Heist 2 (14 page)

8

Johnnie

 

I
wake aware that there's a smile on my face—but when the reality as to why seeps into my brain, the smile fades and my eyes snap open.
What in the hell did I just do?

It's officially my damn wedding day—but damn, the dick was good.

Smiling again, I stretch out, arching my back almost as far as it will go and purring like a cat. However, when my hand reaches across the bed to an empty space, I jump up.

A car door shuts outside of my bedroom window and I pop out the bed like a toasted Pop-Tart. Panic as well as suspicion has me snatching up panties and a bra as I race over to the window. Sure enough, Harlem is behind the wheel of my Audi and starting it up.

“No. No. No.” Panties on, I jump into the pair of sweatpants I left hanging on the arm of the treadmill. I have the matching sweatshirt on by the time I'm in the living room and hobbling into a pair of sneakers, kept by the front door as I race out of it. “Come back here, you two-bit thief!”

Harlem is creeping back out of the driveway until he spots me racing toward him. Then he jams onto the accelerator, swinging wide into the yard to try and turn around. But that move gives me time to stretch my high school track star legs as far as they can go so that I reach the passenger-side door. He's turning when I hop inside and pummel him on his head.

“You asshole!”
Whack! Whack!
“How fucking dare you steal my car!”
Whack! Whack!

Still driving, Harlem ducks and blocks my blows. For a while, anyway, the second one of my punches drives across his jaw, and I'm shoved back so hard that I nearly tumble out of the car backward, since the door is still open.

At my horrified scream, Harlem grabs the front of my sweatshirt and finally slams on the brakes to save me. It takes a few seconds for the shock to fade and the dust to settle. After that, I launch at him again.

“Son of a bitch!”
Whack! Whack!

“All right. Enough, Johnnie. Calm down,” he barks.

“Calm down?” I bellow. “How in the fuck do you expect me to calm down? You're stealing my car!”

He shrugs like it's a mild inconvenience. “I'm sorry about that. I really am—but if all goes well, you'll get it back.”

“If it all goes well? Have you lost your fucking mind? You're not going anywhere with my car. Get out!”

Another shrug. “Sorry, but I am. Now you can either get out or I'm going to have to drag you out.”

I do a double take. “I like your nerve.” I cross my arms and glare up at him. “I'm not going any damn where.” When he makes a move toward me, I grab and strap in with the seatbelt. We fight as he tries to unlock it.

His patience clearly thin, he snaps, “Fuck it! Then you can just come with me.” He slams on the accelerator. This time the passenger-side door slams shut from the force.

A new panic surges through me. “What the fuck do you think that you're doing?”

“Exactly what you think I'm doing. I'm
borrowing
your car while I run from the law. I'm sure that you understand.”

“No. You can't do that and no, I don't understand any of this.” My barking goes in one ear and out the other because he peels off into the night like a bat out of hell. I have to say or do something, but what? I'm in a fucking car with an escaped convict. “I'm being kidnapped,” I say as I realize.

“What?” Harlem spears me with a look.

“You're kidnapping me,” I repeat.

“How the fuck do you figure that? You're the one that refused to get out of the car.”

“Again,
my
car!”

“So what? You can afford another one,” he charges back.

“How in the hell do you know what the fuck I can afford? You're not my accountant.”

“The fact that you even have an accountant tells me all that I need to know.”

“Humph! Tells what you know. A lot of
tax-paying
people have accountants. It doesn't mean anything.”

“All right then.
Can
you afford another car?” he asks sharply.

I chew on whether I should lie, but what's the point in that? “Whether or not I can or can't is beside the point.”

He laughs and rolls his eyes. “That's what I thought.”

“Again. Not the point.”

“I'm sorry. I forgot. What
is
the point?”

“That you're a fucking kidnapper!”

Harlem's face twists at me sounding like a screaming lunatic, but remains unmoved by my argument. “Well, under the circumstances, what's one more federal charge?”

You could tell him to stop so you can get out of the car. Then you can go back home and proceed to marry Reese Singleton.
My heart drops.
Mrs. Reese Michael Singleton.

This is the part where I take leave of my senses and shut the hell up.

9

Sam

 

I jump straight up from my desk to see the district deputy chief, Karl Bell, grinning down at me. “What can I do for you, boss?” I rotate and massage the crick out of my neck.

He shakes his head. “Don't you sleep at your place anymore?”

“What are you talking about? This
is
my place,” I joke. While he throws back his well-rested head and laughs, I steal a look up at the clock. Twenty minutes of sleep isn't so bad.

“I heard that you had another slippery one last night. We got any leads?”

“Nothing popped up on the ground sweep or the checkpoints. So I doubt he got away on foot.”

“A planned escape then? Not a golden opportunity thing?”

“Has to be. The fence was cut with wire cutters taken from the workshop, but the strange thing is that Harlem's work detail doesn't have him working in the workshop. He's assigned to trash detail.”

“So he had help?”

“Yep. But finding out
who
helped him is going to be like searching for a needle in a haystack.”

“It always is. We'll leave that investigation up to the warden.” He gestures down at the files I'd been drooling on. “So what do we know about this fugitive? Anything interesting? I have a nine o'clock press conference with the sheriff's department. Do I need to tell the public to panic or not?”

“Not with my team on the case,” I brag.

The chief takes it for the joke that it's meant to be. “Believe me, I'm not worried. You always get your man.”

“Damn right, sir.” I climb to my feet just as Greg, Nick, and Frank rush into the office. “Combed through the visitor's logs. Seems the only person that ever visited Mr. Banks is his grandmother, Gloria Banks. We have her address if you're ready to ride out,” Greg says. His eye bags are starting to look like luggage.

“Sure. Just give me a second to make a run to the ladies' room.” I turn my attention back to the boss man. “I'll keep you abreast to anything we find.”

“I'm sure you will.” He winks. “Go get him.” With that he turns and walks out of my office.

I follow close behind, but when I near the bathroom, I remind my team, “Give me one minute.”

“You got it, chief.”

I rush inside and make a beeline to the first stall. I smack myself awake while I empty about five hours of stale coffee. At the sink, I wash my hands, use the hand soap to hit under my arms, and even splash some water onto my face. The hair—well. The best I can do is slick down the baby hairs around the edges of my ponytail and let it ride. I
have
to keep this week's hair appointment or do the big chop to join the natural movement. Aware that I took two minutes instead of one, I apologize when I exit.

Traffic is a bitch, but we make it to Gloria Banks's residence within an hour. Frank pounds on the door like his fist is a battering ram. Despite that, Gloria Banks takes her sweet time answering it.

“Can I help you?” She asks calmly as if the US Marshals being at the door was a normal occurrence.

“Gloria Banks?” I ask, meeting her gaze as we both stand at the same height.

“Yes.”

“Hello, ma'am. I'm assistant deputy chief Samantha Reynolds with the US Marshals. May we come in and speak with you about your grandson, Harlem Banks?”

The question hangs in the air between us as she takes my measure. I can read that she wants to slam this door in my face.

“What about him?” she asks, not budging from the door.

I cut a quick look to Greg and his expression mirrors the annoyance that I'm feeling.

“Ma'am, at approximately ten-thirty last night, your grandson escaped from a federal prison.” I wait for a response or a reaction. There isn't one. “Did you already know that?”

“Why would I know that?”

Answering a question with another question sets off another set of bells inside my head. “Ma'am, you need to know that if you're in any way aiding or abetting your grandson that you can and will be subjected to federal charges yourself.”

“Nana?” a soft voice floats from behind the older woman.

“Tyler, go back and finish eating your cereal,” she calls back. When Gloria returns her attention to us, she remains planted in front of the door.

“I can have a warrant here before your great-granddaughter finishes that bowl of cereal—and I won't be in such an amenable mood,” I warn her.

Gloria's gaze scatters away from mine as she finally steps back and invites us inside. “C'mon in.”

“Thank you.” I step across the threshold first and take a wide sweeping gaze around the immaculate brownstone. “Nice place you have here, ma'am.” I can't help but pick up the strong scent of bleach.
She's been cleaning.

The rest of my team enters, nodding and looking around. But my gaze zooms to the adorable little girl, sitting at the breakfast table. Her big brown eyes give her a baby-doll appearance. I wave, but her small body shrinks as if terrified by the looks of us.

“Okay. You're inside. Now what?” Gloria asks, stepping into my line of vision of her great-granddaughter.

“Have you been in contact with Harlem?” I ask pointedly.

There's a beat of hesitation before she says, “No.”

“I have to tell you that wasn't very convincing,” I say. “Do I need to remind you of the consequences in hindering his capture?”

“He's not here,” she snaps.

“Then you won't mind if we take a look around?” Greg asks.

She hesitates again.

“Now or an hour from now,” I tell her. “The search
will
happen.”

“Then why bother asking?” she sasses.

My team all share looks before we answer at the same time, “Good manners.”

Ms. Banks isn't amused by our sense of humor, but this isn't about us making friends. The team splits up to conduct a thorough sweep of the place.

Gloria, with her jaw clenched, glares at us while we invade her home. Fortunately, it doesn't take long for us to comb through the spotless house. However, I'm surprised to find a twelve-gauge shotgun in a gun cabinet. She doesn't strike me as the type.

“Satisfied?” she asks.

“Ma'am, we're not the enemy. Your grandson is a convicted criminal. He's just making it worse for himself the longer he stays out.”

“Are you trying to put my daddy back in jail?”

“Tyler,” Gloria snaps. “What did I tell you about talking when grown folks are talking?”

“Yes, ma'am.” She hangs her head and then shovels in another mouthful of Cheerios into her mouth.

I shake my head at Gloria. She must know that she's been caught in a lie. I walk over to the dining room table and pull out a chair next to Tyler.

“Hey. I'm Samantha. Your name is Tyler, right?”

The girl's eyes grow larger instead of answering.

I suck in a deep breath and pray for patience. “Tyler, I need to ask you a very important question and I need you to be honest with me, okay? It's very important. You understand?”

She blinks her long lashes at me and then cuts a look at her great-grandmother.

“I need you to look at me, sweetie,” I coach. “You understand?” I ask again.

“Yes, ma'am,” she says shakily.

“Did your father come and see you last night—or this morning?”

A long, pregnant pause follows my question. I find myself holding my breath waiting for her answer.

Finally, she shakes her head.

I exhale with disappointment. “Are you telling me the truth?”

“She answered your question,” Gloria says. “Now will you people please leave? Harlem hasn't been here and we don't know where he is.”

When Tyler's large eyes fill with tears, I back off and thank the little girl for lying to my face. I stand and signal to the team to head out.

A grateful Gloria follows us to the door, but before I step out, I turn toward her a final time. “
If
Harlem contacts you,” I begin, reaching into my jacket and retrieving my card, “make sure that you give us a call.”

With her jaw stiff with anger, Gloria takes the card, but makes no such promise.

“You're not helping him, you know? We
will
catch him.”

“Then I'll let you get to it.”

Sighing, I walk out of the door. I hate when people try to make my job harder.

“Get me a warrant for a wiretap and put some eyes on these two in case Banks comes back.”

“You got it, boss.”