Duke City Split

by Max Austin

  “Not all of them,” Milton said. “Most. The information about the armored truck deliveries didn’t come from here.”

  In truth, Milton had spoken to only a couple of casino security guards. The bank was to blame for the loss, which suited him fine. Anything closer to home could cost him his job. And he knew that Vincent Caro would show no mercy if it turned out his people were to blame. Milton had hardly slept all night, worrying about Caro.

  “We interviewed the armored car driver and guards yesterday,” said the other agent, Hector Aragon. “They deny any leaks. Said they were careful about taking different routes to the bank and all that. The company doesn’t want to take responsibility for the theft.”

  “Naturally,” Milton said. “It’s the bank’s fault, if anyone’s.”

  “Maybe so,” Pam Willis said, “but the robbers showed up immediately after the casino money was delivered. There’s got to be a connection.”

  Milton shrugged his narrow shoulders. “Maybe the robbers got lucky.”

  The agents exchanged a look. The woman said, “We don’t really believe in luck.”

  Milton smiled broadly. “How can you say that, when you’re sitting in a casino? Luck is what we’re all about.”

  “That’s fine for the suckers who drop their money here,” she said. “But we try to inject a little more science into solving crimes.”

  “Of course,” Milton said. “And what has this science shown you so far?”

  Again with the look between them. Aragon shrugged.

  She said, “Two of the men resemble the ones who have robbed a number of banks throughout the West. They wear disguises, including dark makeup. The agent who’s been tracking them calls them the Maybelline Bandits.”

  “Put that name out, and you’ll get more TV coverage.”

  “We’re getting plenty already,” Aragon said.

  “If these men have been robbing banks in other states,” Milton said, “does that mean they’re not from here after all?”

  “Too soon to say,” Aragon said. “Maybe they only operate in states where they don’t live. That would be the smart thing.”

  “So far,” Willis said, “these guys seem to be smart. But if they’re from out of town, how did they learn where your casino delivered its money? They could’ve been staking you guys out for weeks.”

  Milton shrugged. “It’s possible.”

  “We’ve got people checking motels and rental car places,” she said. “Can you check your own hotel guests? Maybe the robbers were ballsy enough to stay here.”

  “Of course,” Milton said, jotting a note on a pad of paper before him. “What would I be looking for? Do you have names? Descriptions?”

  She rolled her eyes. “Nothing more than what we’ve all seen on the security tape from the bank. But maybe you can find a pattern, someone who’s checked in every Sunday night for a few weeks, so they’re here first thing on Monday morning when the armored truck pulls out.”

  Milton made another note, but he had no intention of pursuing that angle. The last thing he wanted going public was thieves under his own roof. The Tribal Council would make sure he never worked anywhere again.

  “What about the third man?” he said. “You said two were perhaps these Maybelline Bandits. Who’s the third man?”

  “We don’t know yet,” she said. “They’ve never used an extra man before.”

  “If it’s even the same guys,” Aragon said.

  “Right,” Willis said. “But he wore a mask while the other two didn’t, so we suspect he might be local. Maybe he’s the one who led them to your bank.”

  Milton nodded. Wrote third man local? on his pad.

  “What do you know about a bar called Silvio’s?” Aragon asked.

  “I’ve never been there,” Milton said. “Heard it’s a rough place.”

  “A bartender got killed outside that bar last night,” Willis said. “We don’t have any reason to believe it’s related, but APD had been asking questions at Silvio’s. They even sent us to a couple of guys who turned out to be unconnected to the bank job.”

  “You think this murder had something to do with our money?”

  “No way to know at this point,” she said. “Maybe you can mention Silvio’s to your people, see if they hang out there.”

  “I’ll do that. But I’m sure none of my people would make the mistake of revealing anything about our operations. Certainly not in a place like that.”

  “Anything you hear might help,” Aragon said. “Keep in touch.”

  He assured them he would, and the agents stood to leave. Milton followed them to the door, made sure they weren’t returning with some last thought, then hurried back to his desk. He dialed a phone number.

  When a deep voice answered, Milton said, “Mr. Caro? I’ve got information for you.”

  Chapter 34

  Bud Knox turned the radio off and leaned back in his desk chair. He’d been listening to the news since Mick alerted him to the dead bartender. He’d learned that Sid Harris had suffered numerous broken bones before being shot in the head. Tortured, from the sound of it, as if someone had been trying to get information from him.

  If Harris spilled Mick’s name or even Johnny’s name, it was possible the killer would find a way to identify Bud as well. He needed to be ready. He needed more firepower than the little revolver he had locked away in his safe.

  And what about Johnny? Mick had said he’d warn him, but Bud had no faith the kid could take care of himself.

  At least Johnny couldn’t lead anyone to the money. It had been risky to move it across town, but now Bud was glad they had. No matter what went wrong, that money remained safe. Once they were in the clear, they could split it up, and he could be done with crime once and for all.

  He’d miss the excitement, the camaraderie with Mick, but he wouldn’t miss all the worry that followed a heist. Before a robbery, there was strategizing to keep his mind busy. But afterward, all he could think about was what could go wrong.

  The most immediate problem was the bank guard and his girlfriend. The bartender’s killer might or might not be after him and his crew, but the bank guard most definitely had demanded half a million dollars.

  The guard required a permanent solution, but that wasn’t as easy as Mick made it sound. If they bumped off the guard, there’d be even more heat from the cops and the FBI. Plus, murder raised certain issues of disposal and cover-up that he and Mick hadn’t faced before. It was one thing to hide a bunch of cash. It was quite another to get rid of a corpse.

  Bud sighed and moved his computer mouse so the darkened screen flicked back to life. A grid of stock market figures filled the screen, green numbers marching in columns, but he didn’t really see them.

  A plan occurred to him. It had its flaws, sure; he could see some right away. But it was better than anything else they’d come up with so far.

  He called Mick.

  Chapter 35

  Johnny Muller was on the sales floor at Big Blast Audio, checking the wall clock every few minutes. Time was almost up, and he hadn’t heard from his partners.

  Fortunately, it was another slow day at the store. Only a trickle of looky-loos who couldn’t afford high-end stereo systems for their beater cars. Johnny handled them on autopilot, not caring whether they took their business elsewhere. He wanted to be elsewhere himself.

  He drifted over to the wall of windows that fronted the store and looked out at the parking lot. The wind was gusting, blowing clouds of papery elm seeds across the asphalt. Always made him think of confetti.

  His cell phone vibrated in his pocket. Johnny checked the readout but didn’t recognize the number. He glanced over his shoulder to make sure no one was nearby, then punched the button to answer.

  “You know who this is?” said a gruff voice, and Johnny recognized it immediately as Mick’s.

  “Yeah.”

  “Have you heard from the bank guard today?”

  “No, but it’s nearly time to
call—”

  “I know. Listen. Here’s what you do. Tell him to meet you tonight.”

  “Where?”

  “There at your store would work. In the parking lot, where you saw him before. When he gets there, take him to that restaurant. You know which one I mean.”

  “The one that’s boarded up?”

  “That’s right. When you get there, park around back. We’ll have the locks off the building so you can bring him in.”

  Johnny looked around again, but no one was within earshot. “You want me to take him to the money?”

  “Just get him inside that restaurant. We’ll have a surprise waiting.”

  “But—”

  Too late. Mick had hung up.

  Chapter 36

  Rex Cutler and Dwight Shelby watched the apartment building where Mick Wyman lived. They’d been parked in a dusty vacant lot across the street nearly two hours. Dwight was getting antsy.

  “How long we supposed to sit here?” he demanded. “That money could be right inside that apartment, and we’re just sitting here like a couple of tree stumps.”

  “Take it easy, Dwight. You heard what Harris said about this guy. Not somebody to fuck around with.”

  Harris had said more than that, once they’d got him to talking. He’d laughed at them, spitting blood on the pavement, sarcastically wishing them well in dealing with this Mick Wyman. He’d made Wyman sound like someone who’d just as soon fuck you up as eat breakfast.

  “Pretty clear there’s nobody home,” Dwight said. “No lights on. Nobody coming and going.”

  They’d covered this same territory three or four times already. Typical of his conversations with Dwight. The musclehead never lost an argument. He’d just keep coming back to it until Rex gave up.

  Rex had to agree that the place looked empty. People had emerged from a couple of the apartments in the eight-unit building, skirting the flower beds and getting into their cars and rushing off to work or wherever, but number 6 remained dark and quiet.

  “The man’s sitting on millions of dollars,” Rex said. “I imagine he keeps a gun handy at all times.”

  “Fine,” Dwight said. “You got a gun. I’ll kick in the door, and you go in blasting.”

  Rex sighed. “What if the money’s not in there? How can we get him to tell us where he stashed it if he’s already dead?”

  “We could just knock on the fucking door. See if he answers.”

  “All right, goddamnit. Go knock on the door. I’ll wait here.”

  That gave Dwight pause. “What if he’s in there?”

  “Tell him you got the wrong apartment and walk away.”

  “But that doesn’t—”

  “We’ll figure something out,” Rex said. “Just go see if anyone comes to the door.”

  He slipped the revolver out from under the tails of his loose shirt.

  “I’ll be watching in case he gives you any trouble.”

  Dwight nodded and got out of the truck. He paused to stretch his overdeveloped arms, then crossed the street. With his bowed legs and broad shoulders, he looked like a gorilla out for a stroll.

  At the apartment door, he looked over his shoulder at Rex, who twirled a finger in the air to tell him to hurry it up.

  Dwight banged on the door with the palm of his hand, loud enough to be heard a block away. He waited, glancing back at Rex, but nobody came to the door. He knocked again. Still nothing. Dwight made a show of shrugging and shaking his head before he returned to the truck.

  “That was some good acting there, Dwight,” Rex said as his partner climbed back into the cab. “You’ll be up for an Oscar soon.”

  “Fuck you. It told us what we needed to know. He ain’t home.”

  “That’s right.”

  “So now what?”

  “So now you go around back and find a window to climb through.”

  “A window?”

  “Yeah. Take that tire iron with you. Nobody’s listening around here, or they would’ve come out to see what all the knocking was about. Go find a way to get inside. I’ll keep watch out here.”

  Dwight mulled this for a moment. “Then what?”

  “Let me in the front door, genius.”

  Grumbling, Dwight climbed out of the truck and walked around the apartment complex. He had the tire iron in his hand, most of it concealed up the sleeve of his sweatshirt.

  Rex rolled down his window, listening intently, and pretty soon was rewarded with the crash and tinkle of broken glass. None of the apartment doors flew open, so he figured they were safe. He got out of the truck just as Wyman’s door opened and Dwight peeked out through the gap.

  Holding the pistol under his shirttail, Rex crossed the street and went inside. Smooth as could be.

  The place was tidy and sparsely furnished. Rex went straight to the bedroom. Daggers of broken glass littered the floor. He checked the closet and looked under the bed. A few clothes and a box of tools, but nothing that could conceal a big pile of money.

  He stuck the pistol in his belt and pulled his Buck knife from his hip pocket. He unfolded the four-inch blade and slashed open the pillow on the bed, but found nothing inside but foam rubber. He was cutting open the mattress when Dwight appeared in the door.

  “No money in the living room,” Dwight said. “Bathroom, neither.”

  “It’s not here,” Rex said, “but I never really expected it to be. Look for a key or a piece of paper with an address on it, something like that.”

  Dwight nodded and went back into the living room. By the time Rex finished with the bed and joined him there, Dwight had followed his lead and sliced open every cushion. Yellow foam bulged from the sofa and chair. Dwight had moved to the kitchen, where he was dumping out boxes of cereal and other shit into the sink, searching for a clue.

  Frustrated, Rex kicked over an end table, sending a lamp crashing to the carpeted floor. Dwight didn’t even look up from what he was doing.

  Rex went into the bathroom. He looked in the toilet tank and in the cabinet under the sink but found nothing out of the ordinary.

  “Goddamnit.”

  Dwight was crashing around in the kitchen, and Rex found his partner dumping every drawer. Silverware and other stuff littered the tile floor.

  “Forget it,” Rex said. “He didn’t leave anything here to show where that money is. He’s smarter than that.”

  Dwight followed Rex into the living room and surveyed the damage. “He’ll sure know we’ve been here.”

  “That’s all right,” Rex said. “Give him something to worry about. Let’s get out of here. We’ll swing by later, see if he’s come home.”

  “Hang on,” Dwight said. “I need to take a leak.”

  “Go ahead. I’ll wait in the truck.”

  Dwight unzipped his jeans there in the living room and unleashed his spray on the carpet and the gutted furniture, giggling like a chimp.

  Rex sighed and went outside. Squinting against the bright sunshine, he crossed the street and got into the pickup. Sat there waiting for Dwight, wondering how they could track down Mick Wyman and the money.

  Chapter 37

  Dolores Delgado was painting her fingernails when the doorbell rang. Glittery green wasn’t her usual color, but it reminded her of money, and money was all that was on her mind today. Soon, they would hear from the blond boy at the stereo store. He would call and tell them where to pick up the cash. He had no choice.

  Once they had the money in hand, she could press for the big wedding she’d always wanted. Tell Diego the windfall was a sign from God: The time had finally come to tie the knot.

  Not that things couldn’t go wrong. She knew they were playing with fire. But she trusted that Diego could handle whatever came. He was in the kitchen now, cleaning his pistol, getting ready in case the gringo tried to double-cross them.

  Now the doorbell. No sense asking Diego if he would answer it. She knew what he would say. Instead, she carefully set down the bottle of nail polish, got to her
feet and went to the door, holding her wet nails out to the open air.

  “Who is it?” Diego called from the kitchen.

  Dolores checked the peephole and saw a dark-haired man in a narrow black suit.

  “Some man in a necktie,” she shouted over her shoulder.

  Careful not to mess up her long nails, Dolores used her palms to turn the doorknob and opened the door a crack.

  “Sí?”

  “I’m looking for Diego Ramirez. Is he here?”

  “Who’s asking?”

  “Special Agent Aragon.” He flashed an ID. “FBI.”

  “Oh. Sí, come in.”

  Dolores swung the door open wider, shouting over her shoulder, “Diego! It’s a man from the FBI.”

  “This is my partner,” Aragon said as a woman in a matching black suit stepped onto the dusty concrete porch. “She was parking the car.”

  The woman introduced herself as Pam Willis and tried to shake hands, but Dolores stepped back. “My nails are wet.”

  The woman smiled at her, but Dolores didn’t see much friendliness in it.

  Diego came out of the kitchen, drying his hands with a dish towel. He was dressed in jeans and an old T-shirt and his brown feet were bare.

  “Mr. Ramirez,” the woman said. “You didn’t go to work today.”

  Dolores fought to keep a scowl off her face. She’d told Diego he should report for work, try to make everything appear normal, but he’d wanted to stay by the phone all day, waiting for the call. Now the FBI was here.

  “I called in sick,” Diego said. “I didn’t get much sleep, and I had a bad headache.”

  “You seem fine now,” Aragon said.

  “I’m much better. Guess I was still a little shook up about the robbery, you know. Makes it hard to sleep.”

  The agents glanced around the living room, but Dolores didn’t offer them a seat. She wanted them out of her house as quickly as possible.

  “Did the bank ask you to come over here?” Diego asked.

  “No,” the woman said. “We just thought it was unusual that you’d phoned in sick two days in a row after the robbery. Thought we’d better check it out.”