The Professionals

by Owen Laukkanen

  “Already done,” Vance told him. “Pistone’s a known alias for Alessandro D’Antonio, a made guy in the Bartholdi family. Pretty high up in their Detroit operations, I guess. Kind of a badass.”

  Stevens thanked him and hung up the phone. D’Antonio, he thought. Out of Michigan. Isn’t that cute.

  forty-three

  D’Antonio left the car in a parking garage a couple blocks from the Hyatt and walked back to the hotel. Those goddamn cops would be looking for him by now, he knew, and he scanned for plainclothesmen as he walked through the lobby. Nobody seemed to notice his arrival. They haven’t come this far, he thought. I still have time.

  He took the elevator to his room and packed quickly. Then he made a phone call to book a ticket to Detroit and fast. I would have had her, he thought as he ended the call. If those cops hadn’t fucked everything up.

  So the kill was blown. Unusual for him, but it happened sometimes. It didn’t mean anything. Maybe he was gripping too hard, like a baseball hitter in a slump. Maybe he wanted it too much. Time to step back, regroup, rethink.

  The girl wouldn’t dare go back to the apartment. If she was smart, she’d flee the country immediately, try to stay off the grid until the Feds forgot about her. But very few people were that smart. Very few people could walk away when the time came, especially if they still had attachments waiting for them.

  The girl would go to Florida. She’d run back to her friends, he was sure of it. That would make it easy to kill the lot of them. He could use her to lead him to the rest of the gang, and there would sure as shit be no more screwups when D’Antonio caught the ringleader.

  He got back on the phone and cancelled the ticket. Paid two hundred dollars in fees, but if he was right it would be worth it. He ended the call without booking a new ticket, grabbed his overnight bag and took the elevator back down to the lobby, where he checked out of the hotel and climbed into a yellow cab.

  “The airport,” he told the driver, hoping the girl wasn’t too far gone already.

  Stevens kept the Nissan close to the taxi, not wanting to risk losing D’Antonio on the drive out of town. They’d picked him up outside the Hyatt within an hour of Vance’s call, and now, Stevens hoped, they could use the bad guy to lead them to the girl. Windermere was on the phone as he drove, rapping away to Vance at headquarters with a shopping list of things she wanted done.

  “You got that computer I sent you, right?” she was saying. “There’s a picture of the girl on there. We need that picture in the hands of every airport security guard like yesterday. Then you can look for pictures of the other three goofballs and get them on the Wanted list. Anything come back for McAllister and Pender?”

  She listened for a moment. “No kidding. Talk to their families and see if you can get anything there. Anywhere they might run to, that sort of thing. Try and ID the other two kidnappers. What?” she said. “No. Hadn’t heard that.”

  She listened. “Could be related. Hard to say. Let me know if you hear anything.”

  She hung up the phone and turned to Stevens. “Vance says McAllister and Pender were students at the U of Washington a few years back. She got a history degree. He got a master’s in English lit.”

  “Christ,” said Stevens. “How do a couple of nerds suddenly become kidnappers?”

  “Couldn’t get real jobs, I guess. Vance also said there was a big ruckus down in Miami yesterday. Wondered if we’d heard about it.”

  Stevens shrugged. “Nope.”

  “Couple of kids got into a shooting match down on South Beach. Police found two bodies shot up in a room at the Dauphin. Big-time hard-asses. Known killers. But they got shot by their own guns.”

  “Argument?”

  “Police say no way. There were guests in that hotel room. Three or four kids. Three guys and a girl.”

  “No kidding,” said Stevens. “You’re thinking it’s them.”

  Windermere glanced at him. “I guess we’ll find out.”

  D’Antonio’s cab signaled right and took the Sea-Tac exit. Stevens followed, and the two cars skirted the runways for a few miles before reaching the terminal, where D’Antonio’s car pulled over under the Delta departures sign. “Hang back,” said Windermere. “Let me out here and go grab a parking spot.”

  Stevens slowed to a stop just long enough for Windermere to climb out of the car. Then he drove on as Windermere followed D’Antonio, keeping her distance. She watched the big man walk up to the Delta sales desk and loitered nearby as he booked a ticket. He paid by credit card, flirting with the Delta agent, who smiled and said something funny and they both laughed. Then he took his ticket and picked up his bag and walked away from the counter, joining the crush of travelers headed for the security gates.

  Windermere gave him a minute or two and then walked over to the same Delta agent just as Stevens came into the terminal. He spotted her quickly and came over. “Where’d he go?”

  Windermere pointed to the gates. “That way.” She turned to the Delta agent and flashed her badge. “FBI, ma’am. Quick question.”

  The woman looked up, startled. “Yeah?”

  “That big teddy bear who just bought a ticket. Where’s he going?”

  “He’s going to Miami on the red-eye,” she said. “Is there a problem? I can call security and have him stopped.”

  Windermere shook her head. “Don’t worry about it. But maybe you could hook us up. You have any other flights to Miami tonight?”

  The agent punched a few keys and booked them through Detroit, touching down in Miami an hour and a half after D’Antonio. Windermere got on the phone with Vance. “Vance,” she said. “Listen up. You were right about the Miami job. I need you to get a picture of Alessandro D’Antonio to the FBI office in Miami and tell them to meet our guy when he gets off his plane.”

  She read him the flight information. “No arrests. Just tail him. Also, ship a picture of McAllister to the Miami airport people. Tell them to keep an eye out for the girl as well. All right?”

  She hung up the phone. Stevens examined the tickets. “You know what,” he said. “If those kids got into so much trouble in Miami, they probably didn’t stick around.”

  Windermere frowned. “What are you saying?”

  He shrugged. “If I’d just shot up a hotel room in South Beach, I think I’d get the hell out of the neighborhood. I’m just thinking we should cover our bases if she’s headed somewhere other than Miami.”

  “You think they’re on the move,” said Windermere. “Fine. We’ll notify airport security at Fort Lauderdale, Tampa, Orlando, Jacksonville, and Tallahassee. Cool? If they made it out of Florida, we’ve still got D’Antonio to lead us to them. But we’ll put the word out and maybe we’ll get lucky.”

  She picked up the phone and dialed. “Agent Vance,” she said, when he came on the line. “Do you hate me yet?”

  forty-four

  Tiffany Prentice stood at the window, clutching the phone. The police cruiser was outside in the parking lot, and the officer, a tall, scary-looking guy in boots and sunglasses, was talking to the motel manager. The manager was pointing down the line of units to their own, and Tiffany shrank back, afraid he’d seen her.

  “Tiffany,” Pender said from the other end of the line. “You’ve gotta handle this. Take a deep breath and let’s figure this out.”

  “Okay.” Tiffany glanced around the room. Mouse was laid out on the bed, pale as the sheets. The bloody towels were draped all around him.

  “First thing you need to do is hide Mouse. Put him in the bathroom or something and make sure he stays quiet. Get rid of the towels, too. Anything bloody, hide it. Act like you’re there alone.”

  “Okay.”

  “Charm him. Stall him. We’ll be there in a half hour, but you gotta hold him off until then. Get him out of there if you can. Do you think you can do that?”

  “Yeah,” said Tiffany. You can do this, she thought. You’ve charmed cops before. They’re human beings. They’re men.

 
; “Just don’t get caught. You gotta be strong, all right?”

  “All right.” Tiffany ended the call. She turned back from the window. “Okay, Mr. Mouse,” she said. “You gotta get moving.”

  She drew the curtains and moved Mouse to the bathroom. Set him up in the bathtub on a bed of bloody towels and told him to keep quiet. Fortunately, she thought, the bathroom was at the back of the unit. If they were lucky, the cop wouldn’t even see it. Working quickly, she threw the rest of the towels into the bathroom and tossed the bloody bedspread in behind. Then she looked in at Mouse one more time and shut the door.

  She looked around the motel room. The place looked okay. She moved some of the garbage out of sight, and then she heard the knock on the door.

  Deep breath. Tiffany glanced at herself in the mirror. She ran her fingers through her hair. Pouted. Surveyed her outfit and tied the back of her tank top to show off her tanned stomach. The knocks came again, louder.

  Tiffany walked to the door and opened it partway. Stood in the entryway and stared out at the cop. He loomed over her, massive and muscular, all coiled tension and the promise of violence. Tiffany looked him up and down. Forced a smile onto her face. “Good morning, officer,” she said. “What can I do for you?”

  The officer examined her behind his mirrored sunglasses. He peered over her, trying to get a look inside the room. Tiffany kept the door closed as tight as possible, trying to act casual. The officer cleared his throat. “Ma’am, my name’s Officer Cope, with the Hollywood Police Department. Do you mind if I have a look around the room?”

  “I’m sorry,” said Tiffany. “My friend’s sleeping inside.”

  “That’s fine,” said Cope. “She can put a robe on. This will only take a minute.”

  Tiffany kept the smile on her face. “Did you say you had a warrant, Officer?”

  Cope stared down at her. “I beg your pardon?”

  “A search warrant.”

  The officer sighed. “You’re asking me if I have a warrant.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “You have something you want to hide in there?”

  Tiffany shook her head. “Nothing more than a naked roommate,” she said. “But my daddy always told me never let a policeman search your stuff unless he has a warrant.”

  “Oh yeah?” said Cope. “Who’s your daddy?”

  “Andrew Prentice. Maybe you’ve heard of him?”

  Cope shook his head. “Afraid not.”

  “Oh well,” said Tiffany. “Maybe you want to phone that one in. He was on the Forbes 400 last year. So was his lawyer.”

  She held her ground and held her smile, feeling her insides turn to Jell-O as the officer examined her. “What’s your name, ma’am?”

  “Tiffany Prentice, sir,” she said. “You want to see my ID?”

  “What are you doing here in Hollywood?”

  “Vacation. My best friend and I decided to take a little winter break. You know how those midterms get.”

  “Why aren’t you out at the beach if you’re here on vacation?”

  Tiffany winked at him. “We were out late last night. Didn’t get much sleep. We’ll be out again later, don’t you worry.”

  The policeman looked around the parking lot. He was getting frustrated, Tiffany could tell. “You got something you want to hide in there, don’t you?”

  “No, sir.”

  “I could step past you and walk through that door right now,” he said. “Tell the judge I saw drugs on the table. Call it probable cause.”

  “Go ahead,” said Tiffany. “Do what you have to do. But make sure your department has a good lawyer first. I’d hate to see a good police officer like you lose his job because he was afraid of a little bit of paperwork.”

  Cope swore. Then he spat down onto the pavement. “I’ll be back,” he said. “Count on it.”

  Tiffany watched him walk back to his car. “I look forward to it, Officer,” she said. “Just don’t forget that warrant next time.”

  Cope stood at his patrol car for a minute, shielding his eyes, staring back at her. She gave him a little wave, and he climbed into his car and pulled it around the front of the building and out of sight. Tiffany watched him go. Then she closed the door and leaned back against it and sunk down to the ground, her whole body shaking. She sat there for a long time, trying to catch her breath.

  forty-five

  The police were nowhere in sight when they pulled back into the motel lot. Pender drove slowly to the back of the building and parked far away from the unit, anticipating a trap and knowing there was someone in the motel who must have sold them out. “What do you think?” he asked Sawyer as they sat in the Durango. “Coast is clear?”

  Sawyer gazed out at the parking lot. Nobody moving. A couple beat-up old road warriors and an RV from Ohio that had been sitting there since they’d arrived. “Looks good to me,” he said.

  They got out of the Durango and walked cautiously along the back of the building until they got to the room. Pender knocked on the door, and after a moment, it opened a crack. Tiffany peered out.

  “Open up,” Pender said. “It’s us.”

  She swung the door open. “Holy crap,” she said. She ambushed Pender with a monster hug. “We actually made it.”

  Pender hugged her back despite himself. She did good, he thought. Saved our asses.

  “Where’s Mouse?” said Sawyer.

  “Bathroom.” Tiffany backed away from Pender. “Holy crap, that was cool.”

  “How did you do it?” Pender asked.

  Tiffany laughed. “I played the poor little rich girl. Told him he’d better have a warrant, and if he didn’t, my dad would sue him and his whole department. I did good, right?”

  “You were perfect.”

  “So I can stay?”

  Pender paused. “I don’t know yet.”

  “Come on, Pender,” she said. “I just lied to the cops. I’m a criminal, too.”

  Pender stared at her a long moment. Then he sighed. “You can stay. For now.”

  Sawyer poked his head in the bathroom. Then he glanced back at Pender and Tiffany. “When’s the last time you checked on Mouse?”

  Tiffany frowned. “I was with him the whole time.”

  Sawyer gave her a long stare. “Boss, you better have a look in there.”

  Pender walked over and peered into the bathroom. Mouse was lying in the bathtub on a pile of bloody towels. He was dead pale, his head leaned back against the tile, his eyes closed. Pender turned to Tiffany. “Was he conscious when you left him?”

  “He was tired,” she said. “He said he was tired.”

  Sawyer knelt by the bathtub and felt around on Mouse’s neck. After a few seconds, he looked up, relieved. “He’s got a pulse.”

  “Of course I have a pulse,” said Mouse, opening his eyes a crack. “I’m just taking a nap in here. Can’t a brother get some sleep?”

  Sawyer stood up, forced a laugh. “Fucking guy.”

  “How are you feeling, Mouse?” asked Pender.

  “I feel like shit,” said Mouse. “Somebody shot me, I’m tired as hell, and I’m sleeping in a bathtub. How would you feel?”

  Tiffany helped Mouse to his feet. He leaned on her, half grinning at the other guys. “You keep Tiffany around and I’m sure I’ll be fine,” he said.

  “We’ll keep that in mind,” said Pender. “Now get your ass in gear. We’re moving out in ten.”

  They drove out of Hollywood and headed north on Interstate 95, and Pender watched Mouse in the rearview mirror as he drove. His friend was lying with his head in Tiffany’s lap as she played with his hair, the two of them curled up like a couple of middle-school kids after the dance. Sawyer, Pender noticed, was ignoring the lovebirds. Fine. The absolute last thing they needed right now was a fight over a woman.

  He watched Mouse cuddle with Tiffany. The kid could play tough all he wanted, but sooner or later he was going to need fixing and all the drugstore doctoring in the world wasn’t going to make him be
tter. As they’d packed up the Durango, Pender had noticed his friend couldn’t even lift his right arm. He’s probably got nerve damage, he thought. If we don’t get him to a hospital, he might never use that arm again. “Mouse,” he said, catching his friend’s eye in the mirror. “How are you feeling?”

  Mouse looked up from Tiffany’s lap. He winked at Pender. “A lot better now.”

  “For real, though. We gotta get you to a hospital.”

  Mouse struggled to sit up. “What? Pender, no way. I’m cool.”

  “I saw you back there. You couldn’t lift your arm at all.”

  “It’s just superficial,” said Mouse. “I’ll be fine in a few days.”

  Pender stared at him. “Come on, Mouse.”

  Mouse sighed. He sank back into Tiffany’s lap. “All right,” he said finally. “I just gotta get us some money if we’re going to bribe a doctor.”

  “No problem,” said Pender. “You can do it tomorrow after we pick up Marie.”

  Mouse stretched out and closed his eyes and Pender turned his attention back to the highway. Sawyer glanced over at him. “Jacksonville?”

  Pender nodded. “Delta 1720. She gets in at eight-thirty tomorrow morning. We’ll crash at the airport tonight and meet her tomorrow.”

  “You need me to drive?”

  “I’m fine.”

  Sawyer nodded. He leaned against the window and closed his eyes, and within a few minutes Pender could hear him snoring softly. By the time they hit Boca Raton, Mouse and Tiffany were out, too. Pender drove in silence, watching the sun set over the lowlands and the brake lights flashing on the highway.

  forty-six

  D’Antonio touched down in Miami at dawn and immediately knew that something was wrong. The terminal building was filled with cops of all kinds, security guards and plainclothesmen, everyone pretending they weren’t looking his way when he walked through the terminal past them.

  So the Feds had made him. Moreover, they’d figured out he was headed for Miami. D’Antonio wasn’t worried. Cops—even Feds—weren’t much of a threat. They stuck out in crowds and got bogged down with rules. And the Bartholdis kept excellent lawyers. If the FBI wanted to book him on some bullshit charge, they could slap on the cuffs and then get slapped with a lawsuit.