Finders Keepers (21 page)

Claudette’s voice, muffed by the café window, reached Raybould’s ears now, galvanizing him.

“They got my ticket.
They got my ten million dollars
.”

Raybould put it together in an instant. The Lottery Corporation was right across the street. She’d won the lottery and the ticket was in her purse.

In a heartbeat he was out of his chair, heading for the exit at a dead tear.

* * *

From the surveillance van Hicks had been blind to the entire fiasco. He first laid eyes on Claudette when the bus merged into traffic, a very large woman hoisting herself out of the slush, sheets of it dripping from her prodigious backside, the woman screaming blue murder. What was she raving about?

He gave Mayer a poke. “Hey, Bry, listen to this broad. Ten million dollars?”

Mayer leaned across him to have a peek. In the same instant Raybould burst out of the café and flashed the woman his badge.

“What the…?”

Mayer cranked up the volume on the receiver. “Goddam, get a load of this.”

Raybould’s voice: “Ma’am, I’m a police officer.” His gold shield sending off sun flares over there. “Can I be of any assistance?”

Hicks watched Claudette check Raybould’s I.D., then seize his wrist and point down the street. The punks had made it to the end of the block, about to dart around the corner now.

Claudette’s voice: “Officer Raybould, thank God. Those two little bastards—they got my purse. There’s a ten million dollar lottery ticket in that purse, officer. Get it back for me and I’ll give you a million.
Two
million. Now
go
.”

Raybould gave chase.

* * *

Hicks said, “Shit,” dropped the binoculars onto the floor and slammed the van into gear. He started to pull out, intending to cut across traffic in pursuit, but the light at the next intersection turned red and a graffiti-scrawled garbage truck locked him in. He jammed on the brakes and Mayer, who’d been holding his coffee, let out a shriek, the still-steaming liquid slopping into his crotch.

“HOT.”

Hicks shoved his door open to go after Raybould on foot, but a pizza delivery guy in a rusted Pinto decided there was enough room between the van and the garbage truck to slip through. His front bumper creased the opening van door, slamming it shut and almost taking Hicks’ head off.

Losing time, both men bailed out on Mayer’s side and took off after Raybould on foot.

* * *

Raybould rounded the corner at the end of the block and saw the perps right away, a hundred yards ahead now, moving at a fast walk. Fishnet was already digging around in the purse.

Raybould crossed the street, pulling on a pair of leather gloves, continuing his loping run. Fishnet made him before he hit the sidewalk; he slapped his partner on the back, his words reaching Raybould’s ears on the still winter air.

“Split up. Meet me at the arcade.”

The partner broke into the street, veering left across the intersection, weaving through traffic in an attempt to lure him away from the prize. But Raybould stuck with the money.

The kid was fast, built like a long distance runner, and he led Raybould a merry chase, plowing through anything that stood in his way. A woman laden with parcels stepped out of a department store into his path and the kid knocked her sprawling, almost losing his balance in the treadless cowboy boots he was wearing. The edge of the open door saved him and he took the chase inside, bounding along the first aisle he came to, screaming like a banshee to clear a path, shoppers shrinking back from him. Hot on his heels, Raybould ran him into the exit on the opposite side of the store. He almost had him in the revolving doors. He caught one of the wings and jammed it with his toe, but the slippery bastard managed to squirm out through a space Raybould couldn’t have squeezed his leg through. Then they were back in the street.

Raybould paced himself now, waiting for the kid to do something stupid. Fear always made people stupid, a fact he’d counted on more than once.

Sure enough, tiring, the kid ducked into an alley. Bad move. Raybould knew the alley; it dog-legged into a dead end.

He got out a cigarette and set it between his teeth, pausing at the mouth of the alley to glance up and down the street, alert for any attention their foot race might have drawn. But everything was business as usual. That was a beautiful thing about a city like Toronto: nobody ever saw anything.

He entered the alley, an icy, rutted corridor between a Thai restaurant and an abandoned warehouse. Sure enough there was the kid, leaning against a dumpster, looking every bit like he was ready to puke. No sign of the stolen purse.

Grinning, Raybould said, “You coke-smokers are out of shape. I’ve gotta be twice your age, I haven’t even broken a sweat yet.” He lit the cigarette, taking his time. “I could run your skinny ass all day. But since we’re here, why don’t you be an agreeable little reprobate and hand over the lady’s purse.”

“What purse?” the kid said. “Why are you on my ass anyways, man?”

Raybould took a step toward him. “I’m sorry, I must’ve given you the wrong impression. You think I’m in a playful mood? Fish the handbag out of the dumpster and hand it the fuck over. You reading me now?”

He took another step toward the kid, spitting distance now, and the kid pulled a knife. A switchblade, like his buddy’s. Raybould smiled.

“The shape you’re in, you’re gonna fuck with me?”

“Back off, dickhead.” Waving the blade. “I’ll stick this in your heart.”

Raybould flicked his cigarette into a mound of dirty snow. “Okay, kid.”

Still smiling, Raybould dropped into a fighter’s stance. Startled, the kid took a wild slash at him and Raybould’s right hand came down like a broad-sword on his wrist, the knife twirling to the snow-crusted pavement. Screaming in pain, the kid huddled over his arm, breathing hard, wide eyes unable to comprehend the unnatural angle at which his wrist now jutted. Raybould picked up the knife and handed it back to him.

“Here,” he said. “Take it.” Fishnet accepted it with his uninjured hand. “Take another shot. Come on, that was pathetic. Make me proud.”

The kid hunched there a few seconds longer, clutching the knife, making up his mind. Then, cat-quick, he lunged at Raybould, trying to bury the blade in his throat. An instant before the steel found its target Raybould snatched the kid’s wrist and twisted, spinning him around on his own arm. Then Raybould was behind him, one arm around his chest, the other holding the switchblade to his throat.

“Nice try, but nasty. Here’s how it feels.”

He plunged the blade into Fishnet’s neck, driving it through the larynx deep into the cervical spine. The stab was precise and nearly bloodless, designed to suffocate rather than exsanguinate. Raybould relaxed his grip and the kid staggered away, clasping the knife with both hands, trying to yank it free. But it was in there for keeps.

The flat part of the blade stoppered his windpipe and after a few seconds of mute struggle the kid sagged to his knees. Ignoring him, Raybould propped open the dumpster and found the purse. He turned in time to see the kid go over like a felled tree, landing squarely on the butt of the knife, driving it deeper into his neck. The kid rolled onto his back now, raising his arms to the white sky, a strange clicking sound coming from his throat.

Raybould opened the purse to a waft of stale perfume, rummaged through candy wrappers, loose change and the stale crumbs of a hundred squirreled snacks, and found the ticket in a zippered pocket. He folded it carefully into his wallet, then bent over a nearby manhole cover and lifted it free. He leaned the heavy disc against the dumpster. Then he stood over the dying kid, shaking his head. The kid’s eyes could no longer hold their focus. Raybould grabbed him by the ankles and dragged him to the open manhole.

“In you go.”

He folded the kid in ass first. There was a thudding splash but no other sound. After a brief look around he tossed the purse in after the punk, replaced the manhole cover and walked away.

* * *

Hicks was convinced they’d lost him. Trailing the pursuit by at least a minute, they rounded the first corner and saw no sign of Raybould or the punks he’d been chasing. Then Mayer spotted the woman Fishnet had bowled over, gathering up the last of her muddied parcels. They jogged up to her and identified themselves as police officers. Without further prompting the woman pointed into the department store.

“They went in there.”

Splitting up, the detectives fast-walked through the crowded store, scanning the aisles as they went. At the rear exit Hicks noticed a couple of teenagers standing outside the revolving doors, craning their necks and pointing down the street. He signaled Mayer and they ran out onto the sidewalk together, Hicks showing the teenagers his badge. “You see a couple of guys run through here?” he said and one of the teenagers said, “Yeah, man, they went thata way.” Pointing south toward the Asian district. “What’d the dude do, kill somebody?”

Mayer said, “I see him.”

A long block away on the other side of the street, looking this way briefly before strolling into an alley or a side street, hard to tell from this distance.

Hicks said, “Yeah, that’s him,” and sprinted off down the street. Mayer fell in behind him, breathing hard.

* * *

There was a liquor store across from the alley and the detectives went inside, Hicks loitering by the glass door while Mayer hunched by a cognac display, trying to catch his breath.

Several minutes later Raybould reappeared at the mouth of the alley. He paused to scan his surroundings, and for the space of an eyeblink his gaze fell on Hicks. Hicks lowered his head—a quick, startled gesture—hiding his face with his hand. When he looked up again Raybould had already started back toward the Lottery Corporation, lighting a fresh cigarette.

When Raybould was out of sight Hicks and Mayer headed for the alley. It dead-ended in a wide alcove bordered by two L-shaped buildings with a space between them Hicks couldn’t fit his arm into. Set into one wall was a steel door with no handle. Mayer tried to jimmy it with his fingers but it was sealed tight from the inside. No fire escapes, no pipes or ladders to scale. The place was a bolt hole, nowhere to run.

After a few minutes scouting around they stood together by the dumpster.

“I don’t get it,” Mayer said.

“Yeah,” Hicks said, “if the kid ran in here Raybould had him cold.” He opened the dumpster, started poking around inside.

Still winded, Mayer bent forward at the waist, hands on his knees, letting gravity take the weight of his gut. He took a deep, wheezing breath and spotted something by the manhole cover. He limped over on an ankle that suddenly felt lame.

“Rodney. Take a gander at this.”

Hicks walked over for a look. Smiling, he said, “Nice going, Hawkeye.”

They bent over a single drop of fresh blood.

Hicks said, “Let’s get this sucker open.”

It took some doing, the damn thing heavy as hell, but they got the lid off and rolled it aside. Mayer brought out a penlight and aimed it down the shaft. Fishnet stared up at him with glazed eyes, the switchblade jutting from his throat. The fat woman’s purse lay open on his chest, its contents strewn around him. His splayed legs, wedged across the frosted concrete shaft, framed his face in a khaki V.

Mayer sank to a squat, shifting the flashbeam to the open purse. He said, “The son of a bitch got the ticket.”

“And I’d bet dimes to donuts he’s back there right now explaining to the fat lady how this poor mutt outran him.”

“Moot point,” Mayer said, grinning at Hicks. “If we didn’t have the man before, we got him now.”

Hicks said, “That’s a given.” He squatted down to his partner’s level. “But think about this a minute. He
got
the ticket. You said so yourself.”

“Yeah? And? We got him for murder-one, right here, you’re worried about theft?”

“You think he’s back there handing that broad her ticket?”

Mayer glanced down at the dead kid. “That’s a dumb question, Rodney. I’m fucking
sure
he’s not back there handing the broad her ticket. But is that relevant? Am I missing something here?”

Hicks rose to his full height. “Ten million dollars, Bryan, that’s what you’re missing. Ten million dollars.”

Mayer stood, saying, “All right, slow down a minute, tell me if I’m reading you right. Ten million dollars—split three ways, we all makes out like bandits and nobody’s any the wiser? Is that what you’re getting at?”

Hicks’ eyes were rock hard. “Sweeter split two-ways,” he said, facing Mayer dead on. “The rules of the game have just changed, Bryan. Do we agree on that?”

Mayer cast his eyes down, unnerved by what he saw in his partner’s unblinking gaze. He’d been a police officer for sixteen years, and apart from a solid bunch of friends on the force and two strong sons he doted over, he had little to show for it. He’d been an honest cop, mostly, holding as firmly as he could to standards that had been almost naively ideal when he took the oath. When he’d mentioned a three-way split just now he’d assumed Hicks was bullshitting, or maybe just dreaming out loud. But it was clear the man was not screwing around.

Mayer took a deep breath. He was being asked to cross the line here, all the way over, and it was his wife’s voice, heard as clearly in his mind as if she were standing right next to him, that warned him off. He opened his mouth to say no, the only acceptable response he could make…but in that moment, like a man stepping up to the rim of the Grand Canyon for the first time, he got a clear vision of what was in it for him should he choose to go along.
Five million dollars…
The sheer enormity of it and all it could bring weakened his knees.

Agreed,” he said, still not looking at Hicks. “Agreed.”

* * *

Claudette’s theatrics attracted a crowd that included a pair of uniformed officers, one of whom was attempting to glean a statement from her.

“Ma’am, can you describe the men who took your purse?”

Claudette looked at the cop as if he were from another solar system. “What’s
wrong
with you people? Why are you writing? Will you for God’s-sake go
after
them?”