Joel Goldman - Final judgment

“She’s early,” he said.

Fish smiled. “Like I told you-either early or late, but never exactly on time. Watch what she does. She’ll take a tour of the lobby.”

“What’s that she’s carrying?” Mason asked

Samuelson leaned into the screen. “Bring that up,” he told the technician, who enlarged the picture.

Sylvia was carrying a large shopping bag adorned with images of famous books. She set the bag on the floor next to a round countertop where customers could fill out deposit slips.

“Get me inside that bag,” Samuelson instructed the technician, who cycled through the bank’s cameras until he found the one that was directly over the countertop, zooming in until the contents of the bag were visible.

“Books,” Mason said. “It’s a bag of books.”

A man entered the picture, but the overhead camera didn’t capture his features. Sylvia picked up the bag and the two of them walked toward the desk nearest the vault holding the safety deposit boxes. The technician switched cameras again, this time getting a head-on view of Mickey and Sylvia.

“Where the hell is the volume?” Samuelson snapped. “Why can’t we hear what they’re saying?”

“I’m on it,” the technician said, his fingers racing across the keyboard. He put on a set of headphones and twirled the dials on the speakers. “Either the transmitter is dead or she’s jamming it.”

Samuelson picked up a two-way radio. “Brewer, Holt,” he said. “We’re calling it off. The audio isn’t working. We’ve got no ears.”

“I know,” Brewer said, his voice audible to all of them. “We’re not getting anything either. But you can’t call it off. She’ll know it was a setup and we’re finished. Besides, we’ve still got the cameras.”

“There are private viewing rooms inside the vault. No cameras in there,” the technician said. “We’ll be deaf, dumb, and blind if they use one of those.”

“The kid is with her,” Brewer said. “He’s our eyes and ears.”

They stared at the computer monitor. Mickey was signing the safety deposit box register.

“This is my call,” Samuelson said. “It’s off. Arrest her.”

“For what?” Kelly asked. “She hasn’t done anything. They’re in the vault now anyway. I’ll take the responsibility.”

Samuelson turned pale, his bald head beading with sweat. “Agent Holt, I’m ordering you to call this off.”

“I don’t take orders from you. Call your boss. Let him decide if he wants to blow up this investigation.”

Samuelson slammed the radio onto the kitchen table, whipped out his cell phone, and marched into the living room. Fish, Mason, and the technician watched the monitor, the camera trained on the inside of the vault. Mickey opened the safety deposit box, removed it, and carried it into a private room with Sylvia behind him.

Mason watched the timer at the bottom of the screen tick off five and half minutes until the door opened again. Mickey returned the safety deposit box and locked it. He went back to the private room and came out again carrying Sylvia’s bag. She followed, closing the door behind her. Samuelson returned just as they exited the vault, sporting a paler shade of pale with matching stooped shoulders.

“Did you reach the U.S. attorney?” Mason asked.

“He was in conference,” Samuelson said. “I told his secretary it was urgent. She said she’d mention that to him.”

Sylvia stopped at the countertop again, buttoning her coat and pulling on her gloves. Mickey stopped alongside her, setting the bag on the floor. Samuelson started to speak, but the technician cut him off.

“I got it,” he said, switching to the overhead camera, zooming in on the books.

“Thank God,” Samuelson said.

“God doesn’t play these games,” Fish said. “But He likes to watch.”

The bank’s camera followed Mickey and Sylvia out the door before losing them to the street.

Samuelson grabbed the radio. “Brewer, do you have them?”

“Big as life. She’s getting in a minivan. The kid is waving good-bye.”

“Follow her,” Samuelson said, “just in case.”

“We’re pulling out now,” Brewer said. “She’s northbound on Main at the traffic light. It just turned green.”

“Maintain radio contact,” Samuelson said. “I want to know every turn she takes.”

“Relax, we’ve got her,” Brewer said an instant before screaming, “Look out, you crazy son of a bitch!”

Samuelson held the radio at arm’s length, the sound of crying tires and crunched steel making his hand shake. He pulled the radio back to his mouth.

“Brewer! What’s happening? Holt, what the hell is going on?”

Kelly’s voice broke in over the radio. “Some asshole ran a red light and broadsided Brewer’s van.”

“Is anybody hurt?” Samuelson asked.

“I don’t think so,” Kelly said.

“What about Sylvia McBride?” Samuelson asked.

“She got away. I’ve got to go before Brewer takes out the guy who hit him. You better get down here.”

Samuelson raced out of the house. Mason followed him, Fish telling him he would be along in a few minutes. By the time Mason arrived, the intersection was clogged with police, tow trucks, and an ambulance. The contingent of FBI agents was gathered on the sidewalk in a tight circle surrounding Mickey. They stood outside the entrance to the bank watching the cops work.

Dennis Brewer and Kelly Holt peeled away from their group when they saw Samuelson approach. Mason caught up to them in the middle of the street.

“I thought you said no one was hurt,” Samuelson said to Kelly.

“The other driver claimed he had a seizure that made him black out and run the light. The cops called an ambulance to take him to a hospital to get checked out.”

“What a mess,” Samuelson said with a deep sigh. “At least the money is safe.”

“Well,” Kelly said. “Not all of it.”

Samuelson blanched. “What do you mean, not all of it?”

“I mean Sylvia took a little over eight hundred and fifty thousand. It was all she could fit in her bag and still cover the top of it with a few books.”

“You’re kidding me!” Samuelson said. “What the hell was Mickey doing?”

Kelly smiled. “He packed it up for her. The kid would make a good sacker at a grocery store.”

Mason shot a look at Mickey, who raised his cuffed hands in greeting. He started toward him when Kelly put her hand out. “You’ll have to wait here,” she said.

“What for?” he demanded.

“Where’s Fish?” she asked.

“On his way,” Mason said. “I’m going to talk with Mickey.”

“No you’re not.”

“I’m his lawyer,” Mason said. “You can’t stop me.”

“We have a rule, Counselor,” Kelly said. “We don’t let suspects talk to one another until we’re done talking to them separately.”

“Suspects? What the hell are you talking about?” Mason asked.

“I told you that Fish was going to try to steal the money. You didn’t believe me, and you let him suck you and Mickey into his scam.”

“Have you gone completely nuts? Exactly how were any of us involved in stealing the money?”

“Mickey said Fish called him on his cell phone while he and Sylvia were in the private room. He told Mickey there had been a change in plans and that he was supposed to let Sylvia take as much of the money as she could stuff into the bag.”

“That’s the dumbest thing I ever heard. Fish didn’t make that call. Samuelson and your technician were with us the entire time. They’ll tell you that. Pete, tell her,” Mason said.

Samuelson shook his head. “We were set up in the kitchen, but I was in the living room trying to reach Roosevelt Holmes when Mickey and Sylvia were in the vault. I’ll call the tech and ask him if Fish left the kitchen,” he said, stepping away.