Sweet Dreams, page 10
It sounded like a Saturday Night Live skit. “What’s it taste like?”
“Hard to describe. You might get a spicy blast of garlic powder or bitter tomato paste, but it’s the consistency that’s so awful. You can’t eat it, but it’s all you get.”
Kate put plates of meatloaf, mashed potatoes, and peas on the kitchen table. They sat across from each other. Frank took a bite of meatloaf and washed it down with a slug of beer. “That’s good. What’s this on top?”
“Barbecue sauce. That’s not part of the recipe. I added it. I like the smokiness.”
Frank nodded and ate another forkful of meatloaf and some mashed potatoes, his arm curved around the plate, protecting it.
“Listen, you don’t have to worry. I’m not going to try to steal your food.”
Frank slid his arm off the table and looked at her. “Force of habit, I guess. Didn’t realize I was doing it.”
“You haven’t said anything about prison, which is understandable.”
“What do you want to know?” Frank took a drink of beer.
“Where is Victorville?”
“About eighty-five miles northeast of LA, San Bernardino County.”
Kate noticed his plate was clean. “My god, you eat fast.”
“They gave us maybe ten minutes.”
“Can I fix you up again?”
“That’s the best meatloaf I’ve ever had.”
Kate filled his plate and set it in front of him. “Tell me what it was like?”
He took a bite, took his time chewing, and drank some beer. “When you arrive at Victorville—or Victimville as the hacks referred to it—you go to orientation and they give you an inmate handbook, what you can and can’t do, that’s like fifty pages. They tell you incarceration can be a rewarding experience, one that will lead to a more fulfilling life upon your release.”
Frank cut a piece of meatloaf and dragged it through the mashed potatoes and brought the fork to his mouth, chewed, and swallowed. He drank some beer. “During orientation a guard with a military bearing—he reminded me of a marine drill instructor—barked at us, saying, ‘Inmates are not allowed to retain more than two newspapers, ten magazines, and twenty-five letters. Inmates are only allowed to place calls to thirty approved phone numbers.’”
“Who would you call?”
“Your mother till she refused to talk to me, my parents, a couple buddies I’d known since grade school and high school, and Thompson after he was released.”
“Mom had a tough time after you left.”
“I thought she got married again.”
“She did, to a guy named McGraw. It lasted two years.”
“Why’d you take his name?”
“I didn’t have a choice. I was eight. Anyway, they divorced and Mom got busted for selling weed, did twenty-eight months. She died of breast cancer when I was at the academy.”
“I heard.”
Frank didn’t want to talk about it. He wiped his mouth on the napkin and went back to the prison story. “The drill instructor said, ‘Inmates are counted five to six times a day: at twelve a.m., three a.m., five a.m., four p.m., and ten p.m. Those were standup counts.”
Frank drank some beer and continued. “Inmates had to dress properly in the dining area. Institution-issued uniforms were the only clothing allowed.” Frank took a bite of meatloaf. “Inmates weren’t allowed to wear shower shoes, house shoes, hair curlers, do-rags, or hats. I got a kick out of that. Some prison official had thought about it and included those particular items in the rules.”
“Were hair curlers popular?”
“Certainly among the brothers.” Frank finished his beer and Kate got him another one. Frank finished his second helping. “God, that was good.”
“Want to go for three?”
“I better not.” Frank poured the fresh beer into his glass and drank. “My favorite prison advice was from one of the chaplains. He said, ‘Please do not put your life on hold for the period of time that you are with us. Anyone can fall, but the idea is to get up and begin again. Stand and start a new beginning.’” Frank paused and drank some beer. “You believe that?”
“Sure,” Kate said. “That’s the epitome of bureaucracy. I’ll bet most inmates heard it and thought, What?”
“After that inspirational advice I was taken to a cell and met my cellmate Sergio Cruz, who went by Checo—a convicted drug trafficker from Sonora, Mexico—who had a bad attitude and bad hygiene. The room smelled like sweat most of the time.”
“Why didn’t you tell him to take a shower?”
“I did, but he didn’t know any better.”
“Did Sergio give you a hard time?”
“He was a little guy, about five-five, one twenty. Played tough but wasn’t.”
Kate finished her meatloaf and sipped some Chardonnay. “I can’t imagine sharing a room with someone like that.”
“You don’t have a choice. I’d open my eyes—I had the lower bunk—and he’d be on the toilet grinning at me.”
“Why didn’t you hang a sheet?”
“I did later, when Sergio was paroled and Thompson was my cellmate.”
“What happens when you’re locked in a room and you can’t leave?”
“At first you feel angry, anxious, depressed. You’re looking for an excuse to take it out on someone. But you learn to stay calm, don’t lose your head, do something dumb. ’Cause if you can’t cut it on the mainline they send you to SHU, which stands for Special Housing Unit. It’s solitary confinement. They put you in a six-by-eight concrete room. And when you’re in there you have to keep your mind right or you’ll go crazy.” Frank took a beat. “I like talking to you. It’s so effortless.”
“Tell me about last night.” Kate poured more Chardonnay in her glass.
“I met someone. First eligible female in a long time.” He picked up his beer glass but didn’t drink. “We hit it off. At least I think we did.”
“Do you have plans to see her again?”
“I said I’d call.” Frank took a business card out of his shirt pocket and handed it to Kate.
Hall & Hunter Realtors
Peggy Nolan Realtor
There was a color photo of Peggy, smiling. She was attractive and looked friendly, someone you would like to know.
“She’s forty-two,” Frank said. “Married twenty-six years, divorced. No brothers or sisters, kids, or pets. Parents passed away.”
“She sounds lonely.” Kate sipped her wine. “What did you tell her about yourself?”
“I just got out of prison after eighteen years for armed robbery.”
“She didn’t get up and run?”
“On the contrary, she was interested, asking how I did it and what prison was like.”
Kate was thinking about the crazy women who were turned on by the badass glamour of a convict. “What does her ex do?”
“I think he’s an accountant.”
“Exactly. You’re her excitement. She can tell her friends she’s seeing an ex-con, helping you readjust, reenter society.”
“Aren’t you laying it on a little heavy? We haven’t gone out yet and we may not. I don’t have any money, and I’ve got this drunk driving thing hanging over my head. So relax, will you? You don’t have to worry about me.”
Kate wasn’t so sure.
“What’d you do last night?”
“I was on protection detail, keeping an eye on a federal judge whose life had been threatened. You don’t remember me telling you that?”
“This the one who owes you a favor?”
Kate nodded. “Three men came to kill him. Two are dead and the third one is in the hospital.”
“And you saved his life?”
Her phone vibrated. She pulled it out of a jean pocket. “I’ve got to take this.” She stood and walked out of the kitchen.
Frank was doing the dishes when she came back in. He put a plate in the dishwasher and turned to her.
“The Cadillac with the Ontario plate is registered to a Ray Carrick, County Road 42, Windsor, Ontario, Canada.”
Eighteen
Frank didn’t see an easy way out of his financial predicament. He didn’t have $1,500 for the drunk driving charge—let alone $2,000 to hire a lawyer. He wasn’t gonna take money from his daughter, and nobody was gonna hire a forty-six-year-old ex-con with no marketable skills. There was only one sure way to get what he needed.
The note read, “This is a robbery, I have a gun.” It was in his pocket as he approached the teller, looking for the surveillance cameras, feeling anxious, sweat popping on his forehead. Frank felt like everyone was watching him, knew what he was going to do.
Moving toward the smiling teller he saw himself in a series of quick cuts: taking shit from gangbangers in the exercise yard, glancing at Checo on the toilet, staring at a tray filled with gravy-colored slop in the mess hall, feeling the white cinderblock walls—the claustrophobic confines of solitary closing in on him.
“May I help you?” the teller said. She was a fresh-faced young girl, early twenties. Frank held her in his gaze, frozen, unable to go through with his plan. “Sir, are you all right?” And now Frank came fumbling out of his trance. “I wanted to open a checking account, but it occurs to me I forgot my wallet.”
The girl smiled. “Sir, we’re open till five p.m. Please come back. Mrs. Belmont in account services will be happy to help you.”
Frank turned and moved across the lobby, conscious of his footsteps on the tile floor, trying to stay cool, in control.
Now, sitting in a bar down the street, drinking Maker’s on the rocks, Frank reviewed the stupidity of his actions, wondering if there was more to it than needing money. Did he—as Kate had suggested—subconsciously want to go back to prison, where he didn’t have to worry about anything? Go back to the life. No thinking required. But that wasn’t it. He’d temporarily lost his head, decided to take a shortcut ’cause that’s all he knew.
Frank actually felt lucky for the first time since he walked out of Victorville and got reacquainted with Kate. He’d almost screwed up but caught himself. That was a good sign. He might defy the odds and make something of himself. And although he’d just met her, the realtor had grabbed his attention and occupied his thoughts, Frank going so far as to imagine himself having a relationship and going to bed with her. Would he be any good? It had been a long time. No reason to worry about that now, though. He’d deal with the situation if and when it happened.
He called the number on the card Peggy had given him. It went to voicemail and he said, “This is Frank. We met the other night. I enjoyed talking to you and wondered if you’d have dinner with me.” He disconnected and picked up his drink. If she said yes he’d ask her to meet him at a steakhouse in Birmingham.
Nineteen
Ray said, “You sure you can do this?”
Yumi nodded but didn’t look at him. They were parked on Nine Mile Road half a block from the Huntington Bank. “Just remember, you’re in control. The bank doesn’t want any trouble. The money’s insured. They don’t want their customers to get hurt.”
She stared straight ahead.
“Don’t hesitate, know what you’re gonna say and say it like you mean it. Walk out but don’t hurry, don’t call attention to yourself.”
“Ray, will you stop? I know what to do,” she said, raising her voice.
Yumi had never talked to him like that. Well, pardon me for trying to help, he wanted to say, but instead he said, “Take a couple deep breaths. I’ll be right here when you come out.”
•••
Yumi had underestimated how difficult it would be. Her heart was pounding and she was sick to her stomach. It was nothing like what she had been doing, casing the banks, getting a feel for the layout and taking photographs. That was fun. She was acting, playing a role.
This time she was committing a crime and could go to prison. Now Yumi, standing at the teller window, was asking herself why she volunteered to do this, why she thought it was going to be so easy.
The teller, a young, nerdy-looking guy, said, “May I help you?”
Yumi slid a hand in her purse, gripped the .22, finger on the trigger, and brought the gun out but kept it low. “Give me your money, big bills, what you have there, and no dye packs.”
The teller raised his hands. “Whoa, take it easy.”
“Put your hands down.”
The teller handed her banded stacks of $100s, $50s, and $20s. Yumi stuffed the money in the bag with her free hand. “You’re going to stay right where you are until I walk out. Anyone who tries to stop me will die,” she said, saying it in her most serious voice, trying to be dramatic.
She was sweating walking across the bank floor, more afraid than she had ever been in her life. Feeling self-conscious now as the uniformed guard glanced at her. The door was forty feet away…thirty…twenty…ten, and then it opened and a man was holding it for her.
Yumi was on the sidewalk looking for the car—it was right there—when she heard the sirens. Where was Ray? She could feel herself panicking, not sure what to do but kept walking, looking for the car. The sirens were getting louder. A police car, lights flashing, pulled up in front of the bank and another one drove past her and stopped.
At the end of the block she turned right, went into a coffee shop. It was loud and crowded. She stood in the hall that led to the restrooms, pulled the cell out of her purse, hand fumbling around stacks of money and speed-dialed Ray. It rang nine times and went to voice mail.
She hid the money in a trash can in the ladies’ room and walked out the back door into an alley, calling Ray again. Trying to decide where to go, what to do, when a police car appeared coming toward her.
•••
Kate watched her fidgeting at the table in the interview room. “What’s her name?”
“Yumika Sato,” a Ferndale detective named Higgins said. “She’s Canadian, eh?” Faking an accent, sounding like a hockey announcer. Kate was thinking about Frank saying he had followed Ray and the girl to the Detroit-Windsor tunnel. They rob banks in Detroit and disappear into Canada. On her laptop, Kate brought up bank surveillance photos of the Asian girl and compared them to Ms. Sato. She looked at Charlie. “What do you think, do we have a match?”
“Why’s he letting her do it?” Charlie Luna said. “Shooter’s a control freak. Something isn’t right.”
“Maybe she’s working alone,” Kate said. “Showing the man she’s as good as he is. Two witnesses said she came out of the bank and walked west on Nile Mile Road, looking around,” Kate said, “looking for someone—her driver would be my guess. You don’t rob a bank without an exit plan. You don’t walk down the street to a coffee shop. That doesn’t strike you as odd?”
“Maybe she was going to call Uber,” Charlie said.
“How much did she get?” Kate said to Detective Higgins.
“Seventeen grand. It was found in the ladies along with a Ruger LCR-22, matching the gun Ms. Sato pointed at the teller.” Higgins handed Kate a cell phone. “She made two calls just after leaving the bank—same number.”
“Looks like she started to panic when her ride wasn’t there.” Kate checked the photographs in Yumika Sato’s phone but they had been deleted. There were no contacts, saved numbers, or text messages either.
Kate, Charlie, and Detective Higgins went into the interview room and sat across the table from the suspect.
Kate said, “Where’s Ray?”
Yumika stared at the table.
“He was going to pick you up when you came out of the bank,” Charlie said. “Wasn’t that the way it was supposed to happen?”
No response. Yumika was afraid, who wouldn’t be? Two US marshals and a police detective staring at her.
Kate said, “Where’s Ray?”
No response.
Kate spread copies of photographs on the table. The girl glanced at them but didn’t show any expression. “You know who that is?”
The girl’s face was still blank.
“We have you positively ID’d in five Detroit banks two days before they were robbed. Do you think that’s a coincidence?”
“I was exchanging money,” she said, making eye contact with Kate for the first time.
“The problem with that story, you never approached any of the tellers and there are no records of any such transactions. We have surveillance footage of your visits.”
Charlie Luna placed photos of the Shooter over the shots of Yumi. “What’s his name?”
“I have never seen him before.” The girl said, confident now, eyes on Charlie.
“Why are you protecting this man who left you hanging, left you to get caught? That’s who you called when you came out of the bank, when the car wasn’t where it was supposed to be.” Kate paused. “You’re going to take the fall, you’re going to do time, and Ray’ll be out having fun. He’ll find another girlfriend and take her to the racetrack and out for expensive dinners while you’re in a cinderblock cell, eating pork and beans.”
The girl seemed relaxed, unconcerned.
Kate brought out Yumika Sato’s blue-and-gold Canadian passport, opened it, and said, “Ms. Sato, do you still live on Riverside Drive East?”
She stared at the table.
“Isn’t that where we’ll find your accomplice?” Kate’s phone beeped. It was Cornbread telling her the number Yumika Sato called was registered through Telus of Windsor, Canada, to a Ray Carrick. She thanked him and disconnected.
Kate motioned to Charlie and they got up and walked out of the room, leaving Higgins and the girl. “After a few days in county, I have a feeling her attitude is going to improve.”
When they left the Ferndale PD, Kate called Windsor Constable Dan Giroux. “Danny, how’re you doing? It’s Kate McGraw with the US Marshals Service. Do you remember me?”
“Hard to describe. You might get a spicy blast of garlic powder or bitter tomato paste, but it’s the consistency that’s so awful. You can’t eat it, but it’s all you get.”
Kate put plates of meatloaf, mashed potatoes, and peas on the kitchen table. They sat across from each other. Frank took a bite of meatloaf and washed it down with a slug of beer. “That’s good. What’s this on top?”
“Barbecue sauce. That’s not part of the recipe. I added it. I like the smokiness.”
Frank nodded and ate another forkful of meatloaf and some mashed potatoes, his arm curved around the plate, protecting it.
“Listen, you don’t have to worry. I’m not going to try to steal your food.”
Frank slid his arm off the table and looked at her. “Force of habit, I guess. Didn’t realize I was doing it.”
“You haven’t said anything about prison, which is understandable.”
“What do you want to know?” Frank took a drink of beer.
“Where is Victorville?”
“About eighty-five miles northeast of LA, San Bernardino County.”
Kate noticed his plate was clean. “My god, you eat fast.”
“They gave us maybe ten minutes.”
“Can I fix you up again?”
“That’s the best meatloaf I’ve ever had.”
Kate filled his plate and set it in front of him. “Tell me what it was like?”
He took a bite, took his time chewing, and drank some beer. “When you arrive at Victorville—or Victimville as the hacks referred to it—you go to orientation and they give you an inmate handbook, what you can and can’t do, that’s like fifty pages. They tell you incarceration can be a rewarding experience, one that will lead to a more fulfilling life upon your release.”
Frank cut a piece of meatloaf and dragged it through the mashed potatoes and brought the fork to his mouth, chewed, and swallowed. He drank some beer. “During orientation a guard with a military bearing—he reminded me of a marine drill instructor—barked at us, saying, ‘Inmates are not allowed to retain more than two newspapers, ten magazines, and twenty-five letters. Inmates are only allowed to place calls to thirty approved phone numbers.’”
“Who would you call?”
“Your mother till she refused to talk to me, my parents, a couple buddies I’d known since grade school and high school, and Thompson after he was released.”
“Mom had a tough time after you left.”
“I thought she got married again.”
“She did, to a guy named McGraw. It lasted two years.”
“Why’d you take his name?”
“I didn’t have a choice. I was eight. Anyway, they divorced and Mom got busted for selling weed, did twenty-eight months. She died of breast cancer when I was at the academy.”
“I heard.”
Frank didn’t want to talk about it. He wiped his mouth on the napkin and went back to the prison story. “The drill instructor said, ‘Inmates are counted five to six times a day: at twelve a.m., three a.m., five a.m., four p.m., and ten p.m. Those were standup counts.”
Frank drank some beer and continued. “Inmates had to dress properly in the dining area. Institution-issued uniforms were the only clothing allowed.” Frank took a bite of meatloaf. “Inmates weren’t allowed to wear shower shoes, house shoes, hair curlers, do-rags, or hats. I got a kick out of that. Some prison official had thought about it and included those particular items in the rules.”
“Were hair curlers popular?”
“Certainly among the brothers.” Frank finished his beer and Kate got him another one. Frank finished his second helping. “God, that was good.”
“Want to go for three?”
“I better not.” Frank poured the fresh beer into his glass and drank. “My favorite prison advice was from one of the chaplains. He said, ‘Please do not put your life on hold for the period of time that you are with us. Anyone can fall, but the idea is to get up and begin again. Stand and start a new beginning.’” Frank paused and drank some beer. “You believe that?”
“Sure,” Kate said. “That’s the epitome of bureaucracy. I’ll bet most inmates heard it and thought, What?”
“After that inspirational advice I was taken to a cell and met my cellmate Sergio Cruz, who went by Checo—a convicted drug trafficker from Sonora, Mexico—who had a bad attitude and bad hygiene. The room smelled like sweat most of the time.”
“Why didn’t you tell him to take a shower?”
“I did, but he didn’t know any better.”
“Did Sergio give you a hard time?”
“He was a little guy, about five-five, one twenty. Played tough but wasn’t.”
Kate finished her meatloaf and sipped some Chardonnay. “I can’t imagine sharing a room with someone like that.”
“You don’t have a choice. I’d open my eyes—I had the lower bunk—and he’d be on the toilet grinning at me.”
“Why didn’t you hang a sheet?”
“I did later, when Sergio was paroled and Thompson was my cellmate.”
“What happens when you’re locked in a room and you can’t leave?”
“At first you feel angry, anxious, depressed. You’re looking for an excuse to take it out on someone. But you learn to stay calm, don’t lose your head, do something dumb. ’Cause if you can’t cut it on the mainline they send you to SHU, which stands for Special Housing Unit. It’s solitary confinement. They put you in a six-by-eight concrete room. And when you’re in there you have to keep your mind right or you’ll go crazy.” Frank took a beat. “I like talking to you. It’s so effortless.”
“Tell me about last night.” Kate poured more Chardonnay in her glass.
“I met someone. First eligible female in a long time.” He picked up his beer glass but didn’t drink. “We hit it off. At least I think we did.”
“Do you have plans to see her again?”
“I said I’d call.” Frank took a business card out of his shirt pocket and handed it to Kate.
Hall & Hunter Realtors
Peggy Nolan Realtor
There was a color photo of Peggy, smiling. She was attractive and looked friendly, someone you would like to know.
“She’s forty-two,” Frank said. “Married twenty-six years, divorced. No brothers or sisters, kids, or pets. Parents passed away.”
“She sounds lonely.” Kate sipped her wine. “What did you tell her about yourself?”
“I just got out of prison after eighteen years for armed robbery.”
“She didn’t get up and run?”
“On the contrary, she was interested, asking how I did it and what prison was like.”
Kate was thinking about the crazy women who were turned on by the badass glamour of a convict. “What does her ex do?”
“I think he’s an accountant.”
“Exactly. You’re her excitement. She can tell her friends she’s seeing an ex-con, helping you readjust, reenter society.”
“Aren’t you laying it on a little heavy? We haven’t gone out yet and we may not. I don’t have any money, and I’ve got this drunk driving thing hanging over my head. So relax, will you? You don’t have to worry about me.”
Kate wasn’t so sure.
“What’d you do last night?”
“I was on protection detail, keeping an eye on a federal judge whose life had been threatened. You don’t remember me telling you that?”
“This the one who owes you a favor?”
Kate nodded. “Three men came to kill him. Two are dead and the third one is in the hospital.”
“And you saved his life?”
Her phone vibrated. She pulled it out of a jean pocket. “I’ve got to take this.” She stood and walked out of the kitchen.
Frank was doing the dishes when she came back in. He put a plate in the dishwasher and turned to her.
“The Cadillac with the Ontario plate is registered to a Ray Carrick, County Road 42, Windsor, Ontario, Canada.”
Eighteen
Frank didn’t see an easy way out of his financial predicament. He didn’t have $1,500 for the drunk driving charge—let alone $2,000 to hire a lawyer. He wasn’t gonna take money from his daughter, and nobody was gonna hire a forty-six-year-old ex-con with no marketable skills. There was only one sure way to get what he needed.
The note read, “This is a robbery, I have a gun.” It was in his pocket as he approached the teller, looking for the surveillance cameras, feeling anxious, sweat popping on his forehead. Frank felt like everyone was watching him, knew what he was going to do.
Moving toward the smiling teller he saw himself in a series of quick cuts: taking shit from gangbangers in the exercise yard, glancing at Checo on the toilet, staring at a tray filled with gravy-colored slop in the mess hall, feeling the white cinderblock walls—the claustrophobic confines of solitary closing in on him.
“May I help you?” the teller said. She was a fresh-faced young girl, early twenties. Frank held her in his gaze, frozen, unable to go through with his plan. “Sir, are you all right?” And now Frank came fumbling out of his trance. “I wanted to open a checking account, but it occurs to me I forgot my wallet.”
The girl smiled. “Sir, we’re open till five p.m. Please come back. Mrs. Belmont in account services will be happy to help you.”
Frank turned and moved across the lobby, conscious of his footsteps on the tile floor, trying to stay cool, in control.
Now, sitting in a bar down the street, drinking Maker’s on the rocks, Frank reviewed the stupidity of his actions, wondering if there was more to it than needing money. Did he—as Kate had suggested—subconsciously want to go back to prison, where he didn’t have to worry about anything? Go back to the life. No thinking required. But that wasn’t it. He’d temporarily lost his head, decided to take a shortcut ’cause that’s all he knew.
Frank actually felt lucky for the first time since he walked out of Victorville and got reacquainted with Kate. He’d almost screwed up but caught himself. That was a good sign. He might defy the odds and make something of himself. And although he’d just met her, the realtor had grabbed his attention and occupied his thoughts, Frank going so far as to imagine himself having a relationship and going to bed with her. Would he be any good? It had been a long time. No reason to worry about that now, though. He’d deal with the situation if and when it happened.
He called the number on the card Peggy had given him. It went to voicemail and he said, “This is Frank. We met the other night. I enjoyed talking to you and wondered if you’d have dinner with me.” He disconnected and picked up his drink. If she said yes he’d ask her to meet him at a steakhouse in Birmingham.
Nineteen
Ray said, “You sure you can do this?”
Yumi nodded but didn’t look at him. They were parked on Nine Mile Road half a block from the Huntington Bank. “Just remember, you’re in control. The bank doesn’t want any trouble. The money’s insured. They don’t want their customers to get hurt.”
She stared straight ahead.
“Don’t hesitate, know what you’re gonna say and say it like you mean it. Walk out but don’t hurry, don’t call attention to yourself.”
“Ray, will you stop? I know what to do,” she said, raising her voice.
Yumi had never talked to him like that. Well, pardon me for trying to help, he wanted to say, but instead he said, “Take a couple deep breaths. I’ll be right here when you come out.”
•••
Yumi had underestimated how difficult it would be. Her heart was pounding and she was sick to her stomach. It was nothing like what she had been doing, casing the banks, getting a feel for the layout and taking photographs. That was fun. She was acting, playing a role.
This time she was committing a crime and could go to prison. Now Yumi, standing at the teller window, was asking herself why she volunteered to do this, why she thought it was going to be so easy.
The teller, a young, nerdy-looking guy, said, “May I help you?”
Yumi slid a hand in her purse, gripped the .22, finger on the trigger, and brought the gun out but kept it low. “Give me your money, big bills, what you have there, and no dye packs.”
The teller raised his hands. “Whoa, take it easy.”
“Put your hands down.”
The teller handed her banded stacks of $100s, $50s, and $20s. Yumi stuffed the money in the bag with her free hand. “You’re going to stay right where you are until I walk out. Anyone who tries to stop me will die,” she said, saying it in her most serious voice, trying to be dramatic.
She was sweating walking across the bank floor, more afraid than she had ever been in her life. Feeling self-conscious now as the uniformed guard glanced at her. The door was forty feet away…thirty…twenty…ten, and then it opened and a man was holding it for her.
Yumi was on the sidewalk looking for the car—it was right there—when she heard the sirens. Where was Ray? She could feel herself panicking, not sure what to do but kept walking, looking for the car. The sirens were getting louder. A police car, lights flashing, pulled up in front of the bank and another one drove past her and stopped.
At the end of the block she turned right, went into a coffee shop. It was loud and crowded. She stood in the hall that led to the restrooms, pulled the cell out of her purse, hand fumbling around stacks of money and speed-dialed Ray. It rang nine times and went to voice mail.
She hid the money in a trash can in the ladies’ room and walked out the back door into an alley, calling Ray again. Trying to decide where to go, what to do, when a police car appeared coming toward her.
•••
Kate watched her fidgeting at the table in the interview room. “What’s her name?”
“Yumika Sato,” a Ferndale detective named Higgins said. “She’s Canadian, eh?” Faking an accent, sounding like a hockey announcer. Kate was thinking about Frank saying he had followed Ray and the girl to the Detroit-Windsor tunnel. They rob banks in Detroit and disappear into Canada. On her laptop, Kate brought up bank surveillance photos of the Asian girl and compared them to Ms. Sato. She looked at Charlie. “What do you think, do we have a match?”
“Why’s he letting her do it?” Charlie Luna said. “Shooter’s a control freak. Something isn’t right.”
“Maybe she’s working alone,” Kate said. “Showing the man she’s as good as he is. Two witnesses said she came out of the bank and walked west on Nile Mile Road, looking around,” Kate said, “looking for someone—her driver would be my guess. You don’t rob a bank without an exit plan. You don’t walk down the street to a coffee shop. That doesn’t strike you as odd?”
“Maybe she was going to call Uber,” Charlie said.
“How much did she get?” Kate said to Detective Higgins.
“Seventeen grand. It was found in the ladies along with a Ruger LCR-22, matching the gun Ms. Sato pointed at the teller.” Higgins handed Kate a cell phone. “She made two calls just after leaving the bank—same number.”
“Looks like she started to panic when her ride wasn’t there.” Kate checked the photographs in Yumika Sato’s phone but they had been deleted. There were no contacts, saved numbers, or text messages either.
Kate, Charlie, and Detective Higgins went into the interview room and sat across the table from the suspect.
Kate said, “Where’s Ray?”
Yumika stared at the table.
“He was going to pick you up when you came out of the bank,” Charlie said. “Wasn’t that the way it was supposed to happen?”
No response. Yumika was afraid, who wouldn’t be? Two US marshals and a police detective staring at her.
Kate said, “Where’s Ray?”
No response.
Kate spread copies of photographs on the table. The girl glanced at them but didn’t show any expression. “You know who that is?”
The girl’s face was still blank.
“We have you positively ID’d in five Detroit banks two days before they were robbed. Do you think that’s a coincidence?”
“I was exchanging money,” she said, making eye contact with Kate for the first time.
“The problem with that story, you never approached any of the tellers and there are no records of any such transactions. We have surveillance footage of your visits.”
Charlie Luna placed photos of the Shooter over the shots of Yumi. “What’s his name?”
“I have never seen him before.” The girl said, confident now, eyes on Charlie.
“Why are you protecting this man who left you hanging, left you to get caught? That’s who you called when you came out of the bank, when the car wasn’t where it was supposed to be.” Kate paused. “You’re going to take the fall, you’re going to do time, and Ray’ll be out having fun. He’ll find another girlfriend and take her to the racetrack and out for expensive dinners while you’re in a cinderblock cell, eating pork and beans.”
The girl seemed relaxed, unconcerned.
Kate brought out Yumika Sato’s blue-and-gold Canadian passport, opened it, and said, “Ms. Sato, do you still live on Riverside Drive East?”
She stared at the table.
“Isn’t that where we’ll find your accomplice?” Kate’s phone beeped. It was Cornbread telling her the number Yumika Sato called was registered through Telus of Windsor, Canada, to a Ray Carrick. She thanked him and disconnected.
Kate motioned to Charlie and they got up and walked out of the room, leaving Higgins and the girl. “After a few days in county, I have a feeling her attitude is going to improve.”
When they left the Ferndale PD, Kate called Windsor Constable Dan Giroux. “Danny, how’re you doing? It’s Kate McGraw with the US Marshals Service. Do you remember me?”
