The Freeport Robbery

by Michael P. King

  He turned to Nicole. “This is where we were. We saw Aaron come in the gate; we crossed; we came to here and stopped. We didn’t see him or the two guys after they came in the gate.”

  Nicole nodded.

  “How far behind him were we? Twenty seconds? Thirty seconds? Couldn’t have been much more. It was dark. Too dark to chance without weapons. But there’s a great sightline. The streets run straight down to the tarmac, and we didn’t see anyone.”

  “So they must have gone into one of the nearby buildings.”

  “That’s what I think.”

  “Could have left by now.”

  “Got to start somewhere. Let’s check these four buildings nearest the gate first.”

  They walked around to the other side of the warehouse and looked in the windows. The view was the same as the first side. Boxes on pallets. They went to the next building. There was an extra-tall garage door in the side. They looked in the windows. Shipping containers on wheels sat in closely spaced rows. It was the same in the other two warehouses. They moved on to the next set. Nothing but boxes and containers.

  They heard a door slam. A black man wearing khakis and a green golf shirt was walking away from a white-painted warehouse near the tarmac. Ron and Nicole ducked around the corner of a building. Nicole put her hand on Ron’s arm. “Wasn’t that one of the guys who was watching Aaron’s apartment?”

  “I didn’t get a good look.” Ron peeked around the corner. “The guy’s gone. Let’s get a look in that building.”

  They strolled down the street as if they were going to their own building nearby. “Crenshaw Industries” was painted in black lettering on the side. They glanced casually up at the rooflines of the surrounding buildings. There were no surveillance cameras. There was no one on the street, standing in a doorway, or peeking from behind a corner. They looked in the window in the door. Pallets of boxes stacked eight feet high stood in the center of the room. They couldn’t see anyone. Ron turned the doorknob very slowly. The door was unlocked. He eased the door open enough to squeeze through and then held it open for Nicole. They could hear indistinct voices. They crept along the pallets of boxes, moving toward the voices, straining their ears to listen. Nicole had her hand on the Glock in her handbag.

  Finally they could hear Rickover speaking. “How many times do I have to tell you? The money’s gone. Lawyers, child support, the stock market swallowed it up. I’m broke.”

  A voice they didn’t know replied. “Everybody’s got something. In my experience, if I push hard enough, they remember. Before you leave here, I’m going to have the money you owe.”

  Another voice said, “What about the package? You think we didn’t know about that? You came here with a package, met a guy at the vault.”

  Rickover said, “The package is gone. The only person I’m giving anything to is Mr. Philips. I’ve got to have his word that our business is settled.”

  The first voice said, “You’re going to give us the money.”

  Rickover replied, “The only reason I’m still alive is that you don’t have the money. I made a deal with your boss. He’s the only guy I’ll deal with.”

  The first voice said, “I think you need some time to think on this.”

  Ron and Nicole heard noise that sounded like a metal door opening and closing, and then footsteps growing louder. They slipped into a gap between two pallets and then turned into an open space among the boxes. A new voice said, “Where do you want to go to lunch?”

  The first voice said, “Charles’s picking something up.”

  The second voice said, “You calling the boss?”

  The first voice said, “I’m not bothering him yet. We’ll let this guy stew for a few hours in that sweat box, and then we’ll see where we’re at.”

  Ron and Nicole heard the door slam. They crept out of their hiding place and then peeked out of the gap between the pallets. They couldn’t see anyone. They held their breath and listened. They couldn’t hear anyone. They moved silently around the pallets to the other side of the building. A green, phone-booth-size, metal locker with vents in the door was bolted to the wall. Nicole moved down to the corner of the pallet stacks where she could watch the door to the warehouse. Ron picked the old dial lock on the locker. When he opened the locker door, Rickover, his wrists cuffed together with throwaway plastic cuffs, blinked back at him. His clothes smelled of sweat. His glasses leaned halfway down his nose, and his face was unshaven. Ron pulled him out of the locker. “Surprised to see us?”

  “Not really. How long were you listening?”

  “Long enough to know that you owe Philips money. He’s a mob guy, isn’t he? That’s a big mistake.”

  “Tell me about it.” Rickover held out his arms. “Have you got anything to cut this with?”

  Ron ignored him. “Why aren’t you dead?”

  “Because the boss man wants to get paid.”

  Ron chuckled. “So you had us steal the Cellini to pay him back? I didn’t think you had it in you.”

  “Yeah, well…”

  Ron looked him up and down. “They turn out your pockets?”

  Rickover pushed his glasses back up his nose with his cuffed hands. “What do you think?”

  Nicole glanced down from the corner. “Let’s get out of here.”

  “Cavity search?” Ron asked.

  “They’re not amateurs.”

  “So where is it hidden?”

  Rickover shrugged.

  “Come on, Ron,” Nicole said. “You can do this when we’re safe.”

  “Just a second.” He looked at Rickover. “Kick off your shoes.”

  Rickover used one foot to push the shoe off the other foot. Ron picked up the left shoe, felt down to the end and pulled on the insole. It was glued in place. He dropped the shoe on the floor by Rickover’s foot. He picked up the right shoe and went through the same process. This insole was loose. He pulled it out of the shoe. Taped to the bottom was a hotel keycard. “You did the same thing with the key to the hotel in Montreal. What’s your room number?”

  “Are you going to cut me loose?” Rickover asked.

  “Room number?”

  “Five o three.”

  Ron put the insole back in the shoe and dropped it at Rickover’s feet. “Why did you set us up?”

  “Set you up?”

  “You nearly got us killed.”

  “The other guys weren’t good enough to take the casket. I thought I was keeping you out of this trouble, okay? But you couldn’t leave well enough alone, could you? If you hadn’t got in a gunfight, the cops still wouldn’t know the casket was missing.”

  “So you didn’t send those guys to kill us?”

  “Christ, Ron, how long have we known each other?”

  “Ron,” Nicole said, “we need to get out of here now.”

  “Okay, honey.”

  Rickover slipped on his shoes. Ron grabbed him by the shoulder. “Let’s go.”

  “Why don’t you just cut me loose? You can’t walk me back to the hotel like this, so you might as well do it now.”

  “You’re going to help us get the casket back. It’s got to go to the museum.”

  “It’s in the vault. Even you two can’t break anything out of there. It would be easier to break someone out of death row. The Cellini casket is gone.”

  “You let us worry about coming and going. You just tell us what you know.”

  “Cut me loose first.”

  They walked back down the street toward the gate, and then turned into an alley headed north to get out of the sightline of the Crenshaw Industries warehouse. The buildings were smaller here. Dumpsters sat against the back walls of some buildings and construction debris was piled near the back walls of others. Nicole was walking point, her hand in her handbag, gripping her pistol. At an intersection, she saw something shift in her peripheral vision. She casually glanced in that direction. Was there someone behind the dumpster? After she got to the other side of the intersection, she waited for R
on and Rickover to catch up. “We might have a tail.”

  Ron frowned. “Where?”

  “Tracking on my left.”

  Ron nonchalantly turned so that Nicole was blocking the view of him from her left as he shifted his gun from the back of his waistband to his right blazer pocket.

  Nicole continued. “I’m going to backtrack.”

  “Okay,” Ron said.

  Ron and Rickover continued to the next intersection, Ron’s left hand on Rickover’s shoulder, Rickover still handcuffed, Ron’s right hand on the gun in his pocket. “You know she’s crazy,” Rickover said. “No one’s following us.”

  Ron smiled. “Like you would know.”

  They entered the next intersection. “Just so she doesn’t shoot us accidentally,” Rickover said.

  “Stop.”

  They turned.

  Rickover chuckled. “Hello, Grace.”

  A woman stood in the alley behind them. Her legs were spread in a firing stance, and she held her gun in both hands. Her dark hair lay loose on her shoulders. A shoulder bag hung at her side. “Get your hand out of your pocket.”

  Ron kept his hand on his gun. He could see Nicole watching them from the corner behind the woman.

  “Your hand,” the woman said.

  Nicole stepped out from the corner with her gun pointed at the woman. “Set the gun down.”

  The woman glanced over her shoulder. Ron pulled his gun. She glanced from Nicole to Ron. She set her pistol on the ground.

  Ron glanced at Rickover. “You know this woman?”

  “Oh, yeah. Agent Grace Mosley, FBI.”

  Ron pushed him down the alley to Mosley, while Nicole came up behind her. Ron picked up her gun and pointed it at her head. Nicole put her gun away, frisked Mosley, and searched her shoulder bag. She pulled out an FBI ID and showed it to Ron. Ron pointed the gun at the ground. “Why are you following us?”

  “You know why. I’m trailing a crew of art thieves.”

  “So are we.”

  “You’re making me laugh. You passed the casket to Tommy Bartholomew, who gave it to Rickover.”

  “Then why are we here, dragging this idiot around? We need to get the casket back to the museum so you people will find something else to do, and we can go back to making a living.”

  “You expect me to believe that?”

  “This kind of job attracts too much attention for us. You know the other players?”

  “I followed them here. They led me to Rickover and then to you.”

  “If we’re with them, why did we jailbreak this bozo?”

  “Okay,” Mosley said, “If you’re really on the level, you bring me the casket.”

  “Now you’re making me laugh. According to Aaron, the casket’s in the freeport vault. All you have to do is go get it.”

  “By the time I can get a search warrant, it’ll be gone. So you bring it to me without stirring up the NewTrust Corporation, and I’ll forget about you.”

  Ron looked at Nicole. She shrugged.

  He turned back at Mosley. “And you get the credit.”

  “Of course.”

  “And the case is closed.”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Okay, you’ve got a deal.”

  “What names are you using?”

  Ron smiled. “Ron and Nicole Carter.”

  “If you get caught, I won’t know you.”

  “Unless it gets you the casket.”

  “Of course. And I need Rickover. He’s going to prison if he won’t testify against his bosses.”

  “Whose locker is the casket in?” Ron asked.

  Mosley looked at Rickover. “Tell him.”

  “Got a smartphone?” Rickover asked.

  Mosley handed him her phone. He worked the phone with his handcuffed hands and Googled up a picture. “That’s him. James Denison. He’s staying in a suite at the Great Circle.”

  Rickover handed the phone to Ron. Nicole stepped over to look at the picture with him. James Denison had a confident smile. His gray hair and beard were clipped short. He was wearing a well-tailored blue suit. Ron glanced at Nicole to see if she was finished looking at the picture before he handed the phone back to Mosley. “How much did he pay you?” he asked.

  “That’s none of your business,” Rickover said.

  “That money is evidence,” Mosley said, “so you can’t have it. We done here?”

  “How will we get in touch with you?”

  “Don’t worry. You get the casket, and I’ll find you.”

  Ron and Nicole were eating lunch at a table on the air-conditioned, glassed-in patio of the Tenderloin Shack. The place was noisy with conversation and the clacking of stoneware. The buffet line was busy with families. Servers dressed in jeans and golf shirts with the Tenderloin Shack logo on the pocket brought drinks to the tables and cleared away dishes so that the new customers coming off the buffet line would have a clean place to sit. Nicole pushed away a half-eaten plate of pork ribs, collard greens, and pinto beans and wiped her lips with her napkin. Ron reached across for one of her ribs. She pushed her plate a little closer to him and then got out her smartphone. She Googled James Denison. “Listen up,” she said. “James Denison. He’s fifty-seven. Trust fund baby. His grandfather developed some sort of coating for cardboard—go figure. He does hands-on charitable work: housing, counseling, job training for homeless women; mentoring program for aged-out foster kids. His wife is a sculptor. Naturalistic stuff. Two grown kids—a doctor and an art history professor.” She looked up at Ron. “Hard to believe he’s a bad player.”

  Ron washed down a mouthful of food with some iced tea. “Don’t have to believe. He bought a stolen art object, so we know he’s a bad player. Bad enough for us, anyway. And only God knows what he’s got stashed in that freeport vault. Maybe we’ll pick up a gratuity because of our good citizenship.”

  “You’re always so optimistic. We’ve got to figure out our angle if we’re going to get into that vault.”

  “You’re right. And Aaron wasn’t lying when he said we couldn’t break in. We’ve got to get Denison to bring the casket out. Which means we need to spend a little time figuring him out. Why is he here? Was it just to pick up the casket, or has he got something else going on? We know he’s staying at the Great Circle. Gambling, maybe? His wife into retro musicals? Are they into guided tours of the desert? We don’t have time to become best buddies. We just need to figure him out enough to know where to apply the pressure.” Ron wiped his hands with his napkin. “You ready?”

  She leaned in close and whispered, “If we’re going to track Denison, we’re going to have to take our guns back to the hotel.”

  He grimaced. “I hate needing a gun and not having one. This job has too many moving parts. Rickover, Mosley, Philips’s guys. None of them working for us. If this job was just about the money and not our freedom, I’d let it go.”

  Rickover and Mosley were sitting on separate queen-size beds opposite each other in Mosley’s hotel room on the seventh floor of the Great Circle Casino and Convention Center. Dirty room-service plates were scattered over the desk and bedside table. Rickover looked a wreck. His clothes were sweat-stained and dirty. He needed a shower and shave. He crowded his coffee cup onto the bedside table, pulled his legs up onto the bed, and leaned back against the headboard. Mosley sat watching him with a cup of coffee in her hand.

  “You came along at the right time,” Rickover said, “even though I would have liked to see you last night. Sleeping leaning up against the wall of a locker is a bitch.”

  “Took me longer to get here than I thought it would. My supervisor wanted to meet about the case.”

  “What did he want?”

  “Homeland Security decided there was no terrorism involved and dumped the case on us, so he gave me the pep talk. It’s early, so there’s no real pressure yet.”

  “You’ll be tying this up with a bow in a few more days.”

  “Hope so. The Carters—are they really trying t
o find the casket to return it?”

  Rickover nodded. “Ron is a little different from your typical thief. Prefers to steal from people he thinks are crooks. As near as I can tell, they show up in a town, rip somebody off, and poof—they’re gone.”

  “So how do you know them?”

  “Sometimes, to avoid publicity and save money, the company would rather buy back an object from a thief than pay off the insured. The first time I met them was on a deal sort of like that. Other times, we’ve hired them to steal back objects that some other thieves stole.”

  “Company do that instead of reporting the theft to the police?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Think they’ll manage it this time?”

  Rickover shook his head. “There is no way in hell. That vault is a death trap. The casket is perfectly safe where it is.”

  Mosley finished her coffee and stood up. “Well, at least your cover is holding up. Although I still think you’re playing too close to the line. Philips’s guys could have put a beating on you.”

  “They aren’t going to really hurt me without Philips’s okay, and Philips wants his money.”

  “I looked at the surveillance footage from the Charles Bay freeport. You didn’t fake the theft, did you?”

  “If the Cellini casket implicates Philips and get us into his vault locker, no one will care about how the bait was set.”

  “You sure about that? Did you tell Denison that the casket was stolen?’

  “I didn’t say it out loud, but he’s no dummy. He negotiated to buy an important art object at a freeport on tribal land and made a cash down payment. He’s got to know it was stolen.”

  “Even after I arrest Philips, it’s still going to be tricky getting a search warrant here.”

  “I don’t think so, but even if it is, we know where the casket is. The only way it could leave here is by plane or over the one bad road going north. So it’s not getting away from us.”