“Can you prove the funds came from a legitimate source?” the sergeant asked formally.
Muller looked at Carnegie. “What happened to your other assistant, Detective? What was his name? Carl? I liked him. He didn’t last too long.”
Carnegie had gone through two assistants in the time he’d been after Jake Muller. He supposed that though the citizenry and the reporters were impressed with the obsessive-compulsive cop he’d make his coworkers’ lives miserable.
“Okay,” the detective said. “If you’re not going to talk that’s just the way it is. Oh, but I should let you know: We’ve got some information we’re looking at right now. It’s very interesting.”
“Ah, more of your surveillance?”
“Maybe.”
“And what exactly did you find?”
“Let’s just call it interesting.”
Muller said, “‘Interesting.’ You said that twice. Hey, you want a beer? You, Sergeant?”
Carnegie answered for both of them. “No.”
Muller fetched a Heineken from the kitchen. He continued. “So what you’re saying is that after you’ve gone over this interesting information you’ll have enough evidence to arrest me for real this time. But if I confess it’ll go a lot easier. Right?”
“Come on, Jake. Nobody was hurt at Anco. You’ll do, what, five years. You’re a young guy. It’d be a church social for you.”
Muller nodded for a moment, drank a good bit of beer. Then said seriously, “But if I confessed, then I’d have to give the money back, right?”
Carnegie froze for a moment. Then he smiled. “I’m not going to stop until I nail you, Jake. You know that.” He said to the sergeant, “Let’s go. This’s a waste of time.”
“At last there’s something we agree on,” Muller offered and closed the door after them.
* * *
The next day, William Carnegie, wearing a perfectly pressed gray suit, white shirt and striped red tie, strode into the watch room of the Annandale police station, Hager behind him.
He nodded at the eight officers sitting in the cheap fiberglass chairs. The men and women fell silent as the detective surveyed his troops.
Coffee was sipped, pencils tapped, pads doodled upon.
Watches glanced at.
“We’re going to make a push on the case. I went to see Muller yesterday. I lit a fire under him and it had an effect: Last night I was monitoring his email and he made a wire transfer of fifty thousand dollars from a bank in Portland to a bank in Lyon, France. I’m convinced he’s getting ready to flee the jurisdiction.”
Carnegie had managed to get level-two surveillance on Muller. This high-tech approach to investigations involved establishing real-time links to his online service provider and the computers at Muller’s credit card companies, banks, cell phone service and the like. Anytime that Muller made a purchase, went online, made a call, withdrew cash and so on, the officers on the Anco team would know almost instantly.
“Big Brother’s going to be watching everything our boy’s doing.”
“Who?” asked one of the younger cops.
“1984?” Carnegie responded, astonished that the man hadn’t heard of the novel. “The book?” he asked sarcastically. When the officer continued to stare blankly he added, “Big Brother was the government. It watched everything the citizens did.” He nodded at a nearby dusty computer terminal and then turned back to the officers. “You, me, and Big Brother — we’re closing the net on Muller.” Noting the stifled grins, he wished he’d been a bit less dramatic. But, damn it, didn’t they realize that Annandale had become the laughingstock of Southern California law enforcers for not closing the Anco case? The CHP, LAPD and even the cops in small towns nearby couldn’t believe that Annandale Police, despite having the biggest per capita budget of any town in Orange County, hadn’t collared a single perp in the heist.
Carnegie divided the group into three teams and assigned them to shifts at the computer workstations, with orders to relay to him instantly everything that Muller did.
As he was walking back to his office to look further at Muller’s wire transfer to France he heard a voice. “Hey, Dad?”
He turned to see his son striding down the corridor toward him, dressed in his typical seventeen-year-old’s uniform: earrings, shabby Tomb Raider T-shirt and pants so baggy they looked like they’d fall off at any moment. And the hair: spiked up and dyed a garish yellow. Still, Billy was an above-average student and nothing like the troublemakers that Carnegie dealt with in an official capacity.
“What’re you doing here?” he asked. It was early May. School should be in session, shouldn’t it?
“It’s parent-teacher day, remember? You and Mom’re supposed to meet Mr. Gibson at ten. I came by to make sure you’d be there.”
Damn… Carnegie’d forgotten about the meeting. And he was supposed to have a conference call with two investigators in France about Muller’s wire transfer. That was set for nine-forty-five. If he postponed it, the French policemen wouldn’t be available later because of the time difference and the call would have to be delayed until tomorrow.
“I’ve got it on my calendar,” the detective said absently; something had begun to nag at his thoughts. What was it? He added to his son, “I just might be a little late.”
“Dad, it’s important,” Billy said.
“I’ll be there.”
Then the thought that been buzzing around Carnegie’s consciousness settled. “Billy, are you still taking French?”
His son blinked. “Yeah, you signed my report card, don’t you remember?”
“Who’s your teacher?”
“Mrs. Vandell.”
“Is she at school now?”
“I guess. Yeah, probably. Why?”
“I need her to help me with a conference call. You go on home now. Tell your mother I’ll be at the meeting as soon as I can.”
Carnegie left the boy standing in the middle of the hallway and jogged to his office, so excited about the brainstorm of using the French teacher to help him translate that he nearly collided with a workman hunched over one of the potted plants in the corridor, trimming leaves.
“Sorry,” he called and hurried into his office. He phoned Billy’s French teacher and — when he told her how important the case was — she reluctantly agreed to help him translate. The conference call went off as scheduled and the woman’s translation efforts were a huge help; without his brainstorm to use the woman he couldn’t have communicated with the two officers at all. Still, the investigators in France reported that they’d found no impropriety in Muller’s investments or financial dealings. He paid taxes and had never run into any trouble with the gendarmes.
Carnegie asked if they had tapped his phone and were monitoring his online and banking activities.
There was a pause and then one of the officers responded. Billy’s French teacher translated, “They say, ‘We are not so high tech as you. We prefer to catch criminals the old-fashioned way.’” They did agree to alert their customs agents to check Muller’s luggage carefully the next time he was in the country.
Carnegie thanked the two men and the teacher then hung up
We prefer to catch criminals the old-fashioned way.…
Which is why we’ll get him and you won’t, thought the detective as he spun around in his chair and began staring intently at Big Brother’s computer monitor once again.
* * *
Jake Muller stepped out of the department store in downtown Annandale, following the young man he’d noticed in the jewelry department.
The boy kept his head down and walked quickly away from the store.
When they were passing an alleyway Muller suddenly jogged forward, grabbed the skinny kid by the arm and pulled him into the shadows.
“Jesus,” he whispered in shock.
Muller pinned him up against the wall. “Don’t think about running.” A glance toward the boy’s pockets. “And don’t think about anything else.”
“What’s your name?”
“I—”
“Name?” Muller barked.
“Sam. Sam Phillips. Like, whatta you want?”
“Give me the watch.”
The boy sighed and rolled his eyes.
“Give it to me. You don’t want me to have to take it off you.” Muller outweighed the boy by fifty pounds.
The kid reached into his pocket and handed him the Seiko that Muller had seen him lift off the counter at the store. Muller took it.
“Who’re you? Security? A cop?”
Muller eyed him carefully and then pocketed the watch. “You were clumsy. If the guard hadn’t been taking a leak he would’ve caught you.”
“What guard?”
“That’s my point. The little guy in the ratty jacket and dirty jeans.”
“He was a security guard?”
“Yeah.”
“How’d you spot him?”
Muller said grimly, “Let’s say I’ve had my share of run-ins with guys like that.”
The boy looked up for a moment, examined Muller then resumed his study of the asphalt in the alley. “How’d you spot me?”
“Wasn’t hard. You were skulking around the store like you’d already been busted.”
“You gonna shake me down or something?”
Muller looked up and down the street cautiously. Then he said, “I need somebody to help me with this thing I’ve got going tomorrow.”
“Why me?” the boy asked.
“There’re some people who’d like to set me up.”
“Cops?”
“Just… some people.” Muller nodded at the watch. “But since I spotted you boost that, I know you’re not working for anybody.”
“Whatta I have to do?”
“It’s easy. I need a driver. A half hour’s work.”
Part scared, part excited. “Like, how much?”
“I’ll pay you five hundred.”
Another examination of the scenery. “For a half hour?”
Muller nodded.
“Damn. Five hundred?”
“That’s right.”
“What’re we doing?” he asked, a little cautious now. “I mean, exactly.”
“I’ve got to… pick up a few things at this place — a house on Tremont. I need you to park in the alley behind the house while I go inside for a few minutes.”
The kid grinned. “So, you going to ’jack some stuff? This’s a heist, right?”
Muller shushed him. “Even if it was, you think I’d say it out loud?”
“Sorry. I wasn’t thinking.” The boy squinted then said, “Hey, there’s this friend of mine? And we’ve got a connection. He’s getting us some good stuff. I mean, way sweet. We can turn it around in a week. You come in with a thousand or two, he’ll give us a better discount. You can double your money. You interested?”
“Drugs?”
“Yeah.”
“I don’t ever go near ’em. And you shouldn’t either. They’ll screw up your life. Remember that…. Meet me tomorrow, okay?”
“When?”
“Noon. The corner of Seventh and Maple. Starbucks.”
“I guess.”
“Don’t guess. Be there.” Muller started to walk away.
“If this works out you think maybe there’d be some more work for me?”
“I might be away for a while. But, yeah, maybe. If you handle it right.”
“I do a good job, mister. Hey, what’s your name?”
“You don’t need to know that.”
The kid nodded. “That’s cool. Sure…. One other thing? What about the watch?”
“I’ll dispose of the evidence for you.”
After the kid was gone Muller walked slowly to the mouth of the alley and peeked out. No sign of Carnegie’s surveillance team. He’d been careful to lose them but they had this almost magical ability to appear from nowhere and nail him with their Big Ear mikes and telephoto lenses.
Pulling on his Oakland baseball cap and lowering his head, he stepped out of the alley and walked down the sidewalk fast, as if satellites were tracking his position from ten thousand miles in space.
* * *
The next morning William Carnegie was late coming into the office.
Since he’d screwed up by missing the parent-teacher meeting yesterday he’d forced himself to have breakfast with his wife and Billy.
When he walked into the police station at nine-thirty Sergeant Hager told him, “Muller’s been doing some shopping you ought to know about.”
“What?”
“He left his house an hour ago. Our boys tailed him to the mall. They lost him but not long after that we got a charge notice from one of his credit card companies. At Books ’N’ Java he bought six books. We don’t know exactly what they were but the product code from the store listed them as travel books. Then he left the mall and spent thirty-eight dollars for two boxes of nine-millimeter ammunition at Tyler’s Gun Shop.”
“Jesus. I always figured him for a shooter. The guards at Anco’re lucky they didn’t hear him breaking in; he would’ve taken them out. I know it…. Did the surveillance team pick him up again?”
“Nope. They went back to his house to wait.”
“Got something else,” called a young policewoman nearby. “He charged forty-four dollars’ worth of tools at Home Depot.”
Carnegie mused, “So, he’s armed and sounds like he’s planning another heist. Then he’s going to flee the state.” Gazing at one of the computer screens, he asked absently, “What’re you going after this time, Muller? A business, a house?”
Hager’s phone rang. He answered and listened. “That was the babysitter in front of Muller’s. He’s back home. Only something funny. He was on foot. He must’ve parked up the street someplace.” He listened some more. “They say there’s a painting truck in his driveway. Maybe that’s why.”
“No. He’s up to something. I don’t trust anything that man does.”
“Got another notice!” one officer called. “He just went online….” The police had no court order allowing them to view the content of what Muller downloaded, though they could observe the sites he was connected to. “Okay. He’s on the Anderson & Cross website.”
“The burglar alarm company?” Carnegie asked, his heart pounding with excitement.
“Yep.”
A few minutes later the officer called, “Now he’s checking out Travel-Central dot com.”
A service that lets you make airline reservations online.
“Tell surveillance we’ll let them know as soon as he goes off-line. They should be ready to move. I’ve got a feeling this’s going to happen fast.”
We’ve got you now, Carnegie thought. Then he laughed and looked at the computers affectionately.
Big Brother Is Watching You.…
* * *
In the passenger seat of his car Jake Muller nodded toward a high fence in an alleyway behind Tremont Street. “Sam, pull over there.”
The car braked slowly to a stop.
“That’s it, huh?” the nervous kid asked.
Nodding toward a white house on the other side of the fence.
“Yep. Now, listen. If a cop comes by just drive off slow. Go around the block but turn left at the street. Got that? Stay off Tremont, whatever you do.”
The boy asked uneasily, “You think somebody’ll come by?”
“Let’s hope not.” Muller took the tools he’d just bought that morning out of the trunk, looked up and down the alley then walked through the gate in the fence and disappeared around the side of the house.
Muller returned ten minutes later. He hurried through the gate, carrying a heavy box and a small shopping bag. He disappeared again and returned with several more boxes. He loaded everything in the back of the car and wiped sweat from his forehead. He dropped hard into the passenger’s seat. “Let’s get o
utta here.”
“Where’re the tools?”
“I left ’em back there. What’re you waiting for? Go.”
The kid hit the accelerator and the car jumped into the middle of the alley.
Soon they were on the freeway and Muller gave directions to a cheap motel on the far side of town, the Starlight Lodge. There Muller climbed out. He walked into the lobby and registered for two nights. He returned to the car. “Room 129. He said it’s around the side in the back.”
They found the spot, parked and climbed out. Muller handed the boy the room key. He opened the door and together they carried the boxes and the shopping bag inside.
“Kinda lame,” the kid said, looking around.
“I won’t be here that long.”
Muller turned his back and opened the grocery bag. He extracted five one-hundred-dollar bills and handed them over. He added another twenty. “You’ll have to take a cab back downtown.”
“Man, looks like a good haul.” Nodding at the bag of money.
Muller said nothing. He stuffed the bag into a suitcase, locked it and slipped it under the bed.
The kid pocketed the bills.
“You did a good job today, Sam. Thanks.”
“How’ll I find you, mister? I mean, if you want to hire me again?”
“I’ll leave a message at the Starbucks.”
“Yeah. Good.”
Muller glanced at his watch. He emptied his pockets on the dresser. “Now I gotta shower and go meet some people.”
They shook hands. The boy left and Muller swung the door shut after him.
In the bathroom he turned the shower on full, the water hot. He leaned against the wobbly basin and watched the steam roll out of the stall like stormy clouds and wondered where his life was about to go.
* * *
“There’s something screwy,” Sergeant Hager called out.
“What?”
“A glitch of some kind.” He nodded at one computer. “Muller’s still online at his house. See? Only we just got an advisory from National Bank’s credit card computer. Somebody using Muller’s card got a room at the Starlight Lodge on Simpson about forty-five minutes ago. There’s gotta be a mistake. He—”
More Twisted: Collected Stories, Vol. II Page 8
