The Professionals

by Owen Laukkanen

  “Twenty.”

  “You’re a beautiful girl. The boys say you’re rich. You’ve got so much going for you. Why would you want to just give all that up?”

  She shrugged. “I’m sick of real life,” she said. “It’s all parties and douche bags, anyway.”

  “We’re fugitives, Tiffany. This is our real life.”

  “I know,” she said. “That’s what’s so great about it. Look, there’s nobody waiting for me. I’m supposed to be in class right now. The only person who knows I’m here is my friend Haley, and she’s too busy meeting boys to care about me. Nobody’s going to miss me if I just hang with you guys for a while.”

  She stared at Pender, watching his face. Giving him that world-beater smile. She was certainly beautiful, he thought. And she was certainly dangerous.

  A car horn honked outside, and Pender’s heart rate quickened. “We don’t have time for this.” He turned to Sawyer. “We gotta ditch that car and get out of here. Sawyer, come ride with me. We’ll ditch the Trans Am and find something bigger.”

  “Don’t forget the computer.”

  Pender was halfway out the door. “Yeah, we’ll get your computer.”

  “And clothes.”

  “And clothes.”

  “Wait,” said Tiffany. “What about me?”

  Pender stopped. Stared back at her. “Hang out with Mouse,” he sighed. “Keep him alive until we get back. We’ll figure out what to do with you later.”

  thirty-seven

  You’re never going to believe this,” said Windermere. Stevens opened the door a little wider, stared out into the hallway where she stood, excited, clutching her laptop. He pulled his hotel bathrobe tighter.

  “It’s three in the morning,” he said.

  “I know,” she said. “Sorry. Can I come in?”

  He stared at her a second, then turned around and padded back into the room. He switched on the overhead light, blinked, and turned it off, then turned on a couple of lamps instead. Soft light spread into the room, leaving darkness in the corners and shadows on the walls. His pile of unsolved kidnappings sat scattered on the desk; he’d put himself to sleep trying to work out a pattern.

  Stevens sat down on the bed. He’d been dreaming about Nancy and the kids. Summer on Lake Superior. He rubbed his eyes and turned back to Windermere. “What have you got?”

  She sat down beside him and angled her laptop so he could see. She was dressed down, in jeans and a Stetson Law sweatshirt, and she’d washed off her makeup. Her face looked fresh-scrubbed now, bare, and Stevens felt almost guilty, seeing her this way. He felt flushed and looked away from her face, forcing his eyes down to the computer screen.

  Windermere brought up the Ashley McAdams Visa statement. “We caught a break,” she said. “I didn’t think she’d ever use that credit card again.”

  Stevens sat up. “But she did.”

  Windermere nodded. “She bought groceries. Yesterday, at a Safeway in Seattle. You believe it?”

  “No,” said Stevens. Groceries and a used credit card. Something was different. Something had changed. “What’s the neighborhood like?”

  “Residential. But it’s close enough to downtown and the highways. Route 99 passes just east of there.”

  “Why’s she paying with a credit card?”

  “I don’t know,” said Windermere, turning to face him on the bed. “But I don’t much care, either, so long as it gets us closer to her.”

  Stevens stared back at her, the fog in his head slowly starting to lift. Whatever the reason, he thought, I’m not complaining, either. Those case files are getting us nowhere. This could be the break we need.

  They hit the Safeway the next morning. Windermere took charge, searching out the store manager and explaining the situation. We need the tapes, she told him, and we’d like to talk to the cashier, too. The manager, a middle-aged guy with rings under his eyes, told them no problem.

  “Got the tapes upstairs,” he said. “Might have to wait for the cashier. She’s not due in until four or so, after school gets out.”

  The manager led them up a flight of stairs at the front of the store. He punched a code into a door and then led them into a tiny cluttered office. A window with one-way glass looked out over the store, and a chair and a desk took up most of the room. In the corner of the office was a bank of four televisions, each cycling through a series of security camera views in grainy black and white.

  “You wanted yesterday afternoon, right?” said the manager. “Just the cash registers?”

  “Yeah,” said Windermere.

  “No,” said Stevens. “You have any footage from the parking lots?”

  The manager dug out a couple of tapes and keyed up the first in the VCR. Then he turned to the window. He stiffened.

  “Key-rist,” he said, heading for the door. “That kid never learns. Excuse me, would you?”

  When he was gone, Stevens hit Play on the VCR, and he and Windermere settled in to watch as a parade of shoppers made their way through the checkout counter. It took about ten minutes before Stevens saw her. He reached forward and stopped the tape. “There,” he said, pointing. “That’s gotta be her.” The girl had just entered the line, her hair tied up in a bun but still undeniably curly. She was carrying her groceries in a green plastic basket, and she was alone.

  Stevens pressed Play and they watched the girl unload her basket. The cashier scanned her purchases and then turned to the girl to wait for her payment. The girl fumbled in her purse for a second or two before coming out with a credit card. Before the cashier could run it, though, the girl reached out and took the credit card back and handed over another one. The cashier put up a fuss, and the girl seemed to get a little riled up. Then she reached back into her purse and showed the cashier something. “ID,” said Stevens. “You see that?”

  “What’s she doing?”

  “She pulled two cards. Took back the first and gave her the second. Cashier didn’t like it and asked for ID. Now she’s showing her the Ashley McAdams ID.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe she gave over her real credit card first and thought better of it.”

  “But the cashier had already seen the name.” Windermere nodded. “Interesting. She nearly screwed up.”

  Stevens pressed Play again and watched the girl finish her purchase, stuffing the groceries into a couple of canvas bags and then walking away from the counter, disappearing offscreen. “She was alone,” said Windermere.

  “Maybe the boys are in the car. Let’s check the parking lot.”

  He put the second tape in the VCR and pressed Play again. They watched as grainy cars shunted back and forth throughout the lot, searching for the car that would bring them Ashley McAdams.

  Stevens glanced at Windermere. The office was small, and they were sitting close, her thigh against his. She was made up again, dressed for the workday, and Stevens felt his cheeks burn as he remembered how he’d felt when he saw her the night before.

  “What’s the matter?” said Windermere, catching his eye. “You see something?”

  “No,” said Stevens. “Not yet.”

  She gave him a lopsided smile. “Just enjoying the view?”

  Stevens forced a laugh. “No way.” He leaned forward, focusing on the TV, feeling her eyes on him. Christ, he thought, remembering how coolly she’d shut down Davis in Chicago. She must think I’m the same kind of asshole, staring at her like that. He turned back to her. “Look, I’m sorry.”

  “You mean you weren’t enjoying the view?” She was still smiling. Her eyes were hypnotic. “Spit it out, Stevens. You falling in love here or something?”

  Stevens felt his collar tighten. What was she trying to do? “No,” he said. He fumbled for an answer. “I’m just tired. Late nights, right?”

  Her smile widened. “Relax, Stevens. I’m just messing with you. I know you’re an honest man.”

  “Yeah,” he said. “I am.”

  “We’
re just two cops doing our jobs.” She kept her eyes on him, and he turned away, back to the screens. Felt his face getting redder as the silence grew.

  Then he sat up and grabbed her arm. “There,” he said, pointing to a smudge in the bottom corner. “You see her? She came walking into the lot from the right-hand side. That’s our girl, right there.”

  Windermere peered at the screen. “You think?”

  There was a noise from behind them as the manager let himself back into the office. “You get what you were looking for?” he said.

  He stared over their shoulders at the TVs. Scratched his head. “Marie, right?” He glanced at Stevens. “That’s who you’re after?”

  Stevens looked at Windermere. “I don’t know,” he said. “Who’s Marie?”

  The manager shrugged. “This girl used to come into the store all the time. Her and her boyfriend. Real good-looking couple, lived up on Sixth. They stopped coming in a while back. I figured they moved away.” He squinted at the screen. “That’s her, right?”

  Stevens pressed Fast Forward as the girl disappeared into the store. About a minute later she emerged, a grocery bag in each hand. She made her way through the parking lot and then, just at the very top of the frame, disappeared onto the sidewalk and started walking away. “That’s her,” said the manager. “I’d put money on it. She’s back in town. Isn’t that something?”

  Windermere glanced at Stevens. “Yeah,” she said, flashing another smile. “Isn’t that something?”

  thirty-eight

  D’Antonio watched from the rental car as the FBI agents emerged from the grocery store. They had another person with them, a little man in a rumpled shirt and tie—the manager, D’Antonio guessed. The man walked with the agents to their own car and pointed up the street. They said a few words to one another, and then the agents got into the car and drove away. D’Antonio shifted into drive and followed them.

  The cops hadn’t been any sort of tough to find. D’Antonio had dealt with enough Federal agents to have a decent idea of their habits, and after he’d gotten himself settled in at the Hyatt and fixed himself a gin and tonic from the minibar, he’d pulled out the phone book and started dialing around for the businessmen’s hotels in the center of town, pretending to be Windermere’s husband or Stevens’s older brother. He found them, after two or three tries, at the Crowne Plaza a few blocks away.

  In the morning he’d had a rental car brought around, a decent Lincoln that maybe looked a little too much like a Ford for his liking, but what were you going to do? Then he camped out in front of the Crowne and pretended to be a limo driver until the Feds came out in their own rental, a little cookie-cutter Nissan.

  He’d followed them to the Safeway and waited while they screwed around inside, and now he followed them out of the lot and west into an older residential neighborhood.

  The Feds must have found something in that Safeway, he thought. The manager had showed them a lead. He followed in the Lincoln, hanging back a ways and letting the Feds clear the block before he followed, letting them show him what they’d learned.

  The Feds were just turning onto 6th Avenue when he saw her. Had to be her. Curly brown hair. Pretty face. He’d only caught a glimpse of her outside the Beneteau house but the image had stayed with him, and now, watching her walk up toward an old brick apartment on the corner, he knew he’d found her.

  D’Antonio steered the Lincoln to the curb and stepped out of the car. He jogged across the street, oblivious to the shouts and horns from the motorists behind him. “Ashley,” he called as he caught up to her. “Ashley, over here.”

  Windermere glanced in the rearview mirror again. “That Lincoln,” she said. “You think it looks familiar?”

  Stevens twisted in his seat. “Looks like every other Lincoln I’ve ever seen.”

  “I think he’s following us,” she said. “I’ve seen him a couple times now.”

  “Probably a lost limo driver. Who would want to follow us?”

  Windermere turned up onto 6th Avenue and watched in the mirror as the Lincoln pulled over at the corner. The driver got out, a big burly guy in a long, expensive-looking coat. She watched as he ran out into traffic, nearly causing chaos as he hurried across the street. He seemed to be calling to someone.

  “The manager said a big brick apartment building,” said Windermere. She slid down in her seat, straining to see through the rearview mirror. There was a big brick apartment building back there, no doubt. But it wasn’t on 6th, exactly.

  “Watch out!” said Stevens, and she slammed on the brakes, narrowly avoiding the rear bumper of the BMW in front of her.

  “All right,” said Windermere. She looked back in the mirror but the Lincoln—and the man—was too far behind her. Windermere stared up the street. Nothing but houses. No apartments in sight. She made a quick right at the first cross street. “We’re going back,” she said. “I don’t like the looks of that car.”

  thirty-nine

  Marie was on her way to the front door of her apartment building when the big black Lincoln pulled over behind her. She’d been walking in Kinnear Park, staring out at the bay and trying to decide whether she should fly to Miami first or try to contact Pender before she left. For all she knew, they were out of the city by now. They might have even fled the country.

  She was about to put her key in the front door when she heard the car pull up behind her. The driver turned on his four-ways and stepped out of the vehicle, and for a moment Marie thought he was looking right at her. But she’d never seen him before in her life, and she told herself she was just being paranoid. She turned back to the door. Then the man started yelling.

  “Ashley,” he called. “Ashley, over here.”

  Marie watched him jog across the street toward her. No freaking way, she thought. Nobody knows I’m Ashley McAdams. Not here, not anywhere. But he was beckoning her to come closer.

  He was a big guy in expensive clothes and a haircut to match. His face was friendly; he looked like somebody’s father, someone who would drive his son to basketball practice and look the other way if the kid happened to steal a couple of his beers. But he was coming her way, and he was calling her Ashley. And that was bad news.

  He was about ten feet away from her and coming in fast. “Ashley McAdams?” he said, smiling down at her. Marie felt the bottom fall out of her stomach.

  “No.” She forced a smile. “Sorry. You must have me confused with somebody.”

  He narrowed his eyes. “I’m not confused, Ashley. You need to come with me.”

  “Who are you?” she said. “Are you the police or something?”

  “I’m a kind of police, yes.”

  He can’t do anything here, she thought. You’re in a public place, and there are people around. Whatever he wants to do, he can’t do it here. “Could I see your ID?” she said.

  “No.” He grabbed her arm. “You need to come with me.”

  She tried to shake free. She couldn’t. “I’ll scream.”

  He reached inside his coat. “You won’t.” He looked anything but friendly now. “I’ll shoot you dead right here.”

  Marie looked around, searching for help, trying to gauge her chances. The man said he had a gun, and if he had a gun her chances weren’t good. He’d shoot her before she got ten feet away. But if she let him take her, he’d kill her anyway. Someone call the police, she thought. Someone get in on this, please.

  The man wrenched her arm. “Get in the goddamn car.”

  Windermere circled the block and turned the car back down toward the apartment building. The Lincoln was still parked curbside, midway down the street, its four-ways flashing. The big guy was across the road, standing in the awning of an old brick walk-up, talking to a girl. Talking to the girl. “Holy shit,” said Stevens. “Is that—”

  “Yeah,” said Windermere. “Let’s go.”

  She pulled over to the curb and threw on her emergency lights. Then she got out and ran. Stevens followed, dodging cars and a piss
ed-off cyclist, watching the scene unfold as he came closer. The big guy had his hand on the girl’s arm and was gesturing back to the Lincoln. Then he put his hand inside his coat.

  “Freeze,” Windermere shouted. Heads turned. “FBI!”

  The man looked up for a moment, and the girl saw her chance, wrenching free and bolting around back of the apartment. The man took his hand from his coat, and Windermere reached for her sidearm. But the man came up clean, his hands empty. “You take this guy,” said Windermere. “I’ll get the girl.”

  She took off around the apartment, and Stevens started for the big guy, who saw him coming and ran, cutting back across the street toward his Lincoln. Stevens was just about on him when the guy reached his car and dove in, punching the gas and lurching forward with tires squealing, shooting off down the street. Stevens watched as the guy kept his foot down, squeezing down the centerline to avoid the traffic, bouncing off cars going both directions and disappearing down the street.

  “Goddamn it.” Stevens pulled out his cell phone and punched in Seattle PD. Relayed the situation to the dispatcher, who promised radio cars on scene within minutes.

  D’Antonio drove, shoving the car hard down the middle of the road, the engine howling and the car squealing metal on metal. He cleared the block and made a hard right and then doubled back on the next street over, hoping to cut off the girl and the cop in back of the apartment. I had her, he thought. I had the little bitch.

  He searched through the trees as he drove, looking for signs of his target. Midway down the block was an alley, and he steered the Lincoln down it, fishtailing, careening off somebody’s wall and sliding all over the place.

  Halfway down the alley and the girl appeared, just burst out from one of the apartment complexes, and nearly ran right into D’Antonio and the Lincoln. He gunned it, swerving to try and hit her, but she dodged at the last second and ran behind the car.

  D’Antonio shifted into reverse and kept his foot on the gas, the wheels shrieking in protest as he steered one-handed back toward the girl, who was fleeing now along the side of the alley, hugging the garages, looking for a way out.