his son’s arrest hits the papers.”
“You want a deal?”
“Yeah, I want a deal. I’m sick of this delusion crap of yours, Carnegie. I’m a legitimate businessman. I didn’t steal the Anco payroll. I’m not a thief and never have been.”
He eyed the detective carefully then reached into his pocket and handed Carnegie a slip of paper.
“What’s this?”
“The number of a Coastal Air flight six months ago — the afternoon of the Anco robbery.”
“How’d you get this?”
“My companies do some business with the airlines. I pulled some strings and the head of security at Coastal got me that number. One of the passengers in first class on that flight paid cash for a one-way ticket from John Wayne Airport to Chicago four hours after the Anco robbery. He had no checked baggage. Only carry-on. They wouldn’t give me the passenger’s name but that shouldn’t be too tough for a hardworking cop like you to track down.”
Carnegie stared at the paper. “The guy from the Department of Public Works? The one the witness saw with that suitcase near Anco?”
“Maybe it’s a coincidence, Detective. But I know I didn’t steal the money. Maybe
The paper disappeared into Carnegie’s pocket. “What do you want?”
“Drop me as a suspect. Cut out all the surveillance. I want my life back. And I want a letter signed by you stating that the evidence proves I’m not guilty.”
“That won’t mean anything in court.”
“But it’ll look pretty bad if anybody decides to come after me again.”
“Bad for my job, you mean.”
“That’s exactly what I mean.”
After a moment Carnegie muttered, “How long’ve you been planning this out?”
Muller said nothing. But he reflected: Not that long, actually. He’d started thinking about it just after the two cops had interrupted his nap the other day.
He’d wire-transferred some money to one of his banks in France from an investment account to fuel the cops’ belief that he was getting ready to flee the country (the French accounts were completely legit; only a fool would hide loot in Europe).
Then he’d done some surveillance of his own, low-tech though it was. He’d pulled on overalls, glasses and a hat and snuck into police headquarters, armed with a watering can and clippers to tend to the plants he’d noticed inside the station the first time he was arrested. He’d spent a half hour on his knees, his head down, clipping and watering, in the hallway outside the watch room, where he’d learned the extent of the police’s electronic invasion of his life. He’d heard too the exchange between Billy Carnegie and the detective — a classic example of an uninvolved father and a troubled, angry son.
Muller smiled to himself now, recalling that after the meeting Carnegie had been so focused on the case that, when he nearly tripped over Muller in the corridor, the cop had never noticed who the gardener was.
He’d then followed Billy for a few hours until he caught him palming the watch. Then he tricked the boy into helping him. He’d hired the painters to do some interior touch-up — to give him the excuse to park his car elsewhere and to check into the motel. Then, using their surveillance against them, he’d fooled the cops into believing he was indeed the Anco burglar and was getting ready to do one last heist and flee the state by buying the travel books, the bullets and the tools and logging on to the alarm and travel agency websites. At the motel he’d tempted Billy Carnegie into stealing the suitcase, credit cards, phone and car — everything that would let the cops track the kid and nail him red-handed.
He now said to Carnegie, “I’m sorry, Detective. But you didn’t leave me any choice. You just weren’t ever going to believe that I’m innocent.”
“You used my son.”
Muller shrugged. “No harm done. Look on the good side — his first bust and he picked a victim who’s willing to drop the charges. Anybody else, he wouldn’t’ve been so lucky.”
Carnegie glanced through the blinds at his son, standing forlorn by Hager’s desk.
“He’s savable, Detective,” Muller said. “If you want to save him…. So, do we have a deal?”
A disgusted sigh was followed by a disgusted nod.
Outside the police station, Muller tossed the suitcase into the back of his car, which had been towed to the station by a police truck.
He drove back to his house and walked inside. The workmen had apparently just finished and the smell of paint was strong. He went through the ground floor, opening windows to air the place out.
Strolling into his garden, he surveyed the huge pile of mulch, whose spreading had been postponed because of his interrupted nap. The businessman glanced at his watch. He had some phone calls to make but decided to put them off for another day; he was in the mood to garden. He changed clothes, went into the garage and picked up a glistening new shovel, part of his purchases that morning at Home Depot. He began meticulously spreading the black and brown mulch throughout the large garden.
After an hour of work he paused for a beer. Sitting under a maple tree, sipping the Heineken, he surveyed the empty street in front of his house — where Carnegie had stationed the surveillance team for the past few months. Man, it felt good not to be spied on any longer.
His eyes then slid to a small rock sitting halfway between a row of corn stalks and some tomato vines. Three feet beneath it was a bag containing the $543,300 from Anco Security, which he’d buried there the afternoon of the robbery just before he’d ditched the public works uniform and driven the stolen truck to Orange County Airport for the flight to Chicago under a false name — a precautionary trip, in case he needed to lead investigators off on a false trail, as it turned out he’d had to do, thanks to compulsive Detective Carnegie.
Jake Muller planned all of his heists out to the finest of details; this was why he’d never been caught after nearly fifteen years as a thief.
He’d wanted to send the cash to his bagman in Miami for months — Muller hated it when heist money wasn’t earning interest — but with Carnegie breathing down his neck he hadn’t dared. Should he dig it up now and send it off?
No, he decided; it was best to wait till dark.
Besides, the weather was warm, the sky was clear and there was nothing like gardening on a beautiful spring day. Muller finished his beer, picked up the shovel and returned to the pile of pungent mulch.
BORN BAD
The words of the lullaby looped relentlessly through her mind, as persistent as the clattering Oregon rain on the roof and window.
The song that she’d sung to Beth Anne when the girl was three or four seated itself in her head and wouldn’t stop echoing. Twenty-five years ago, the two of them: mother and daughter, sitting in the kitchen of the family’s home outside of Detroit. Liz Polemus, hunching over the Formica table, the frugal young mother and wife, working hard to stretch the dollars.
Singing to her daughter, who sat across from her, fascinated with the woman’s deft hands.
