Laguna Niguel, but the whole operation was completely different.”
“Let’s work with Sun’s theory for now,” Winter suggested. “The suspects could have used names connected with that robbery for a car rental, a property rental if they were from out of the area, something like that.”
The conference room door flew open, and Sheriff Marchwood burst in, her face lit with excitement. “We just got a call from a Catholic church in Laguna Niguel,” she announced. “An anonymous donation in the amount of two hundred and twenty thousand dollars was found in a large tote bag outside of their church the day of the robbery. Apparently,” she added with a wry smile, “there was a difference of opinion among the church leadership as to whether they should keep it or report it.”
“They donated it? Why would they do that?” Sun
demanded. “What sense does it make to hold up a bank, kill three people, and give away the fucking money?”
Marchwood shrugged. “Who knows why people do what they do. One of them wore a Catholic religious symbol. Maybe they felt guilty. Patterson, let’s go talk to the priest.”
He nodded and gathered up his things. “You two want to tag along?”
“Go ahead,” Sun replied, already opening her laptop. “We’re looking for the suspects, not the money.”
Patterson arched an eyebrow at Winter, who made a sympathetic face. He was smiling when he left.
“I’ll take car rentals,” Sun ordered without looking up. “You call on properties. Ask about the names on the list I just emailed you. They’re all members of the gang that pulled the robbery in 1972.”
“Why are you so convinced it has anything to do with that?” Winter asked again. “If you get too focused on a theory, you might miss what really happened.”
Again, Sun didn’t answer straight-out. She deflected, and hard. “Who is the case agent here? The one with actual experience? Just do it, all right?” She was already dialing the first number. “Be sure to look for any townhouses near the bank, maybe in view.”
Winter sighed and took a sip of her coffee. It was going to be a long morning.
She was wrong. The third property management company she called had booked a beach bungalow for the week for a James and Amelia Dinsio.
“You’re fucking kidding me!” Sun crowed, jumping out of her chair, sending her chin-length black hair swinging around her grinning face. “Amil and James Dinsio were the brothers that masterminded the Laguna Niguel heist.” She was already closing her laptop. “We need to get over there.”
It didn’t feel right.
“Why would the suspects still be there? They robbed a bank a few miles away and donated the money. None of this makes any sense. Call Marchwood and Patterson. This is their case. Find out what they want to do.”
All excitement slithered from Sun’s face. “We’re FBI, Agent Black.”
“And we’re assisting the local PD, Agent Ming.”
“You can call them,” Sun said, heading for the door. “On the way there.”
A headache was starting to throb behind her eyes. Winter grabbed her things and gulped the rest of the coffee, hoping the caffeine would ease it. She could not have an episode in front of Sun. Could not.
She tried to will the intensifying headache away as she dialed Marchwood and followed Sun.
The sheriff answered on the second ring. “We’ve got the hideout,” Winter said without preamble, getting into the passenger seat of the rental. She explained the name connection, and that the place was booked for the week before giving her the address.
Marchwood asked them to do a drive-by and try to see if it was occupied. Sun agreed with reluctance that they’d wait a short distance away until the sheriff, detective, and other San Clemente officers arrived.
The rental cottage was a little way outside of town, just off the coastal highway. Closer to Laguna Niguel and convenient, say, if the suspects planned on heading to Los Angeles to catch a plane.
The farther they drove, the worse Winter’s headache got. She dug in the glove box, and then her bag, looking for a paper towel or tissues. Her movements became more jerky and urgent as the seconds ticked by and the pain level rose.
“What are you doing?” Sun asked, glancing away from the road. Her hands tightened on the steering wheel. “You look weird. Are you sick?”
“No, just looking for a tissue,” Winter lied.
“I have some in my purse.”
She picked it up and rummaged around, feeling her own pulse beating at her temples. Her vision was starting to gray around the edges. Her fingers closed on the little packet of tissues. She dropped Sun’s bag and ripped the tissue package open, crumpling several of them into a ball. She held it under her nose.
The car swerved to the right, and some part of Winter’s brain heard Sun yell, “You’d better not puke in here!” Then, her vision went black as her headache peaked on a blinding crescendo of pain.
Sun flicked on the emergency flashers and yanked the wheel hard, the tires crunching on gravel at the side of the road. Winter had slumped over, her hand falling to her lap. The tissues she’d been holding were splashed with red.
She cursed. This was going to look great on her record. Killing her partner after only a couple of days together.
She glanced in the side mirror to be sure traffic was clear, and jumped out of the car, rounding the hood to Winter’s door. By the time she’d gotten it open, Winter was already struggling to sit up. Her face, pale on the best of days, was fully bleached of color, except for a line of blood that leaked in a sluggish stream from her right nostril.
Her dark blue eyes were unfocused.
“Winter!”
Sun didn’t want to touch her. But she yelled in Winter’s face and pushed her shoulder, hard. “Snap out of it. What the fuck is wrong with you?”
Winter shuddered once, a shiver that shook her entire body, and her eyes rolled back in her head until her seizure, or whatever it was, cleared. It was like she was coming out of a trance or something, and it was creepy as hell. Sun wasn’t superstitious, but she felt like her Japanese obaasan at that moment. She almost wished she had an omamori—one of the little amulets in a silk baggie that the old woman would wear around her neck. She replaced it every year to ward off bad luck.
“Shit,” Winter gasped. “I’m sorry.”
She should be, Sun thought, still feeling uneasy.
“You had some kind of fit. What do you need? Water? I’m no good at this. Please don’t puke.”
“I’m not going to puke.”
Winter picked up the pack of tissues and pulled out a couple more, dabbing beneath her nose. “What is your obsession with puking?” Her voice was weak, but her sarcasm was still going strong.
“Emetophobia. Fear of vomit. Ever since I was a kid.”
The color was coming back into Winter’s face in slow stages.
The crisis may have passed, but Sun’s heart hadn’t stopped racing.
Puke, blood, vomit…anyone else’s bodily fluids basically wigged her out, causing what was officially known as a vasovagal syncope response. In essence, she likened herself to a fainting goat who got a scare. And it pissed her off. Years of therapy had helped the response, but she still didn’t have full control. Which pissed her off even more.
She came into contact with bodily fluid sometimes in the field. Not often, or she might have had to consider a different line of work. It was that bad.
As a rule, she tried to avoid anything that had to do with even the possibility of other people’s involuntary excretions. She was certified in CPR, according to the certificate she renewed every couple of years when it was required. The only reason she’d managed to maintain it was that she lucked out. The first time she’d renewed, she had a coach who saw how grossed out she was by the whole other-people’s-body-fluids thing and rubber-stamped her certificate. She’d looked him up bi-annually ever since.
Winter closed her eyes and tipped her head back against the headrest as Sun watched her for signs of any sudden movement.
“Calm down,” Winter said, not opening her eyes. “I get migraines once in a while. It’s gone now, and I probably won’t have another one for six months or more. And if I hear anyone back in VC mention what you witnessed today, I will make your life hell. Fake puddles of vomit on your desk. Spilled vegetable soup in the parking lot outside your driver’s side door. I will hire people to puke in front of you. Now, get back in the car.”
They weren’t friends, Sun decided, suppressing a shudder at the mental images Winter had evoked as she got back behind the wheel. Sun hadn’t joined the FBI to make friends and wasn’t about to change that now. But they were closer now to co-workers, or competitors at least, than enemies.
Which was fine.
It was more satisfying to win battles when they wer
e played on even ground. It was only fair that they each knew one of the other’s weaknesses. That would keep things balanced.
Plus, Sun had to admire anyone who was as good as she was with threats.
Winter’s headache was gone, like it had never existed. That was how it had happened in the past. She’d at least had more warning before this one hit. When she’d had her “migraines” before, she sometimes got as little as a few seconds of build-up.
But the experience was the same. Once she’d gone under, the vision had burst on her in vivid technicolor. The inside of the small cottage, decorated in a tired, beachy theme, showed signs of wear from years of careless tenants. A small living room, the plaid sofa leaking a little stuffing from the corner, was empty. Through an open doorway to the right, she could see an empty bedroom with a window that looked out on the ocean. A bathroom door opening off the living room, too, stood open.
She could see the kitchen to the left. Seventies-era, harvest gold appliances and dingy brown linoleum. A battered Formica table and four plastic-covered chairs. And a glowing dishwasher that bathed the room in ominous red.
And then it was over. She’d come out of it.
“You sure you’re okay?”
“I’m fine. Like I said, don’t worry about it.”
Winter couldn’t very well just segue into a warning to avoid all kitchen appliances when they reached the rental. She was already the weird kid on the block, and she didn’t need to give Sun more ammunition against her.
But something was wrong.
She could feel it.
With her visions, the hazy red she saw indicated a clue…not a threat. But Winter felt the threat down in her bones.
How did she warn others without ending up in the looney bin herself? Be laughed at. Feared.
“Gut instinct” would only get her so far.
