Tony winced. “Save it for happy hour, boys.”
“Yeah, we’re working stiffs right now.” Crane put the mic up and rubbed his hands together. “The bait has arrived!”
“We haven’t reeled the fish in yet, Stevo.”
“Relax, pard. We will. This is one time I’m glad the ladies have a thing for you. No other way we would have scored all those lapel transmitters and mobile radios from central supply so quick and easy.”
“Catherine does not have a thing for me. She’s a friend from Quantico days.”
“Whatever.” Crane snapped his gum.
The radio crackled, and Crane’s jaw stilled. Tony stiffened, waiting.
“Crane and Lucano, come in.” A different voice than the man with the dog.
“Talk to us,” Crane said.
“Me and the wife are situated on a bench about forty feet from the Dumpster. A gray commercial van with no markings just pulled up to the curb. It’s getting too dark out to read the license plate, but I think it’s smudged with dirt anyway. Surprise, surprise.” A snort. “Okaaay. Two men just got out, and they’re walking toward the box. One is short and overweight and bald and real nervous. He keeps looking around like the bogeyman is about to pounce.”
“Plate,” Stevo mouthed. Tony nodded.
“The other is big and bulky and doesn’t seem to care who’s watching. He moves like a man who knows how to take care of business. Can’t see his face—he’s keeping his head down—but he’s not Caucasian. Now he’s reaching for the box. Yep. As I suspected. The bulge of a shoulder arm.”
Professional thug? Or law enforcement?
Tony raised his brows at Crane. “Cooke?” Stevo scowled and Tony smiled. Better save the razzing for later.
“We’ve got a third party.” The voice came through clipped and urgent. “Someone opened the rear van doors from the inside. No glimpse of who it is though.”
Crane grumbled under this breath.
The radio hissed. “Okay. Ghost Van is on the move, heading south on G Street. Copy that?”
Tony started the car while his partner keyed the mic.
“Loud and clear. Well pick them up at the intersection of G and Eighth. Great work, Phillips. Go take your wife out to eat.”
“Roger that. Let us know how it all turns out. Doing this made me feel like the clock turned back at least a decade.”
“Yeah. I’m with you.”
The wistful tone made Tony’s heart sink. He turned out onto the road. Most of the time his partner was like sand under his collar. Plus he was a menace on the street. So why did he feel sorry that Steve was about to be benched? He shook himself mentally. Neither of them had time for sentiment right now.
“Enough old home week, Stevo. Let’s kick it into gear!”
“I’m on it.” Crane gave a flurry of instructions to the retired agents stationed in vehicles around the perimeter.
“Unsubs still en route toward Eighth,” another voice said.
Tony pulled over within sight of the target intersection.
“Gotcha!” Crane flat-handed a drum flourish on the dash.
A gray van cruised up, signaling a right turn. Tony inserted their vehicle a few cars behind the unknown subjects. The van drove ahead a few blocks and then took a right onto Mercer Street. Tony kept going on Eighth. Crane notified their man on Telegraph Street. The new tail picked up the van and soon reported it turning right onto Dorchester, heading for West Broadway a possible turnoff spot if the unsubs’ objective was the 1-93 Expressway. The whole route was a bit circuitous—probably trying to flush a tail.
Tony glanced at his partner. Crane’s craggy face was locked into a feral sneer. Too reminiscent of the look on his face when he pulled that gun stunt with Maxine Webb. But they were in this together now. No going back. Tony knew the score when he kept Stevo in the loop.
He may have made a mistake. A big one.
Tony drove on a parallel route as fast as he dared. He turned onto West Broadway bare seconds after the ghost van passed by They had to stay with the van from now on. Darkness had crept in, forcing both the hunted and the hunter to turn on their lights. For a fresh tail car, identifying the ghost van by sight would grow difficult to impossible as full darkness overtook them.
The unsubs’ vehicle took the entrance to the Expressway north. Tony followed but stayed in the right lane while the ghost van moved over into the next one.
“I think they’re heading for downtown.”
Tony frowned. What was significant about that destination? Something … but what?
Keeping the unsubs’ taillights in view, Tony stayed in his lane and allowed another vehicle to separate them as they went through the Central Artery Tunnel. Just past the Atlantic Avenue exit sign, the van signaled and moved into the lane in front of them.
Crane got on the radio. “Anybody in the downtown area in case we need to make another switch on tail cars?”
Two voices answered—one from the intersection of Broad Street and Wendell, another from North Street and Blackstone. Tony shook his head. The coverage was too loose. Who knew which street the unsubs would take after exiting onto Atlantic. Options were boundless.
“Sit tight,” Crane said into the mic, “and well let you know if you’re in position to take over the tail.” Replies came in the affirmative.
Tony maintained the gap between their vehicle and the van, exiting behind it. After they got off the Expressway, he risked stepping on the gas to make up some distance. The ghost van glided into the heart of historic Boston and took a left at State Street. Tony followed but didn’t crowd their quarry. Ahead, a stoplight went yellow. The van charged on through. Tony screeched to a halt as pedestrians stepped from the curb in front of him. Stevo thickened the air with curses. Tony steamed in silence.
They watched the van’s taillights fade.
I should know where they’re going. Something so obvious that I’m missing it. What is it, Lord?
The light flared green. Tony squealed tires away from the intersection, but the unsubs’ vehicle was long gone in the flow of traffic.
Crane’s gum snapped like the empty jaws of a steel trap. “I can’t believe we lost them when we’re this close!”
Tony’s insight gelled. Of course! “It doesn’t matter. I know where they’re going. And we’re a pair of prize chowder brains for not figuring it out sooner.”
I shouldn’t be here.
Desi started, then looked around. What? Max was in her place; Desi was in hers. Jerry Lewis was yucking it up in Cinderfella. So where did that thought come from?
She shrugged and stuffed another cracker in her mouth. Better to keep on eating rather than try to talk. Not that either of them had seen two seconds of the movie. She was watching Max, and Max was staring at the kitchen as if her gaze might draw her husband through the garage entrance.
Where was Dean anyhow?
After waiting a half hour, Max insisted that they start the movie without him. The woman had practically force-fed Desi ever since, jumping up every few minutes to grab more dip or crackers or fluff the couch pillows. Enough already! Desi’s nerves were about ready to dance the cha-cha right out of the house. Maybe that’s where the chicken-out thought came from. Sheer pins and needles.
Had Dean already been arrested? Tony could be on his way for Max. Desi bit the side of her cheek—and tasted blood. Not good with crab dip. She set the partially eaten cracker on a little paper plate in her lap.
I really don’t want to see Max arrested. But how do I leave without arousing suspicion?
Or maybe the time for subtlety was past. She was entitled to some answers, and she should probably get them before the Texan was hauled off to the hoosegow.
Desi set the paper plate on the coffee table, picked up the remote control, and shut the movie off. Max blinked at her as if awakening from a long sleep. “You might as well come clean. I already know something’s rotten around here.”
Max closed her eyes. A tear slipped
down one cheek. “I’ve been tryin’ so hard to keep my troubles from you. You’ve been through so much. I thought I was doin’ a pretty good job of pretending … until now.”
Desi’s spine stiffened. Max is confessing already? Way too easy.
Max sniffled. “I think Dean’s havin’ an affair.” The last word was a wail that morphed into a cloudburst. Max would have called it bawling like a branded calf.
Desi couldn’t move. An affair? That’s what Max thought? Was this tragic act for real? Of course, it was! Her Max didn’t cry unless her heart was shattered. Desi sprang from the chair to the sofa and wrapped her friend in her arms. Max sobbed into her shoulder.
“Shh. Shh, Maxie-girl.” She patted her friend’s back. “There’s got to be a better explanation.”
Yeah, like he’s out shuttling thieves around with their loot. Oh, rats! That’s not a better explanation.
Max sat back and pressed the heels of her hands to her eyes. “He’s hardly”—hic—“ever home anymore. And when he’s around”—hic—“he’s not really here.” She took her hands away from her face and glared at Desi like she were the culprit. “A woman can tell when she doesn’t have her man’s attention.”
“Why do you think it’s an affair?” So where did this new wrinkle leave her theory that Max was one of the crooks? In the dust, that was where. Desi gritted her teeth. What was I thinking?
Max sucked in a long, deep breath as if gathering the scattered pieces of herself. “Phone calls that he doesn’t think I know about at odd hours of the night. Sudden, unscheduled trips into the wild blue yonder. A la-la land smile on his face when he thinks I’m not looking. I know those cow eyes. He’s in love, but not with me anymore.” Her face reddened. “And things like tonight—we’ve got something scheduled, but he goes off on a flimsy excuse and doesn’t come back.” Something between a moan and a growl escaped her throat.
“Max, I don’t think Dean is seeing another woman.”
“Why not?”
Desi looked at the monster plasma television. What should she tell her? “Hey, I thought you were a dirty thief and a liar, but now I think its just your husband.” Sure, that would give Max her confidence back. No, she couldn’t just blurt out an accusation.
I should leave now. Her stomach pinched. Just take Max and go …
Go? Where did that thought come from? She wasn’t anywhere near done here. She had some fences to mend with her best pal in all the world. Fences that Max didn’t even know had been broken. How could Desi have suspected straight arrow Maxine Webb of being involved in anything crooked? She ought to have her brain removed and forensically examined for discombobulated synapses.
“Max … did you tell Dean about the paintings I found at the storage company?”
“No way! You asked me not—Oh, dear.” Her shoulders scrunched in toward one another.
“Oh, dear what?” Desi’s chest tightened.
“Before I caught you at the docks, I was mad at you for keepin’ secrets. I told Dean I was sure you’d found something and were keepin’ it to yourself. He got pretty excited. Asked me if I knew what or where, but I never told—even after I knew.” Max lifted her hands. “Honestly, that man’s been fascinated with the inner workings of HJ Securities for months now. It’s been murder tryin’ to maintain confidentiality … Oh, no!”
Every freckle stood out on the redhead’s face. She leaped from the sofa and paced up the room. “Oh, no, no, no, no! I’m nuts, aren’t I, to be thinkin’ what I’m thinkin’?” Her glance pleaded with Desi.
Desi stood. “International art thieves could use a private jet pilot.”
Max plopped onto a chair. She stared, mouth quivering, eyes twin pits of shock. “Why didn’t I see this before? My Texas horse sense must have galloped off into the sunset.”
“Sorry, pal, but the Doctor of Densicology degree is mine. I had the wrong person tried and convicted.”
Max frowned. “Who?”
Desi shook her head. Not a good time to explain. Later on, after the bad guys—including Dean—were corralled and put away, she could devote her life to making amends for wrongheaded suspicions. Right now, they needed to—
Get out!
Desi stopped breathing. Make that summa cum laude in Densicology When would she ever learn to tell the difference between her own thoughts and the ones straight from the throne of grace?
“Max.”
Her friend sat slack-jawed, staring into space. Desi could almost see the wheels turning as Max rearranged her thinking about her husband’s behavior.
Desi grabbed her friend’s sleeve. “We need to leave. Now I’ve got a bad feeling.”
“You’ve got a bad feeling!” Fire ignited Max’s eyes. “I’ve been played for a fool by my own husband. How do you think I feel?”
Frustration clawed at Desi. High emotion didn’t bode well for getting the stubborn Texan’s cooperation, and Desi wasn’t leaving without her.
“I’m going to stake the dirty polecat out over an anthill.” Max squeezed the chair arms. “Better yet, turn him loose in the middle of Death Valley without a canteen. And no sunscreen either!”
Desi swallowed a sad laugh. “You talk like I think sometimes. We can flay bad guys alive later. Right now, we’re leaving.” She grabbed Max’s arm and tugged her to her feet.
Snick! The garage entrance door opened. Footfalls sounded. Not one person. Several.
“Let’s go!” Desi pulled, but Max put on the brakes, gaze riveted on the kitchen doorway.
Dean walked into the living room, white-faced. Beside him came the short, spare man in the fedora that Desi had glimpsed at the fast-food place. Fedora Fella looks familiar. And not just from today. Where?
Desi swallowed, attention arrested by the small pistol clutched in the man’s slender hand. A third person barged between the first two—an ice-eyed bull of a man with an olive complexion, a big chin, and a much bigger gun.
Cloaked in shadows, Tony skirted the brick outer wall of the Boston Public Museum of Arts and Antiquities. Gun drawn, he edged toward the ghost van backed up to the building at the rear service entrance.
The wind had died with the setting of the sun, and the area was deserted and quiet except for the activity in the dim circle of light spilling from the open door of the building. Boston Public was located on the edge of the downtown district with no nightspots nearby. Traffic on surrounding streets was sporadic, pedestrians nil. Great for privacy.
Tony halted his approach for another examination of the surroundings. No lookout posted that he could spot. The thieves must’ve been confident that they could operate without interruption. Either that or haste overrode caution. Maybe both.
He’d been right about their destination. Wrong about their purpose. This was no unloading operation. These people were packing up the store for a getaway.
Still a good fifty feet away from the vehicle, Tony eased another foot forward. Grit crunched. He froze, gun raised.
Two unsubs hustled out the door of the museum, one chasing the other, voices raised. They stopped near the van’s gaping cargo doors and faced off. Dr. Plate poked his finger at an unknown with his back to Tony, a man of medium build who resembled no one on the suspect list. Still, something about him tugged at Tony’s memory. Was he the third accomplice who’d been in the back of the van at the park?
“… can’t wait …” This from the unknown accomplice.
Where have I heard that voice before?
“Not leaving without …” Plate’s firm response.
The mystery man shook his head. “Meet … plane … go now!”
The desperate inflection said as much as the words. Frightened crooks did one of two things when the law pounced—turned reckless or helpless.
Which kind are you, buddy boys?
Tony stepped closer.
He stopped again as the husky accomplice emerged from the museum lugging a box. Tony still couldn’t see his face. His head was turned toward the arguing pair. Plate said
something to the unsub with the crate and got a nod in return. The curator grabbed the other man’s arm, and the two of them went back into the museum. No doubt who was in charge here.
Who would have thought Sanderson Plate was the Chief? I underestimated the little weasel.
The barrel-chested man deposited his burden in the vehicle, then turned and followed the first two. The van body seesawed. Someone was moving around in there. Unsub number 3 from the Dumpster pickup! A wild card. No way to tell if he was carrying. That left four bad guys—one, maybe two armed—against a pair of agents.
Tony smiled. They might just pull this off without backup after all.
The big man stepped outside burdened with another load.
Stevo, you’d better be in place on the other side of the doors. It’s party time!
Tony shifted to the balls of his feet and rushed forward. “FBI! Hold it right there, Cooke! You’re under arrest!”
The man dropped his crate and went for his gun. Tony fired. The man staggered backward as if kicked in the chest, and then sprawled, loose-limbed, to the pavement.
Tony’s heart lurched. God help me! I’ve just killed my ASAC!
Shouts rang from the museum. Steve’s blocky figure leaped over the downed man.
Tony waved him on. “Get Plate and the other guy inside. I’ll take the one in the van.”
Crane jerked a nod and darted away. Pretty speedy for a man built like a gorilla. Yelps came from inside the museum.
From the van, not a sound.
Tony stood to the right of the open cargo doors and trained his gun at the rear compartment. “Throw out your weapon, and come out with your hands in the air.”
No response.
Running feet and more shouts from inside the building.
Tony watched for signs of movement in the vehicle. Nothing. The absolute stillness tied a knot in Tony’s middle. Was the unsub waiting for him to show himself? Either the guy was cool, competent, and dangerous or a total jellyfish. He had to bet on the former.
A distraction. Something to draw initial fire. Tony glanced around.
Wood from the dropped crate scattered the area. A chunk lay at his feet. He hooked it with his shoe and flipped it past the opening, then leaped after it, weapon extended, elbows flexed.
Reluctant Burglar: A Novel Page 22
