The Casino Switcheroo

by Michael P. King

  “But they’re still muddying the waters. Smithson should have killed them by now, which means they’ve squirmed out somehow. Take two guys and deal with them before Smithson or the cops get any closer. Here’s the probable address.” He handed him a scrap of paper.

  “Consider it done.”

  Max and Kelly Jo were driving through the neighborhood behind the strip mall on Mission Avenue, Kelly Jo behind the wheel, Max with a laptop open in his lap, clicking the controller to turn on the transmitters that Ninovich had planted in the ransom duffel bags and watching the GPS map to see if they came on. They drove up eight blocks, turned right one block, and drove down eight blocks, going back and forth.

  “Nothing,” Max said.

  “How far away can you remotely turn on the transmitters?”

  “Maybe a hundred yards.”

  “Needle in a haystack.”

  “If they had been turned on to begin with, Koenig’s guys would have found them before they put the money in the Explorer. This was just in case of emergency.”

  “Well, this is an emergency.” Kelly Jo turned right. “This next pass completes the square.”

  “The neighborhood is changing. Too many homeowners, but not an Airbnb kind of neighborhood. Strangers would stand out. They aren’t going to be here.”

  “Bag it up?”

  “Let’s go home.”

  Kelly Jo drove back to Mission Avenue, then down to the beltway, and got off at Fourth Street. In between lunch and rush hour, it was an easy drive, school buses and retirees on afternoon errands. Once she was back on Tulip Street and could see their tiny rental, she pressed the garage door remote control. Just as she began to turn up the driveway, three masked men armed with assault rifles jumped out of a white Suburban parked across the street and opened fire.

  “Hurry,” Max yelled.

  Kelly Jo stomped on the gas and flew up the driveway into the garage. Multiple shots shattered the safety glass in the back window of the Camry. She hit the brakes. The Camry squealed to a stop. She pressed the remote control and scrunched down in the seat. Max was in the floor of the passenger’s seat, his arms protecting his head. Bullets punched through the garage door as it lowered to the ground.

  Kelly Jo pushed open her door and fast crawled into the kitchen, Max at her heels. Bullets shattered the windows in the living room. Max crawled to the living room sofa and pushed it up against the wall under the windows. Then he rolled up on the sofa and started firing out the window. Kelly Jo crawled up beside him. The three men, Kevlar vests over their street clothes, were spread out and advancing toward the house. Bullets were pouring in. Kelly Jo and Max fired back as best they could, but they were outgunned. One of the men fell.

  “Get our go bag,” Max said.

  Kelly Jo crawled through to the bedroom, grabbed their go bag from under the bed and started back into the living room when the firing stopped. Max was on his feet. “They ran. God knows why. Let’s get out of here.”

  Sirens screamed in the distance. They hurried into the garage. The Camry was riddled with holes. Kelly Jo tossed the go bag into the back seat and climbed into the driver’s seat. Max kneeled in the back seat to knock the broken safety glass out from the edges of the back window so it wouldn’t be as obvious that the window was shattered.

  Kelly Jo shoved the key into the ignition and gave it a turn. The Camry sputtered to life. “Whew.”

  Max looked over his shoulder. “Have a little faith.”

  She pressed the garage door remote. The door screeched up. No one started shooting at them. She sped down the driveway, whipped the wheel, and took off out of the neighborhood. Max climbed from the back to the front seat. “That went a lot better than I thought it would.”

  Kelly Jo laughed. “I think that’s what they call a ‘hail of bullets.’”

  “We need a new car.”

  “Let’s grab something quick before the cops spot this wreck.”

  Max point up to the next corner. “Take a right. We’ll leave this on the street and pick up something behind that Caffeination coffee shop.”

  She parked in a no parking zone. “We need to wipe down this car.”

  “No time to do a decent job. Wipe the wheel and the door handles. Maybe a tow truck will find it before the cops.”

  They got out, Kelly Jo carrying their go bag, and strolled into the Caffeination parking lot, keeping their backs to the camera mounted on the building. There were five cars in the parking lot, all empty. “Something old,” Max said.

  “How about that red Chevy?” An old Impala sat in the far corner.

  “Looks like an employee car, doesn’t it? Won’t turn up missing until shift change. Hand me some latex gloves.”

  She took black latex gloves from the go bag. They put them on while they walked to the Chevy. He picked the door lock and hotwired the car. The back seat was full of fast-food trash and old mail. “Stealing this car is doing this guy a favor,” Kelly Jo said.

  Max drove around the block to avoid driving by the front of the coffee shop; then he took it easy, driving just under the speed limit all the way downtown and into a parking ramp next to an office building. On the third level, they pulled into a space beside a blue Toyota RAV4.

  “This is more our style.”

  “Cops will find this Chevy when the RAV is reported.”

  “But they won’t be looking for the RAV until tomorrow at least, so we might as well be comfortable while we look for a long-term solution.”

  Max took twenty dollars from his pocket and dropped it on the floor of the Impala.

  “You’re getting soft.”

  “Just hoping to improve our luck.”

  A few minutes later, they drove out of the parking ramp, making sure to cover their faces when they passed the exit camera. Traffic was beginning to pick up as more and more people got off work. Max took the ramp onto the beltway.

  “That was some hard shooting,” he said.

  “Yeah, but we were punching above our weight. We got one of them and didn’t get a scratch,” she replied.

  “Your range time is paying off.”

  “I didn’t shoot that guy. You didn’t shoot him?”

  “Not me.”

  He got into the right lane to take the next off ramp. “I knew Smithson had a transmitter on us, but he must be actually tailing us. Can’t be any other explanation.”

  “Wants to make sure he gets his money back.”

  He pulled up to the stop sign at the bottom of the ramp. “Wants to make sure he gets his revenge.”

  Meanwhile, Mario was in the minivan tailing the two men in the Suburban as they moved north, circling and backtracking to discover if anyone was following them. He smiled. They wouldn’t find him. This was his bread and butter. He’d taught classes on urban surveillance after his fifth tour in the sandbox. Rita and Sally had gotten out of the van when the two guys had run back to the Suburban. They’d no doubt found a ride and were still following Max and Kelly Jo, but this was too good an opportunity to pass up. The Suburban might lead them up the food chain quicker than the grifters, and the sooner they could kill them, the better off they would be. The grifters were the loosest of loose ends, and he didn’t want Mr. Smithson, or even Ninovich, for that matter, blaming him if they got away.

  The Suburban pulled into a Walmart. The parking lot was half empty. Mario pulled in after it and parked with a good view of the outer lot. He got a pair of binoculars out of the glovebox. The Suburban parked next to a green Jeep Grand Cherokee at the edge of the lot. Two men got out—no Kevlar, no rifles—and climbed into the Jeep. As they started to drive away, another man, an old guy wearing jeans and a ball cap, got into the Suburban. Mario tossed the binoculars in the passenger’s seat. This was a well-oiled machine. A man hanging around just to take away the evidence. He followed the Jeep.

  The Jeep circled around before getting on Twelfth Street heading north into Charming Cove, where it drove through the gates of Charming Cove Golf Estates. M
ario followed along the parkway that ran along the edge of the golf course to a row of condos near the entrance to the clubhouse parking lot. He watched the Jeep park in the garage to condo 793. He pulled over and got out his phone. “Ninovich?”

  “Yeah?”

  He explained what had happened.

  “Great news,” Ninovich said. “Sit tight, I’m sending some guys to help you.”

  Mario glanced up and down the street. He couldn’t stay where he was. He was out in the open. But there was a cul-de-sac of two-story houses about half a block away. He drove up into cul-de-sac—five brick houses with ornamental front porches—circled around, and parked facing out where he had a good view of condo 793.

  In the condo, Raymond and Sanchez stood in the living room, explaining to Koenig what had happened. “So you were blindsided?”

  “We were caught in a crossfire,” Sanchez said.

  “We didn’t know about the extra guys they had watching their place,” Raymond said.

  “Are you an idiot? That wasn’t them,” Koenig said. “There was no coordination of effort, was there?”

  “No,” Raymond replied.

  “That was Smithson’s people.”

  “Smithson’s?”

  “Yes.” Koenig went to the front window and peeked through the closed blinds. “Did anyone follow you?”

  “No.”

  “We’re not taking any chances. We’re changing houses. Get the bags out of my room.”

  Koenig and Raymond drove away from the condo in a BMW, Raymond driving. Hernandez, Sanchez, and the other three men waited in the garage in the Jeep. When the BMW passed through the gates to the main road, Koenig called Hernandez. “You can leave now. Tell me what you see.”

  Raymond turned left, then took the next right, drove four blocks and took another right. Koenig’s phone buzzed. “Yes?”

  “A tan minivan is following you.”

  “We’ll use the traffic to box them in at the next light.” He ended the call.

  “We’ve got a tail?” Raymond asked.

  “Tan minivan. Stay in the right lane. Slow down a little bit.”

  “Catch the stop light?”

  “Exactly.”

  Raymond turned onto Francis Scott Key Drive and slowed down just enough that the other cars were starting to pass him. The traffic was heavy, both lanes full of anxious drivers in a hurry to get home. He glanced in his rearview mirror. There it was. A tan minivan situated behind a red Smart Car and next to a pickup truck.

  Mario was three cars behind the BMW. He was sure that the driver had been one of the shooters at Max and Kelly Jo’s safe house. When the BMW turned onto Francis Scott Key, he called Ninovich and filled him in.

  “Let me know where they land,” Ninovich said.

  Up ahead, at the intersection, the traffic light turned red. All the cars stopped. Mario glanced in his rearview mirror. Two men wearing ski masks and carrying assault rifles were rushing up on him, one on each side of the minivan. He clawed down into the floorboard for his sawed-off shotgun.

  The masked men emptied the magazines of their assault rifles into the minivan, shattering the windows and pocking the exterior with holes. Then the man on the driver’s side switched magazines, opened the van door, and fired two shots into Mario’s head. He looked at the pickup truck to his left. There was no one in the cab.

  The traffic light turned green. “Let’s go,” the other man yelled. They ran back to the Jeep and climbed in the back. Hernandez shoved the Jeep into Drive, jumped the curb, drove the sidewalk to the intersection, and bounced down onto the street.

  Up ahead, Koenig and Raymond had turned in their seats to watch. “Now that’s how you spring a trap,” Koenig said. “Simple, but effective.”

  Detectives Gower and Johnson stood in the front yard of the little house on Tulip Street. An outline in the grass marked where the shooter had fallen. Tags indicated the location of shell casings. The CSI team was still on site, men and women in white coveralls carrying equipment in and evidence out of the building. “So the other two missing Casino employees, a man and a woman, were staying here?” Johnson asked.

  “Conrad over at Homicide called me. Neighbors identified a man and woman coming in and out over the last few days. Old man across the street—day gambler, rides that bus that goes around town picking up seniors—said she reminded him of a receptionist at the hotel. When they showed him photos of the two women, he made a positive ID. Kelly Jo Barlow.”

  “But the guy?”

  “That’s a stretch, but it makes sense; one of the missing guys is her husband, Max Barlow. Three men in body armor came here to kill them. Innocent bystanders don’t get that kind of attention,” Gower said.

  “So whose team are they on? Kidnappers or Smithson? Tell me we got lucky with the fingerprints.”

  “The dead guy was a career criminal, out-of-towner. No connection with Smithson’s crew so far. But there’s a lot of fingerprints inside, so it’s going to be a while.”

  “Any blood in the house?”

  Gower shook his head. “None thus far.”

  “So three guys came to kill the Barlows. One got killed. Maybe not Smithson’s crew. So how do the Barlows fit into this? They ran off. They’ve got to hide somewhere. We should get their pictures out to state police and all the motels in the area.”

  Gower’s phone rang. He took the call. “Thanks, Park.”

  “One of Ninovich’s guys got ambushed in his car on Francis Scott Key. They’re still working the scene.”

  “So the war is out in the open,” Johnson said. “Guess I’m going to be late for supper.”

  “You and me both.”

  Max and Kelly Jo sat at the little table by the door in their room at the Budget Inn. They’d switched cars again, dumping the RAV4 for a black Honda CR-V they’d taken from the airport long-term parking lot right after a man and woman wearing vacation clothes had dropped it off and rolled four big bags to the passenger pickup shelter.

  “Where do you want to go to dinner?” Kelly Jo asked.

  “Let’s go through a drive-through at some other interchange. We need to keep as low a profile as possible.”

  She studied his face. “What are you thinking about?”

  He smiled. “Koenig set us up perfectly. Got away clean. Left us holding the bag. Put his boys on us without breaking a sweat. Would have got us if Smithson hadn’t been tailing us.”

  “Then why aren’t you pissed?”

  “Because this puts him at ease, which gives us our first advantage. We’re going to mind fuck him, make him believe we’re screwed, just a step too slow. Then we are going to pounce, kill him, steal the money, skim off a hundred thousand dollars that we blame on him, and give the rest back to Smithson.”

  “You’re completely insane.”

  “Yep.”

  She laughed. “It just might work.”

  At Jango’s Supper Club, Smithson and Ninovich stood out in the parking lot well away from the valet parking kiosk. Two of Ninovich’s crew, in ties and jackets, stood watch at both ends of the lot. Smithson fidgeted with the inhaler in his hand. “So Koenig’s guys got away?”

  “Yeah, they ambushed Mario on the street just like we were in Juarez or somewhere.”

  “I saw the picture of the van on the news. Did he have any family?”

  “A little old mom in a care center.”

  “Make sure she’s taken care of.”

  “We’ll make sure her bills are paid and her account gets topped off.”

  “But you’ve still got the other two? Max and Kelly Jo?”

  “They’ve moved to a motel. Sally and Rita are on them.”

  “Do we need someone else?”

  “Sally and Rita are the best. They won’t lose them, and they won’t get spotted.”

  “Why can’t we just put a transmitter on the new car?”

  “Max and his woman change out cars like underwear. Besides, we may need to help them out of another jam before we�
�re done with them.”

  Smithson nodded. “They’re certainly shaking things up. It was a smart move turning them loose. As long as Koenig wants them dead, they’re useful.”

  “We still came up short. Lost Mario.”

  “It’s a shame about Mario, but that’s the closest we’ve come to Koenig so far. Don’t let his people slip away next time.” He glanced at a Cadillac that was prowling for a parking space. “O’Brian found the leak.”

  “Who was it?”

  “An assistant manager. Idiot didn’t have a clue that he was being used.”

  “You want him taken care of?”

  “Not yet. O’Brian’s investigating the hotel and casino management. I want to know the scope of the problem before we do anything.” Smithson patted Ninovich’s shoulder. “Find Koenig.”

  Ninovich watched Smithson hobble into the restaurant. That went better than he thought it would. Smithson wasn’t blaming him for Mario’s death—still saw him as part of the solution, not part of the problem. But the clock was ticking. He needed to find Koenig before Smithson’s patience ran out. O’Brian, on the other hand, was screwing himself. The harder he worked to clean up the mess, the more incompetent he made himself look for letting it happen. Good intentions counted for nothing. Only results mattered. So he had to make sure he captured Koenig before O’Brian got his house in order.

  10

  One Last Play

  The next morning, before Max and Kelly Jo had left their motel room to go to breakfast, there was a knock at the door. Max peered through the peephole, his pistol in his hand. A police badge blocked his view. “Hey, honey,” he called back into the room, “the cops are here.”

  He slipped his gun into the pocket of his sports coat before he opened the door. Kelly Jo came out of the bathroom buttoning the top button of her shirt. Two plainclothes detectives stood in the doorway, a tall black man wearing a leather jacket and jeans and a blocky white man wearing a charcoal suit.

  “Max Barlow?” the black one asked.