The Double Cross
A Travelers Prequel Novella
Michael P. King
Blurred Lines Press
Contents
Description
1. May 1989
2. Traveling Money
3. Looking for Partners
4. Carol
5. Grifting
6. Working the Plan
7. Shadowing the Marks
8. The Robbery
9. The Getaway
A Note from the Author
A con artist betrayed by his partners. A plot for revenge. Can he and his new partner outwit his old crew… and escape with the cash and their lives?
* * *
In 1989, where it all begins…
* * *
Paul Kendal, 26 years old, is a con artist in a robbery crew. When he has all the information necessary to disarm their targets’ alarm systems and empty their safes, his partners go to work.
* * *
Originally, it seemed like a sweet plan, but as he begins to have doubts, his partners double-cross him. Now he wants payback. For that he needs a new partner.
* * *
Carol, 17 years old, uses her movie-star good looks to entice victims for her boyfriend to mug. But when her boyfriend lands in jail, Paul makes her an offer she can’t refuse…
* * *
The Double Cross is a novella-length dark crime thriller that tells the story of how the Travelers met. If you like fast moving action, unpredictable plot twists, and criminal chicanery, you’ll love this prequel to Michael P. King’s Travelers series.
* * *
The Travelers
The Double Cross: A Travelers Prequel
The Traveling Man: Book One
The Computer Heist: Book Two
The Blackmail Photos: Book Three
The Freeport Robbery: Book Four
Blurred Lines Press
The Double Cross
Michael P. King
ISBN 978-0-9861796-8-6
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Copyright © 2017 by Michael P. King
All rights reserved
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Cover design by Paramita Bhattacharjee at creativeparamita.com
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The Double Cross is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons or places is entirely coincidental.
1
May 1989
Paul Kendal was worried about his partners. He’d fallen in with this robbery crew about a year ago, hoping to sharpen his skills, but now he was beginning to wonder if it was worth it. The crew—Jacob, Stevie, and Pooch—were all older guys who had met up in prison. Jacob, their leader, almost fifty, had the ropey arms and sunken chest of a long-term alcoholic. He was the safe cracker. Stevie, red-gray hair and freckles, a burn scar on his arm from the car wreck that landed him in prison the first time, was the driver. And Pooch, a bald army veteran who’d gone to fat, was the weapons guy. They were tired of being busted back to prison—too old to do the time anymore—so instead of breaking and entering commercial buildings with their ever more complicated alarm systems, they were on the prowl for wealthy older women with valuables in home safes.
That’s why they’d recruited Paul. He was twenty-six years old, dark-haired, and ruggedly handsome. He seduced the lonely widows or divorcees who were willing to believe, hope against hope, that they had finally found love. And when he had all the information necessary to successfully complete the job, his partners went to work. Originally, it had seemed like a sweet plan. But as time went on, and they bounced from town to town, Paul thought they were taking too many risks—risks that fell disproportionately on him.
And here they were again, gathered under a streetlight in a gravel parking lot, this time at the Vine Club in Madisonville, making their last preparations for their current score.
“It’s too soon,” Paul said.
“Look,” Jacob said, “we’ve got the safe specs. We know where the rest of the goodies are. It’s time to do this job.”
“I’ve got a bad feeling about this,” Paul replied. “I need a couple more weeks to set the bona fides.”
Stevie snorted. “Listen to you. You’re sleeping in her bed. Wearing that new watch she bought you. Driving her car. How much more trust do you need?”
“Guys, I’m the new boyfriend. I’m the one who’s going to be arrested if it all goes south. I need more time.”
“Paul,” Jacob said, “we brought you in to our crew because you got a gift for bamboozling old broads. That doesn’t make you a decision-maker. Are you going to do your part?”
Paul frowned. “I’ll do my part. I told you guys I’d do it, and I will.”
“Okay, then. Quit your bitching. We’re doing this job tomorrow. Make sure she’s out of the house and the alarm is turned off.”
Pooch slapped him on the shoulder. “Don’t worry, kid. Just hold her hand and wipe her tears. You’ll be fine.”
“And don’t forget, we changed the rendezvous. We’re meeting at the Travel Ace motel in Liberty Ridge,” Jacob said. “If it takes you more than a week to slip away, we’ll leave a note at the desk. You’ve got nothing to worry about. This is all cake.”
“Okay,” Paul said. “I’ll see you guys in Liberty Ridge.”
Paul crossed the parking lot to a red Oldsmobile. These guys never listened. They were going to keep pushing until one of these jobs blew up. Why should they care? They weren’t the ones who’d be going to prison. After this score—after he had his cut—maybe it was time for him to go his own way. He took a right out of the parking lot just after a beat-up Chevy Malibu went by. He was tired of this con anyway. Some of the women deserved what they got. They were selfish and self-centered, always ready to take advantage. But some of the others were just lonely and gullible. Like their current mark. Cicilie Chandler was such a sweet woman. It was surprising she didn’t have a man. When she came home and found her house burglarized, she’d be terrified at the thought that someone had been rifling through her drawers. He pulled into the left-turn lane at the intersection with Orchid Street. But he couldn’t back out now. The guys were counting on him, and he’d given his word. She was wealthy. She had insurance on her valuables. And he’d make it up to her. Before he left, he’d help her pick a better home security system and better locks—make sure she felt safe in her home. That would be his gift to her.
* * *
Jacob, Stevie, and Pooch watched Paul drive away. “Hey,” Pooch said, “I thought we were going in Emmett City.”
“We are,” Jacob said. “I’m done listening to him complain. We’re going to split his end and move on.”
“If we’re going to keep his end,” Stevie said, “we need to make sure he won’t be coming after us.”
“I’ll make an anonymous phone call to Chandler’s partner,” Jacob said. “He’s got a reputation for having a bad temper.”
Pooch stuck his hands in his pockets. “I don’t know, guys. Maybe we should cut the kid some slack—give him his share and turn him loose.”
“Are you kidding?” Stevie asked.
“Fuck him,” Jacob said. “He’s not one of us. It was always going to come to this. He’s the only face connected to the jobs we’ve pulled. And I don’t need the whining aggravation. We’ll find a new guy to sweet-talk the ladies.”
* * *
The next morning, Cicilie Chandler woke up lying next to Paul in her king-size, canopied bed. Cicilie’s late husband, Dan, had started out in banking, but before his heart attack, he’d branched out into construction and real estate, so he could finance, build, and sell. He’d done very well, and he had left Cicilie a silent partnershi
p in a lucrative business. She’d been a bathing suit beauty in her youth. Now she was soft and round, in good shape for a fifty-two-year-old woman, but still embarrassed when Paul saw her without any clothes. She pulled the silk sheet around her breasts before she snuggled against his side. He opened his eyes and slipped his arm around her shoulders.
“Good morning, beautiful.”
She blushed. He said it every day, but she still wasn’t used to it. “Every morning when I wake up, I expect you to be gone.”
“Still here.” He kissed her. “What’s on your agenda today?”
“Into the office to sign some papers so that Sam can get started on the condos out by the airport. Then off to the spa. Bridge this afternoon with the girls. What about you? You have time for lunch?”
“Sorry. I’ve got golf with Kevin Chou. I think he’s just about ready to buy that new house.”
“Out on Putnam Lake? I’ve known his wife for years. Do you want me to put in a word?”
“Cissy, we’ve talked about this.”
“I just want to help.”
“I know you do, but I’m a guy, remember. You already do too much for me.” He gave her a squeeze.
“What do you want to do about dinner?” she asked.
“I could cook.”
“Nonsense. What about the new steakhouse on Royal Road?”
“Hickory Forge?”
“Uh-huh. Margie was there last week. She loved it.”
“Okay, let’s give it a try.”
* * *
That evening Paul and Cicilie were seated at a window table in the Hickory Forge steakhouse on the west edge of town just past Putnam Lake. The interior was dark wood, white tablecloths, candles, and low lights. They were sitting catty-corner and holding hands under the table. Cicilie liked to bring Paul to places like this, where she could feel romantic without worrying that everyone was staring at them. If their ages were reversed, no one would think anything of a man her age being involved with a woman his age. Paul lifted her hand, kissed it, and let go.
He peered down the menu. “What are you going to have?”
“I know it’s crazy to eat fish in a steakhouse, but I’m having the salmon.”
“I thought about it, but I’m going for the rib eye.”
“How did your golf go?”
“Great. I crushed Kevin. Might have hurt my chances on the sale, but I can’t let anyone win. They have to beat me. What about you? Spa good?”
“The new massage therapist is really excellent. You should try him sometime.”
“Massage is not my thing.”
She laughed. “You mean massage from a man is not your thing.”
“Touché. What about the bridge game?”
“We barely started. You remember Betty Roberts?”
“Blonde woman with the old-fashioned hairdo?”
She nodded. “Her husband’s divorcing her. Their youngest is off to college at the end of the summer. She had no idea. The coward packed up his clothes while she was out and then told her over the phone.”
“She really had no idea?”
“Well, I don’t know how much time they spent together. He was always at work—or that’s what he said.”
“Did he admit to having a girlfriend?”
“She said that he said the spark just wasn’t there anymore. Then she started crying. It was horrible.”
“If there’s no girlfriend, and she wants him back, she needs a makeover.”
“She does dress a little matronly, but—”
Their server, a young woman wearing a uniform of white shirt with black pants, stepped up to the table with their martinis and then took their orders. After she left, Cicilie continued. “The clothes, the hair—do you really think it makes that much difference? They were married, had children—”
“Maybe he’s looking for some excitement. Maybe he doesn’t want to believe he’s middle-aged. It’s not a fair comparison. You’ve always been one of the pretty girls, but look at the difference between you and her. I imagine you’re about the same age, but she almost looks old enough to be your mother.”
“She doesn’t look that old.”
“Maybe you just look that young.”
She pushed his shoulder. “Stop it.”
“It’s not flattery if it’s true.”
* * *
Meanwhile, at Cicilie’s house on Fillmore Drive, Jacob, Stevie, and Pooch had parked a stolen plumber’s van at the top of the drive and gone in through the front door as if they were making an emergency service call. The house, a two-story white brick with a wraparound porch, was located in the old-money part of town. The houses were large, traditional structures, remodeled for all the modern conveniences, and set back from the street, guaranteeing the privacy everyone valued.
Pooch was in the master bedroom. He moved systematically through the space, starting with the closet, searching through the clothes and boxes on the shelves for any cash or small items that had been hidden away. Nothing. He moved on to the dresser, where he found a drawer of loose jewelry: three rings, five sets of earrings, and two watches—the day-to-day stuff. He scooped them into his pocket. All done here. As he turned, he glanced at the four-poster canopy bed, with its tied-back gauze curtains and lacey pillow covers. It was a fantasy out of a women’s magazine. He thought about Paul banging the old lady doggy-style and chuckled.
Down in the basement, Jacob was working on the safe. It was an ancient, easy model, three numbers, so he was cracking it old-school by listening for the tumblers and making a graph to reveal the six possible combinations. He was almost there.
Bingo. He opened the door. There were the usual legal papers: a stack of savings bonds—too tough to fence—and an accordion envelope of banded one-hundred-dollar bills, maybe twenty thousand total, and five jewelry boxes. He opened the top box. It contained a beautiful emerald necklace. He slipped the envelope and the jewelry boxes into an empty plumber’s toolbox and closed the safe door. Then he stepped over to the burglar alarm control box and tripped the alarm. That would fix the kid.
On the first floor, Stevie was watching the street and listening to a portable police scanner. Pooch came down the stairs and gave the thumbs-up sign. The phone rang. They searched through the first floor until they found the answering machine in the kitchen. Stevie played back the message. “ADT Security. Please pick up.”
Pooch jogged over to the stairs to the basement. “Jacob, cops are on their way.”
Jacob rushed up the stairs. They scurried out the kitchen door, jogged through the backyard past the bird feeders and a trellis of roses, and cut through the neighbor’s yard. No one was on the street. A Dodge Charger was parked at the curb. They piled into the car, Stevie behind the wheel. A police car, lights on, siren off, sped past them while they sat at a stop sign. Pooch chuckled.
“Don’t jinx it,” Jacob said. “We still need to collect our gear and get out of town.”
* * *
Paul and Cicilie were walking across the parking lot of the Hickory Forge steakhouse when a Silver SUV squealed to a stop in front of them. Sam Bryant, Cicilie’s business partner—a tall, thin, black man dressed in golfing clothes—jumped out of the front seat passenger’s side. “Cicilie.”
“Sam. What’s this about?”
“Your house has been robbed.”
“What?” She clutched Paul’s arm. Two men wearing black suits and the hard looks of hired guns got out of the SUV.
Sam continued. “The police are there now. Your alarm kicked over. The cops found a plumber’s van in your driveway.”
Paul gave the hired guns a quick glance. Something was wrong. His partners couldn’t have accidentally tripped the alarm. He’d turned it off. Time to play the concerned boyfriend. “We should get back to your house.”
Sam shook his head. “We need to talk first.”
Paul tried for a quizzical expression. He had to play this very carefully. Cicilie wouldn’t just dismiss the concerns of the man who�
��d been her husband’s best friend. “What’s this all about?”
“I’ve got some questions. I want answers.”
Paul glanced at the hired guns. They were positioning themselves so that they could catch him if he tried to run. He doubted that they would let him leave with Cicilie. His best chance was to play along. “Okay, I get it. I’m the new guy. You feel protective. What do you want to know?”
“Get in the car.”
“I’m coming with you,” Cicilie said.
“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Sam said.
“I don’t care.”
They drove in silence north of town to a new subdivision where the sewer lines were being laid and pulled up to a large work trailer at the front of the property. “Why are we here?” Cicilie asked.
“Just needed some privacy,” Sam said. “Quicker than driving to the office.”
One of Sam’s men unlocked the trailer. Inside was a kitchenette, a long folding table surrounded by metal folding chairs, a row of lockers, and a washroom. “Why don’t you sit down, Cicilie?” Sam pulled out a folding chair for her.
The hired guns moved Paul around to a chair at the far end of the table. “This isn’t necessary,” Paul said. “I want to help.”
“I’m sure you do,” Sam said. “You’ve been dating Cicilie for about a month? Is that correct?”
“Yeah.”
“What’s this about, Sam?” Cicilie asked.
“I got a phone call—an anonymous tip—that Paul is mixed up in the robbery.”
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