Alfred Hitchcock Mystery Magazine 10/01/12

by Dell Magazines

  "Take off," I tell her again. I think about saying something like, "Your dad sent me," but it'd only confuse her. Anyway, she's already gone, the Mustang skidding out onto Tropicana, leaving tire tracks and blaring horns in its wake.

  I move toward the bank, intending to take up a position near the door where I can wait for the kid to come out—but he's already out, moving fast and right at me. I barely have time to draw my pistol before he slams into me, almost knocking it from my hand. But I'm on him before he can get up, fixing the cuffs on his thin sweaty wrists, holding him down, keeping him still. I ask him where the gun is; he came out so quick I'm worried maybe he just went in to check it out and hasn't robbed anything, but he says, "I don't have no gun. I just used a note." His ears move when he talks, like a mouse. I lean in and whisper into one of them.

  "You really ought to consider getting yourself a lawyer," I tell him. See, I'm already thinking about Eddie Plum.

  Eight months after the heart transplant they sent me back to work. I'd been transferred off Homicide Detail and assigned to the Las Vegas Safe Streets Task Force to work bank robberies with the Feds because the business hours were more accommodating to my medical regimen. I'd known some of the Task Force guys for years, but it was strange and awful the way they treated me now, pussyfooting around like I was a grieving invalid. Then I met FBI Special Agent Edward Plum and the first thing he said to me was, "They're expecting you to grab your chest any minute now. Give them five weeks. Once they see your new heart isn't going to fall out onto the floor, they'll think the transplant thing is cool and start asking you about it."

  He was right too. I counted back from the day Sergeant Osterling asked if I could still get it up—I'm not sure exactly what kind of a transplant he thought I had—and found it was my thirty-fifth day on the squad.

  Everyone had a story like that about Eddie Plum. They all seemed to like him well enough, though for the life of me I couldn't see why. He has no personality to speak of and keeps to himself like the rest of us are contagious. And even though he'd been on the squad for over a year, he didn't seem to know anyone's name. More than once I've caught him quietly studying me. No, not studying. Memorizing.

  But Plum's the smartest guy I know, which makes him the best interviewer I know. That's the only time he ever appears relaxed—when he's sitting across the table from a brand-new perpetrator. He's like a different person then—affable, personable, even charming when required, though he claims to be completely exhausted afterward. I've seen him sit back in his chair with his feet on the table and talk to a felon like they've known each other for years. He can effortlessly deflect any objection with a few well-chosen words, and provide a seemingly endless litany of reasons for why the perp should just fess up and tell him everything. Plum does whatever it takes to get a confession, and he's good at it, which is why I didn't want him getting a crack at Cory Fergis.

  "He lawyered up right away?" Plum asked, after we'd dropped Fergis at the Las Vegas Detention Center. "That's too bad."

  "It happens."

  Plum scratched his head. "Where you think he was running to?"

  "I don't know, Eddie. I told you I didn't see a getaway car. I was sort of busy."

  "That's right. Getting a haircut. At the barbershop. Next to the bank."

  There really was a SuperCuts next to the bank. I'd already checked.

  "Guess I happened to be in the right place at the right time," I told him.

  "Right place, right time. Did you notice that the muzzle end of your Glock was imprinted onto his forehead?"

  To be completely effective, Eddie should've inserted my first name somewhere in there, but I'd bet money he didn't remember what it was, or wasn't sure enough to risk a guess. In any case, that was the end of it. Eddie sat back and didn't say any more about it, knowing as well as I do that you can't treat your partner like a perp.

  But the second time wasn't so easy to explain.

  "I already overheard their side of it," Sammy told me. "What happened on your end?"

  We're at Sheldon's Deli again, with another Reuben on the table between us. Sammy looks even paler today. His face and perpetual three-day stubble are the exact same shade of lifeless gray. Even his sweat suit looks bleached and washed out, as if poor old Sammy is slowly fading away. If it keeps up, pretty soon I'll be able to see right through him, like one of those ghosts in the old black-and-white movies Liz used to watch. Sammy Topper.

  I pick up my sandwich and start to nibble, then find I'm suddenly

  ravenous.

  "He went in and showed the note," I tell him, unable or unwilling to suppress a grin. "But then his plan sort of fell apart. The tellers were behind bulletproof glass, so they just looked at each other and pulled their alarms. I got him as he ran out. He immediately invoked his right to counsel, so nobody could talk to him. The subject of your daughter never came up."

  I was feeling pleased with myself, but that didn't last.

  "They're doing it again," Sammy told me. "For bail money. Same bank because they know the layout and the cops won't be expecting it. This time my daughter's supposed to go in by herself, like she's a customer. Then Cory's brother will run in and hold a gun to her head, and tell them to empty the vault. He figures he'll get the money if he's got a hostage, glass or no glass. Then he'll take my daughter out to the getaway car and take off."

  I got out my notebook again. This was getting good.

  "What's the brother's name? The one going in."

  "Cary Fergis. He looks like a bald Cory."

  "Cary and Cory? Really?"

  Apparently, my good mood was not infectious. Sammy scowled and mumbled at me through clenched teeth.

  "They blame my daughter for Cory getting pinched, driving away in the getaway car like she done. One more screw-up . . ." Sammy was barely whispering now. "One more screw-up and they're gonna drop her in a hole. They'll do it too. There's a lot of desert out there."

  Sammy's wayward eye gazed at me like it knew exactly how much desert was out there.

  "I'll see what I can do," I told him, slipping the notebook back into my pocket. I stood up, tossed a twenty onto my empty plate, and walked to the door. When I looked back, Sammy was gone.

  I parked in my usual spot by the AutoZone, and by ten o'clock had the air-conditioning going full blast. It was another bright sunny day, without a wisp of cloud in the blank azure sky—like the entire valley was under Sheldon's biggest soup bowl. It was the kind of day Liz and I would've put to good use, hanging out at the Rio pool, having a couple of drinks, and pretending I was retired. All that was over now. Some people leave bigger holes than others.

  By ten forty-five I figured the Fergis brother was a no-show, but I wasn't ready to pack it in. At eleven twenty-two the black Mustang pulled up in front of the barbershop and Sammy's daughter hopped out, then leaned in to talk to the driver. She had on a yellow sundress today—what she figured someone with a savings account might wear. She slammed the car door and went into the bank, and the Mustang pulled into the closest empty parking space. Two minutes later a bald skinny guy climbed out and hurried in after her. I slipped an extra pair of handcuffs under my belt and got out of the Buick.

  There is definitely some advantage to not feeling your own heartbeat. Not hearing it pounding in my ears made me feel calmer. Either that, or I didn't care how this turned out. I had noticed a recent, somewhat cavalier attitude toward my own survival. Taking on an armed bank robbery crew by myself was not a smart thing to do, but like I said, sometimes I worry myself. All I was sure of was that I wouldn't make it easy for them.

  The asphalt was squishy under my feet as I walked toward the bank, which put the temperature at a hundred and six. But inside the bank was freezing. I let the door whoosh shut behind me, then took a minute to look around. A lot of people were inside because it was Friday. Sammy's daughter was at the head of the customer queue; even from here I could see her trembling, either from fear or air conditioning. Cary Fergis was at the tel
ler window, both hands tapping on the counter like he was playing the piano. Sammy said he looked like a bald Cory, but I thought he looked more like a computer-generated movie zombie, all skinny and pale and twitchy. His hands were empty, for now. The teller was reading from the piece of paper he'd given her, and when she looked up at him her face went pink.

  This is it. I ducked around the customer line, pausing only long enough to tell Sammy's daughter to get lost. She didn't hesitate this time, but turned and headed straight for the door. I moved up to stand behind Fergis, who was intently watching his teller as she slowly reached for her alarm. He didn't like that and told her so; to emphasize his point he grabbed for his waistband and started to swing around for his hostage, but found me instead. I screwed my Glock into his ear, turned him back around, and pushed his face up against the teller glass.

  "Is there a problem?" I asked, but the teller—all the tellers—had disappeared. "Don't move," I told Cary. "Not even a bit. Let go of the gun."

  "I will. I will. Here, see?" I could feel his ears moving against my gun when he talked. Must be a Fergis thing. I took his revolver and tucked it in my belt, then holstered my own gun and cuffed him. After a cursory pat down I pulled him toward the door. It was real quiet in the bank. Everyone was watching me. Then a phone started ringing.

  "I'll be right back," I told them.

  The Mustang was still parked in front of the bank. Evidently Sammy's daughter had decided to take the bus. I aimed Cary toward my car, intending to put him in the back seat, but then pushed him to the ground and pulled my pistol as a bright orange van came revving out of nowhere and crashed into my Buick, crumpling the front fender, buckling it into the next car over. Radiator fluid spewed everywhere; I could smell it, hot and cloying. The van was still rocking from the impact when the door slammed open and Cody Fergis leapt out, dragging a shotgun behind him. But I wasn't where he expected me to be—I was behind him, with my own gun aimed at his center of mass.

  "Cody! Drop the gun and hit the deck." He thought about it, but only for a second. Once he was down I moved my finger off the trigger and gave him further instructions, positioning his hands behind his back the way I wanted them. Then I holstered, pulled my extra pair of cuffs, and slipped them over his wrists. I risked a quick glance behind me to see if there were any more Fergises around—a distant cousin perhaps—and then told Cody to "Sit tight. You too, Cary. Give me a minute to catch my breath." But I really didn't need to.

  "J. D. Rozak worked banks for thirty-five years and never once saw a bank robbery in progress," Plum mused. "You've been on the squad four months and already came across two."

  We were in his car, heading back to the office. This was the first time I'd let him get me alone since the Fergis arrest. There'd been a few comments from other guys on the squad—just joking around, nothing blatant. No one had caught on. Somebody tacked up a teller's-eye-view bank surveillance photo of Cary Fergis with his face smushed against the bulletproof glass, and everyone took turns writing captions for it. My favorite was John Merrick opens his first checking account. But there'd been nothing from Eddie Plum. Not until now.

  "I had to go back to the barbershop," I told him. "Still hadn't gotten my haircut."

  "How'd you end up at the bank instead?"

  "Funny thing. I'd have sworn I didn't see any getaway car last time, but when that old Mustang pulled into the parking lot, it hit me—I'd seen that same car last week. Figured I'd take a peek inside the bank to make sure everything was okay." I looked directly at Eddie Plum. "It wasn't."

  "I know, I saw the video. What'd you say to that blonde girl in the customer line?"

  "I told her to get lost."

  "None of the tellers knew who she was. I wonder what she was doing in there."

  "Opening an account, maybe," I ventured.

  "She didn't have any paperwork on her. Not even a purse."

  "What are you getting at, Eddie?"

  "The Fergis case is going Federal because of the gun charges," Plum said. "Which means I have to testify in Grand Jury tomorrow. But who's going to believe it?"

  "The other guys didn't have any problem."

  "The other guys don't want to tell you you're full of baloney."

  Eddie Plum never swore. Not even when circumstances called for it.

  "There's a big hole in your story," Plum continued. "Something's missing. I just haven't figured out what it is, yet."

  "I don't know what you're talking about."

  Plum pulled over, parking his Impala in the shade of a big Canary Island palm. Then he turned the air-conditioning up. Plum was about the last agent in Vegas to still wear a suit every day. Definitely the only one to wear Ermenegildo Zegna. I waited, and then he did something I'd never seen him do before: Eddie Plum loosened his tie. I suspected this was an affectation intended to make him appear like "one of the guys." I knew he wouldn't be able to leave it that way for long.

  "Either you've got a death wish," he told me, "or you're protecting someone. Or you've got a source you don't want to disclose."

  How'd he do that? Two and a half out of three.

  "I'd go for death wish," he continued, "except that it wouldn't explain how you knew about the bank robberies in advance. So I figure you're protecting a source. Maybe you've got a girlfriend on the side who's involved with a bank robbery crew."

  "Eddie, my wife died over a year ago. I don't have to have anyone ‘on the side.'"

  "Oh, yeah. I forgot. But you are romantically involved with someone who knows the Fergis brothers . . ."

  "I have a source, Eddie. One I have a personal relationship with. Let's leave it at that."

  "A personal relationship with a source is something we have to disclose to the defense," Plum said. "That screws up the whole case. The United States Attorney's Office will probably decline prosecution and drop the charges."

  I couldn't let that happen. As long as they were in Federal custody, the Fergis brothers were held without bail, but that would change once the Feds dropped the case and the county D.A. picked it up. If any one of the Fergis brothers got out on bail, they'd head straight for Sammy's daughter.

  "Dropping this case is not an option, Eddie."

  "Will your source testify in court against the Fergis brothers?"

  I though of Sammy sitting in the witness box and almost laughed.

  "No, Eddie. My source definitely cannot testify in court."

  "Why not?"

  "Let's just say . . . medical reasons."

  "Then I don't see any way we can proceed with this case. Not if you're personally involved with a source who won't even testify."

  "We have to keep the Fergis brothers locked up, Eddie. For my source. I owe it to him."

  "The source you're having a personal relationship with is a him?" Plum asked. "That doesn't really improve the situation."

  I did start laughing then, and Eddie did too. I don't know why.

  "It's not a romantic relationship, Eddie. Just one that's hard to explain."

  "Maybe your source can explain it," he said, tightening his tie again. "Can I meet him?"

  "I don't think that's possible, Eddie."

  "I cannot testify before the Grand Jury with a straight face if I don't know what's going on," Plum told me, putting the car into gear. "I have to at least meet your source. Otherwise, the Fergis brothers will be released from Federal custody."

  Eddie Plum sat across from me at my usual table at Sheldon's. I asked him to move over a bit, to make room for my source. Plum scowled and pulled his phone again, checking the time. He never wore a watch because he said they felt like handcuffs.

  "Is this guy going to show up or not?" he asked.

  "I don't know," I said. "I told you he might not come if someone else is with me."

  But Sammy did appear, suddenly sliding into the booth next to Eddie Plum.

  "This your bodyguard?" Sammy asked, giving Eddie the once-over with his good eye. "He dresses like Secret Service."

 
"That's Eddie Plum," I told him. "He's an FBI agent. Eddie, this is Sammy Podrazo."

  Eddie looked over at Sammy, then back at me like I was crazy.

  "Your source," Eddie asked, "is your heart donor?"

  I nodded, as sagely as I could manage.

  "That is unconventional," Eddie murmured. "But definitely not illegal." Then he turned to Sammy and grabbed his hand, pumping it vigorously. "I sure am glad to meet you, Mr. Podrazo. That was a swell thing you did, donating your heart to this guy. No strings attached."

  "Not only that," Sammy said, still in Eddie's grip, "but I gave it to him with a lifetime guarantee."

  They both shared a good laugh. Evidently this was Jolly Eddie.

  "How'd that work, exactly?" Eddie asked. Eddie Plum knew exactly how it worked, but he obviously realized how much Sammy liked to tell the story.

  "I had terminal lung cancer, see?" Sammy began. "I needed a lung transplant real bad, but the survival rate for those is like zero—unless they give you a new heart to go with the new lungs. So when some guy in Sacramento killed himself, they gave me his heart and lungs—a matched set, see? My old cancer lungs went into the dumpster, but my perfectly good heart they gave to this tall drink of water sitting across from us."

  "Like recycling," Eddie said. "So how are you doing yourself? You okay?"

  "Good days and bad," Sammy said. "The hardest part was I had to quit smoking. And trying to avoid stress. That ain't easy."

  "Like stress from testifying in court," I interjected.

  "And that diet the doc has me on," Sammy said, nodding toward my dinner plate. "This is the closest I'm allowed to corned beef on rye. But yeah, all in all, I'm doing okay."

  "He's doing better than okay," I told them. "Sammy is one of only twenty-two living heart donors in the entire world." Sammy puffed up, looking so proud I thought he'd bust his sweatshirt zipper.

  "Well that's just great," Eddie said, finally releasing Sammy's hand. "So my partner here tells me you've been giving him information about some bank robberies. Is that right?"