Heist 2 (15 page)

10

Harlem

“W
hat the hell is this?” I ask, spotting the long snake of traffic up ahead.

Johnnie sits up in her seat with a sudden smirk. “Could be a police checkpoint.”

That's exactly what I'm thinking. Paranoia seizes me in its grip. I check around to see how to get off this road, but it looks like it may be too late. The cars packed in tight behind one another. I could pull off the road, but then what?

Heat infuses my body. The only thing I can do that won't draw attention to the vehicle—or myself—is to go straight through.

“Why don't you just turn yourself in?” Johnnie asks. “You can't truly believe that you're going to get to where it is that you trying to go. You gotta know that, right?”

“Then you have nothing to worry about,” I tell her, reaching into the backseat for the bag I'd tossed back there. “If you're lucky, they'll have me in handcuffs in time for your wedding.”

She clams up and I remember what she'd said when she came home last night. “That is,
if
you still want to marry ol' boy.”

“Shut up. Of course I want to marry Reese. I . . . love him.”

Johnnie is so obviously lying that I laugh in her face. “You'll never get an Oscar with a performance like that.”

“Fuck you.”

“You already did that—and quite well, too, if I may add. Doesn't look to me that I'm out of your system yet. But then, I'm biased.” I remove one of the IDs and a .45mm handgun from the bag.

“What in the hell is that?” Johnnie thunders like she's never seen a real gun before.

“Calm the fuck down,” I tell her. “This is just a little insurance.”

“Your idea of an insurance plan is to shoot your way out?” she screams. “You're going to get us killed.”

I look around to make sure no one in the other cars is watching her lose her mind.

“I'm getting out of here,” she announces as if she's finished playing Bonnie and Clyde for the day and she's ready to go back to her bougie life.

I hit the childproof lock button and lock her inside. “Sorry, princess. It doesn't work like that. You wanted to be a part of this joyride; now deal with the consequences.”

“Oh yeah? And what are you going to do when I yell to the cops that you're a wanted fugitive?”

Regretfully, I unclick the safety.

Johnnie's eyes double in size. “You wouldn't dare.”

“Sorry, but desperate times call for desperate measures.”

Her expression registers her sense of betrayal.

“Oh, don't look like that. It's not like dropping by a prison to fuck my brains out and then telling me that you're marrying another dude type of fucked up.”

“Threatening to
kill
me registers
lower
on the betrayal scale? Are you shitting me?”

“Don't be dramatic,” I say as we creep forward. Judging her face, I don't know how serious she's taking my threat—but it's important that she believes me. “If you do anything to blow this, the first bullet is yours.” When she reads me this time, fear ripples in her eyes.

Closer and closer we approach the blue and white lights. I lower the gun to my left side, but keep my hand near the trigger for a quick draw. However, it's not a checkpoint, but a five-car pile up. The long traffic jam is due to the three lanes being reduced to one and nosy muthafuckas, like myself, rubbernecking to see what's going on. The young, pimply police officer in the middle of the road windmills his arms, telling us to go through without sparing me a second look.

Once we get past the wreckage, the road expands back out to three lanes and we're back to coasting at the speed limit in no time.

My fears and paranoia ease and I click the safety back on the gun. “Well. That turned out better than expected.” I glance over at Johnnie—and she's crying. Not blubbering uncontrollably, but more of a silent cry with her chin jacked up, her bottom lip quivering and one or two tears rolling down her face. Not good.

Now what do I do? Apologize? Then what will happen if and when we
do
come across a real checkpoint? I can't bluff twice.

“I hate you,” she says, breaking the silence. “I hate the day that I ever laid eyes on you.”

I figure the best thing for me to do is to be quiet while she stays all up in her feelings for a few minutes—or hours.

“Was there anything about us real?”

I keep my mouth shut.

“Well? I'm asking you a question, Mr. Big Time Criminal. Clearly, you never told me the truth about anything. Your name. What you did for a living. Your daughter. And certainly not that you're capable of
murder.
”

When the tears skip down her face again, I go back to feeling like a pile of shit. So far, nothing has changed on this trip.

11

Sam

“T
his is interesting,” Greg says from the passenger seat of our SUV.

“Hit me.”

“It says here that Isaiah Kane is scheduled for early release today.”

“What? I thought both him and Harlem were sentenced a mandatory ten years?” I know that I'm tired, but I'm sure that I read that correctly.

Greg spins the laptop toward me so I can read for myself.

“What the hell is that all about?” I ask, surprised.

“Don't know, but it can't be a coincidence,” he says.

I shake my head. “You know that I don't believe in coincidence.” I hit my lights and then hang an illegal U-turn. “Call down to the justice department's office and see if you can find out what they know about this and whether Mr. Kane has already been released.”

“It's just nine a.m. I doubt that he's been processed yet,” Greg says confidently. Ten minutes later, we find out that's not true. Seems the people over at the prison are on the ball in releasing Mr. Kane. But luckily he's being released to serve the first six months at a halfway house less than fifteen minutes from where we are. I make it over there in half that. It's perfect timing because the new tenants at the halfway house have just arrived from the prison.

It isn't hard to pick out Isaiah Kane. He still looks exactly like his last mug shot. An even six-foot with dark maple complexion, he has a solid build. He's handsome, but not in a pretty-boy way.

I march straight up to him. “Isaiah Kane?”

His thick eyebrows do a head collision over his confused dark eyes. “Yeah?”

I launch my introduction again, this time including Greg, before asking, “We need to ask you a few questions about your former childhood friend and partner-in-crime, Harlem Banks.”

“Well, let me stop you right there,” he says. “You're wasting your time. Harlem and I don't fuck with each other anymore.”

“Yeah. Separate prisons tends to fuck up friendships,” I say sarcastically.

“Whatever. I haven't heard or talked to him in years.”

“So you have no idea why he busted out of prison last night?” I ask.

“What?” His entire body language changes. He's more aggressive. “What do you mean?”

“Exactly what I said. The way we see it, it can't be coincidence that he bails the night before you're scheduled for early release. The two have to be connected.”

Isaiah pulls his anger back in check. “I don't know what you're talking about. Like I told you. I haven't talked to him in years. I'm sure that y'all can verify that.”

“That's being done as we speak. But maybe you can solve a riddle for us: how is that you've secured a five-year early release on a mandatory ten-year sentence?”

He shrugs his thick shoulders. “I've never been the type of guy to look a gift horse in the mouth,” he says.

“Oookay. But you used to know Harlem pretty well. Have any idea where he would go? Any special people that he would try to see?”

He shakes his head—there was a slight beat of hesitation.

“Anything would help—and will be much appreciated.”

“I couldn't possibly tell you where that nigga's head is at. As far as whom he might visit: check in with his grandmother. Those two were as thick as cornbread the last time I checked. Plus, I'd imagine that she's still raising his daughter.”

I nod. “We already paid her a visit.”

“And?”

“Still in review. Anyone else?”

“I got nothing.”

Greg jumps in. “Are you sure that he won't try and come and see you?”

“Me?” His laugh sounds like a misfired tailpipe.

I follow Greg's line of questioning. “Maybe you two have an old beef that he intends on settling? Maybe we should get you a few agents out here to make sure that he doesn't come for you.”

Isaiah's fake amusement fades. “Nah. That's totally not necessary. I don't need any more babysitters than I already got around here.”

We hit on something. I stare him down while I try to figure shit out.

When he grins at me, I have a sudden urge for a real shower. “There's something strange about this whole thing,” I say, studying him. But he's comfortable behind a straight poker face. “But you know what? My team and I are pretty smart people. We're going to figure out what's going on. And the first thing on my list is finding out how this whole release thing happened. If
all
the details don't check out, trust and believe, you'll be hauled right back to your tiny jail cell where you belong.”

Poker face.

“Check you later, slick.” I turn and storm away—but when I reach the door, Isaiah calls out.

“There is this one chick homie used to fuck with.”

I turn around with my interest piqued. “Yeah?”

“He was crazy about her—even proposed, I think,” Isaiah goes on.

“And who's that?”

He shrugs. “I only met her once—and at a club, at that, but I know her name was Johnnie.”

I whip out my steno pad to jot down the information. “Does Johnnie have a last name?”

“I'm sure that she does—but I don't remember it. Harlem would never bring her around me. But I believe she is some kind of lawyer and her people are supposedly important.”

“Well,” Greg quips. “That should narrow it down.”

Isaiah looks affronted. “You said that the help would be appreciated.”

I sigh and put my pad away. “It is. Thanks.”

“Any time.”

I head back out the door.

Greg marches behind me. “What are you thinking?”

“I'm thinking that this shit stinks to high heaven.”

“Good. So do I.”

“Get us two more agents down here to sit on Isaiah, too. He looked pretty freaked out when I suggested it.”

“Yeah. I caught that, too,” Greg says. “What do you think about this Johnnie? Think he's just trying to throw us off or throw us a bone?”

“Leave no stone unturned,” I say. “Let's comb everything we got again and see if we can find a chick named Johnnie.”

12

Johnnie

W
hat the fuck have I done?
The question loops over and over in my mind until I'm fucking dizzy. The only answer is: temporary insanity. I never believed in such a term until today. It always seemed more like an excuse of convenience than anything based in reality. People do things in a fit of anger or passion and then are crushed with guilt or regret. They don't want to take responsibility for their actions so they plead
temporary insanity.
Shit. Maybe that's exactly what's happening now.

I perform a silent face-palm and then mentally berate my poor decision-making.

This asshole actually threatened me with a gun.
That tells me everything that I need to know about this man. I've been trying to get over Harlem for five years and I'm no more than what? A good fuck that he can plant a bullet into once he's done with me?

I hopped into the car with him instead of walking down the aisle with Reese Singleton? Reese may be a bit of a bore, but he checks a lot of boxes for what women
should
want. He's handsome, successful with a great future ahead of him. As far as sex, he can't hit a G-spot with a baseball bat. And there's the potential of him having an alcohol problem, but my mother is right. There's enough of a foundation to carve out a decent and good life.

Harlem, on the other hand, is a dead end. Literally. He's not only a criminal, but also an escaped fugitive no doubt with the US Marshals on his ass.
And I jumped in the car with him.

Temporary insanity.

I peek at him between my fingers and still feel . . .
something.
Just like I did when the judge handed down his sentence and the prison guards hauled him off, while I sat in the back of the courtroom. The same
something
that I've been trying to cut, bury, and ignore for five years.
It's not love. It's not love.
I shake my head because the lie is still not working.

“How long are you going to sit over there and mope?” Harlem asks, breaking our two-hour silence.

I lift my head, but turn my gaze out the passenger-side window instead of answering him.

“Really?” he asks. “The silent treatment?”

Silence.

Harlem sighs. “Look . . . I know that it was fucked up what I did back there, but you gotta see this shit from my side for a minute. I couldn't risk you turning me in back there. At least, not yet. There's something I . . . I got to take care of first and then . . . you know. Whatever.”

“Take care of?” I wince at breaking my silence, but then throw up my hand as a brick wall. “No. Don't answer that. I don't want to know and I don't care. You need to pull over somewhere and let me out.”

“Can't do that,” he tells me again. “You had your chance to bail. If I let you out now, you'll call the cops and I can't afford that. The only thing that's working in my favor is that only one other person even knows where I'm headed.”

“What the fuck are you talking about? I don't know where the hell you're going. You wouldn't tell me, remember?”

“Not you.” He shakes his head. “Never mind.”

I roll my eyes and we fall back into an awkward and strained silence. I glance over at the car's clock. It's nearing noon. I should be at the hotel, sipping on champagne and getting my hair and makeup done with my bridesmaids. Strangely, the thought still causes my stomach to knot. That makes it official, there's something wrong with me.

“I wouldn't have shot you,” Harlem finally growls out like it's killing him to admit it.

I want to be indifferent to the confession, but the relief is so overwhelming that I'm barely able to blink back a rush of tears. I do knuckle away the few teardrops that managed to leak.

Harlem must've seen because he adds, “I'm sorry.”

“It doesn't matter,” I lie.

The dashboard dings and a red light alerts us that we're running low on gasoline.

“Shit,” Harlem mumbles, looking around. He's in luck because there's a gas station up ahead.

We coast into the station on fumes. The car shuts off the second Harlem pulls up to an available pump. But he doesn't immediately hop out of the car. Instead, he squares in the driver's seat to stare at me. “Look. I know that you hate me right now. I get that. I can only hope that you can accept my apology for what it is. I know I should have never involved you in this in the first place. But I
had
to see you again because . . . I haven't been able to forget you. I don't know anything about this other man that you're supposed to be marrying, but I know that he hasn't been loving you right. Can't be. Or you would've never arranged that conjugal visit. I don't give a damn what you say. I'm in your system just as badly as you're in mine.”

My gaze creeps over to his. And when I look into those deep dark eyes, my entire body responds. I suddenly want his mouth on mine and his hands on my body.

He reaches over and takes my hand. For a few seconds I enjoy the warmth rushing up my arm, but then I feel something hard and plastic being wrapped around them.

“What the—?”

“I'm going to have to apologize again,” he says. “But now that you know that I won't shoot you, I can't trust that you'll remain seated in your chair like a good girl.”

“What?” I jerk my hands back, but the plastic cuffs cut hard against my wrists. “You can't do this.”

“Sorry,” he says again. “But I can and I will.”

“HELP! HELP!” I shout as he wraps the plastic cuff around the steering wheel.

Harlem sighs. We both know that the car's soundproof windows buffer my screams. Not that it would matter: I don't see anyone else walking around. But clearly he thinks he needs extra insurance and produces a roll of duct tape.

“What the fuck? You got the damn kitchen sink in that bag?”

“Be prepared is my motto,” he says before slapping that shit across my mouth.

I try to wrestle my face away, but the shit is useless.

Proud of his handiwork, Harlem smiles and delivers a quick kiss against my forehead. “I'll be back,” he says in his best Terminator voice and then pops out of the car to fill up the tank.

Humiliation doesn't describe what I'm going through. But I will get him back for this shit—even if it's the last thing I do.