Sweet Dreams, page 6
“New underwear and a new phone. You’re ready for anything.”
Frank said, “I don’t have anyone to call.”
“What about me?”
“Okay, you.”
Kate said, “You’re going to meet people.”
“I am, huh? Where?”
“I don’t know, the bowling alley.”
Frank frowned looking at the phone. “I don’t know how to use it.”
“I can show you in two minutes.”
Frank smiled and said, “Thanks.”
Kate’s phone beeped. She dug it out of her pocket and checked the message.
“I want you to see something. I just got an e-mail from Melvin Weston with the Detroit police.”
They sat side-by-side at Kate’s desk, staring at the laptop screen, studying time-coded surveillance footage she was able to speed up, Frank watching, drinking beer. It was boring and uneventful till he said, “Can you stop it right there?”
Kate froze the frame. “That’s him.” Frank pointed to a man wearing a baseball cap and a Detroit Tigers jersey, walking into the bank. She advanced the tape a couple frames and now Ray Skinner was standing at the island counter where the deposit and withdrawal slips were stacked on shelves.
Kate said, “Looks like he’s subtly checking out the room. And he walked out without making a transaction.”
Frank said, “When was it robbed?”
“Two days later.” Kate opened another file. “This is footage from the second bank.”
They watched for a few minutes until Frank, on the edge of his seat, pointed at the screen. “You see her? The girl in the scarf.”
Kate rewound a few frames and froze the image. The woman stood at the counter in the center of the lobby with a phone in her hand.
Frank said, “What’s she doing?”
“Wants us to think she’s checking her messages, but I think she’s taking photographs of the bank.” Kate zoomed in on her face. “Do you know her?”
“She looks Asian, but it’s too grainy to make out her features.”
“I can have it enlarged and enhanced, but let’s keep going.”
The same woman appeared again in the third bank that was hit. This time she wore sunglasses, hair pulled back in a ponytail. She had her phone out again, presumably taking pictures. Kate zoomed in on her face but it was too pixelated to identify.
In various disguises the mystery woman also appeared in the other banks a day or two before each was robbed.
Kate said, “What do you think?”
Frank sipped his beer. “Sure looks like the same girl.”
“Well, if I wasn’t convinced, I am now,” Kate said. “She’s getting Skinner what he needs, minimizing his risk.” She printed and scanned the images and emailed them to Melvin Weston.
Her cell rang ten minutes later, Melvin saying, “Okay, I give up, who’s this out-of-focus babe you keep sending pictures of?”
“The Shooter’s partner in crime.”
“How you know that?”
“A confidential informant.” Kate smiled at Frank. “You can see her in five of the six banks just before they were robbed.”
“Why do I get the feeling you’re not telling me everything?”
“You want me to compromise the identity of my CI?”
“Think I’d lose sleep over that?”
“Can you have the frames cleaned up and send them back?” Kate paused. “Let’s see if she’s in the system. Find her, you’re going to find him.”
“I’ll see what I can do,” Melvin said and disconnected.
They moved into the kitchen, Frank leaning with an elbow on the counter. She got him another beer and poured herself a glass of wine.
“Let me ask you something. Do you have a boyfriend? You’re good-looking and you’re fun to hang out with. They should be fighting over you.”
“I date. At first guys like the idea of going out with a deputy US marshal. They want to see my gun and hear stories about arresting fugitives.”
“Yeah?”
“Then something happens.” Kate sipped her wine. “I think they get intimidated.”
“Find one that’s confident, that can handle it.”
She could hear Cornbread saying the same thing. “Easier said than done. Believe me, I’m looking.”
“What about the guys you work with?”
Kate shook her head.
“I don’t mean to give you the third degree.”
“It’s okay.”
Frank finished the beer. “I better go. I’ve got to get Thompson’s Honda back. I feel like I’m in high school, borrowing my parents’ car.
“Call me later on your new phone.”
Frank smiled, walked to the door, stopped and looked back at Kate. “Thanks again. I like spending time with you. You’re a lot of fun.”
“I like spending time with you too. Just hang in there, will you? I’ve got a good feeling you’re going to turn things around.”
•••
In the morning, Melvin called and said, “Get the files?”
“I’m looking at them.” Kate had taped five enhanced, retouched eight-and-a-half-by-eleven images of the Asian girl on the wall and was studying them with a magnifying glass, different angles that captured the details of her face. Kate guessed the woman was in her mid-to-late twenties.
“She doesn’t have a starring role on NCIC, that’s the first thing I checked,” Melvin said. “I showed the pictures to a dude at the Japan American Society. He wasn’t one-hundred-percent positive, but thinks, based on the girl’s facial features, she’s Japanese.” Now Melvin was humming a tune.
“Melvin, you sound happy, what’s up?”
“Countdown to retirement. Three weeks.”
“What if we don’t catch the Shooter, you going to stay on finish the job?”
“McGraw, where’d you get your wicked sense of humor at?”
“The Japanese guy say anything else?”
“Axed me why the police were looking for her. I said, she is very likely a witness to a bank robbery. I just want to talk to her.”
“You give him the photo?”
“Didn’t feel right. You see Rising Sun with Sean Connery?”
“No, I missed that one.”
“Bottom line, you can’t trust them. See the picture, you’ll understand what I’m saying. Japanese got their own way of doing things.”
•••
Frank came back at five thirty and drank a Stella, looking at the enhanced, retouched images of the Asian woman taped to the wall.
Kate said, “Is that her?”
“Are you asking is this Ray Skinner’s girlfriend from 1995? No way. You see how young she looks.”
“I think we should send these photos to the security heads at all the banks in the metro area. They see her, tell them to contact Melvin Weston with the Detroit Police immediately.”
Frank said, “You know what times the banks were robbed?”
That was an important piece of information she hadn’t considered. “I think all of them were midafternoon, which makes sense. It’s after lunch and before rush hour.”
Now Frank was staring at the map of Detroit on the wall showing the locations of the banks that had been hit, numbered one through six. “What’s the date of the last robbery?”
“August fourth,” Kate said.
“So it’s been a few weeks. I think he’s cleared out, moved on.”
“Maybe he’s taking a break,” Kate said, “letting things cool down. Isn’t that how you did it?”
“I moved around. As you’ve probably noticed there’re banks everywhere.” Frank picked up a photo of the Asian girl. “You mind if I keep one of these?”
“What are you going to do with it?”
“Look for her.”
“If you find her, don’t do anything. Call me.”
“And I need a shot of Ray.”
Kate shuffled through the photos on her desk and picked up a headshot of Skinner dressed as a priest. “This is the best likeness of him.”
Eleven
Frank parked Thompson’s Honda in the huge racetrack lot that looked about three-quarters full on a weekday afternoon. Thompson, protective of his eleven-year-old car, always asked where Frank was going and when he’d be back.
The enlarged photo of the Asian girl was on the seat next to him. Frank studied her delicate features one more time: small nose, high cheekbones, dark eyes, wispy lashes. Part of her face hidden by a scarf. Then he looked at the shot of Skinner in the black shirt and priest’s collar, face solemn as if he was about to hear confession.
Frank fit the sport cap low over his eyes and went inside. He bought a racing form and took the escalator up to the concourse. There were people in line at the ticket windows that ran along one wall, and more people sitting, staring at computer screens in a bullpen full of cubicles, everyone trying to beat the odds, strike it rich.
Frank wasn’t a gambler and had never been to the track. He went out to the grandstand, scanned the crowd with their backs to him watching a race in progress, horses coming around the turn, thundering past the seats, and began to understand the appeal. It was exciting, and if you bet on the right horse you could make a lot of money.
When the race ended, the grandstand emptied. People headed for the cashier windows, bars, and restaurants. Frank stood on the concourse off to the side, pretending to study the racing form, scanning faces in the crowd. He noticed an Asian woman, maybe thirty, and followed her to the Homestretch Bar. The woman sat at a table with an Asian man who was Frank’s age, maybe a little older.
Frank took an elevator to the fourth floor, sat at a table in the Park Grill, and ordered a beer. He opened the racing form, looking at the names of the horses in the next race: Roll the Dice, Justified, and Sky’s the Limit. The purse was two-hundred grand—guaranteed. Late pick four. The post time was 4:50, which was in fifteen minutes.
After finishing his beer he went back to the grandstand. This time Frank sat high on the far-left side and could see everyone who walked in and out. He didn’t notice any good-looking Japanese babes or Ray Skinner, and after the race decided to call it a day.
As he was driving out of the complex, Frank saw the stables, parked, and went in. A steward moved by him walking a horse. He stopped the old slouching black man. “Where’re the jockeys?”
“They in the jockey room,” he said, a cigar wedged in the corner of his mouth. He pointed to a separate wing of the stables. “Over there.”
Frank opened the door, walked in a big room that had lockers on one side and a lounge on the other. The jockeys, in various stages of undress, were little dark-skinned guys who weighed just over a hundred pounds and wore brightly colored outfits. “Hey, how’re you all doing?”
One angry shirtless shrimp stepped toward Frank. “You not allow in here.”
Frank unfolded the piece of paper and showed it to him. “I am looking for my friend who has disappeared. It is important that I find him,” he said, delivering the lines slowly, accentuating every word, assuming English wasn’t the jockey’s first language.
The jockey glanced at the photo, shook his head, and passed it to the others. One by one they looked at the picture, a few shook their heads, but now a few were nodding. A jockey in a red outfit said, “He come here, want to know about the horses. Ask what are the bests.”
“When was the last time you saw him?”
“Four weeks.” A jockey dressed in bright green said, handing him the photo.
“You talked to him, Mr. Skinner?”
“Yes, I talk to him.”
“Did he have a woman with him?”
The jockey nodded. “She outside.”
“But you saw her?”
The jockey nodded again. Frank unfolded a surveillance photo from one of the banks and handed it to him. “Is this her?”
The jockey stared at the photograph and nodded a third time.
Twelve
Eight in the morning Kate sat across the desk from Chief Cliff Doven. “How do you feel, McGraw?”
“Good as new, Chief.” She was still aware of the wound in her shoulder, felt the tightness when she moved, a constant reminder of having been shot. But it didn’t hurt.
“You’ve been cleared for full duty. You’re fit physically, but you’re the only one who knows for sure if you’re ready to come back. Do you have any psychological issues? Any concerns about going back in the field, facing armed fugitives?”
After what happened Kate was apprehensive. She didn’t know how she would react in a threatening situation. But she wasn’t going to admit it. The only way to know for sure was to stay on the task force. “I don’t think so, sir.” Immediately wishing she had been more positive, more enthusiastic.
“Why don’t you take a little more time, think about it and get back to me? If you have concerns, we can go slow, put you on light duty or have you reassigned.”
“No, sir. I can’t tell you how much I’ve missed the field. Believe me, I’m ready. I’m so ready.”
“That’s what I want to hear.”
The chief swiveled his chair, picked up a Glock on the credenza behind him, and handed it to her. “Your primary. Cleared by Investigations.” The chief stood. “Come with me; I want to show you something.”
Kate followed him out of his office and down the hall to the conference room. He opened the door and Kate saw the team: Charlie, Buck, and Cornbread standing there, smiling.
“Gentlemen, let me present Deputy US Marshal Kate McGraw, reinstated and ready for duty.”
The guys clapped, and Kate blushed.
Cornbread said, “Good to have you back, QD. Wouldn’t have thought you’d dog it so long. What’s it been, four weeks?”
“Well, you know what a slacker I am—anything to get out of work.” Kate panned the guys with her gaze. “What’s been going on?”
“Same old,” Cornbread said. “No shortage of warrants. Dudes is still out there breaking the law.”
Charlie glanced at Cliff Doven. “Chief, you tell her about the judge?”
“Not yet.” The chief turned and looked at Kate. “There’s been a threat on Judge Gant’s life. He asked that you be involved, put on the detail. Bring her up to speed. I’ve got a meeting.” Chief Doven walked out of the room.
“Who made the threat?”
“White supremacist murderer, name of Vernon Meeks,” Cornbread said. “Judge sentenced him to life without the possibility of parole.”
“You’ve got to see this,” Buck said, turning to his laptop, which was on the conference table. He opened the file, playing footage from one of the courtroom cameras. Meeks, in yellow jail fatigues, hands cuffed to a leather transport belt, ankles manacled to a fifteen-inch chain, listened to the verdict without expression.
Judge Gant said, “Mr. Meeks, do you have anything to say?”
Vernon Meeks got to his feet and said, “You know what my verdict is? I’m sentencing you to death.” Vernon started toward the bench. “Ain’t nowhere you can go that’s safe.”
Sheriff’s deputies took Vernon down and carried him out of the courtroom. The judge disappeared into his chambers.
Charlie said, “All right, you see what we’re dealing with.”
“Welcome back,” Buck said and grinned. “What’s the difference between God and a federal judge?”
“God doesn’t think he’s a federal judge,” Kate said.
Cornbread said, “Judge Gant asked for you. You must know him, huh?”
“I worked court security for two years,” Kate said. “Saw Steve ‘the rock ’n’ roll Judge’ every day he wasn’t sick or on vacation.”
Cornbread smiled. “You there when he hit on the hot-looking defense attorney?”
“He didn’t hit on her,” Kate said. “He asked her out.”
Charlie Luna said, “During a trial?”
“During her cross,” Kate said.
Charlie said, “Come on. What’d he say?”
“Judge Steve said, ‘Counselor, there’s something different about you. What is it, your hair? That a new look?’ Now clearly flustered, she said, ‘With all due respect your honor, I’m in the middle of questioning a witness.’ Judge Steve said, ‘Let’s have dinner.’ She said, ‘Your honor, I’m married.’ Judge Steve said, ‘I won’t tell if you won’t.’”
Cornbread glanced at her. “How’s the man get away with that?”
“He’s a federal judge,” Kate said.
Charlie said, “How well you know him?”
“I’ve picked him up, taken him home. Had lunch with him, hung out in his chambers, watched him play air guitar. He has an extensive collection of albums. Big Brother and the Holding Company, Jimi Hendrix, Led Zeppelin. And His Honor gets high, smokes medical marijuana for his bad back.”
Cornbread, eyes fixed on Kate said, “Judge Steve ever make a move?”
“He never stopped. He’d invite me to concerts, to his house for dinner. In his chambers he’d tell me I looked tense and needed a back rub. He’d change his clothes in front of me, and he doesn’t believe in underwear.”
Charlie said, “Why didn’t you say something?”
“I wasn’t worried. I kept my distance and never took him seriously. I’d say, ‘Come On, your honor, let’s be professional.’”
Buck said, “The judge buy that?”
“Are you kidding? He’d try again. You can’t offend or embarrass him.” Tired from standing, Kate sat at the conference table.
Charlie said, “You all right?”
“I’m fine.”
“How old is he?” Buck said.
“Fifty,” Kate said. “Seems younger ’cause of his attitude, thinks he’s cool. Judge Steve’s been married three times, currently divorced.”
“Some dudes never learn,” Cornbread said.
