Steven Thomas - Criminal Carma

Reggie lifted the necklace from the white satin interior of the box, letting it dangle from his stubby index finger. “Nice merchandise,” he said.

Both of us were grinning. I could feel my cheeks begin to ache. Taking the necklace off his finger, I put it back in the box and snapped the lid shut.

“See if there is anything else worth taking,” I said. “I’ll pack up the tools.”

I had just put the new drill back in its case when Reggie popped in the kitchen door, his eyes as wide open as they could get.

“You musta been good this year,” he said. “Look what Sanny Claws left.” He held out both hands. There was a canvas bag in his right hand, a thick five-by-twelve-inch manila envelope secured by a rubber band in his left.

The bag, delightfully heavy, was full of Krugerrands, bearded geezer on one side, antelope on the other. The lawyer was hoarding gold.

The envelope was stuffed with series EE U.S. Savings Bonds in denominations of $100, $200, and $500, inscribed to various little Hildebrands. Passing his ill-gotten gains on to the next generation-if they were lucky enough to ever actually get their hands on the cash. I could imagine a typical birthday party at the house on Laurel Way:

“Oh, look, Richard, your grandpa got you another hundred-dollar savings bond!”

“Can I have it, Mommy?”

“No, Grandpa will keep it in his safe for you along with all your other bonds.”

We waited in the shadow of a palm tree at the front corner of Hildebrand’s building until there was no traffic on Santa Monica, then started across the wide, well-lit boulevard, heavy packs bouncing on our shoulders.

“How much is the gold worth?” Reggie asked, hurrying beside me.

“Depends on the number of coins,” I said, swiveling my head back and forth, looking in all directions. “Gold’s somewhere between three and four hundred an ounce. Each Krugerrand is an ounce. If there are fifty coins that would be fifteen or twenty thousand dollars.”

“That’s good money,” Reggie panted.

“Icing on the cake.”

“Can we fence the bonds?”

“Yes.”

“What’ll they bring?”

“Depends on the maturity dates. We’ll check it out when we get home.”

There were ten or twelve cars but no people in Norm’s parking lot as we headed to the rental. We put everything in the trunk except for the Tomcat, which stayed in my belt. I slid in behind the wheel while Reggie took shotgun.

“Good job, Robby,” he said in his serious mentor voice.

“You, too, brother.”

The pistol was digging into my side so I pulled it out of my belt and put it in the glove compartment. I had started the engine but not put the car in gear when a black-and-white swooped in out of nowhere and pulled up beside us, rubber barking as it jolted to a halt. It was such a shock that if I had been in the Seville I might have peeled out as a reflex. The Cadillac was faster than the cop car and I knew the terrain and we might have been able to get away. But I didn’t trust the rental car’s power and I wasn’t used to driving it around corners on two wheels, so I turned off the engine and put my hands on the steering wheel.

They popped out of their cruiser like they were spring-loaded, the driver circling behind us to check our license plate and get an overview, the ride-along tapping on my window with his club-light. They didn’t have their guns out, which meant they hadn’t made us for the burglary, at least not yet.

“Let me do the talking,” I murmured to Reggie, then rolled my window down six inches and looked at the cop. “Good evening, Officer. What’s up?”

“Aw, not too much. What are you guys up to?” He was an old-school lurch, six-four, a good two-twenty, the kind of cop that predominated on big-city police forces before rookies started rolling with junior college degrees and mouths full of legal jargon. He looked like he was about sixty years old, poised to prove that he could still cut the mustard if some punk gave him half an excuse. The other cop-black, in his thirties-was of average height and build.

“Just getting something to eat,” I said.

“Here?” He had a foxy look on his face.

“Yeah.”

“What time was that?”

“Earlier this evening.”

“Where you guys coming from just now?” He must have seen us walking into the parking lot.

“Just taking a stroll around the city, soaking up some Santa Monica scenery.”

He looked at his watch. “At one-thirty in the morning?”

“Yeah, we’re only in town a couple of days. Trying to make the most of it.”

“Where you from?”

“Sacramento.”

“What are you doing down here?”

Cops like to ask a lot of questions. It gives them a chance to read you, to see if you are nervous or evasive. They like to ask about times, locations, reasons, trying to pin you down, catch you in a contradiction.

“Vacation.”

“Where you staying?”

“The Georgian, down by the beach.” I could see the name of the hotel impact his thinking. Standard rooms at the Georgian were three hundred a night. The fact that we were staying there moved us up from transients to well-heeled travelers, whether he liked it or not.

“You got some ID?”

“Sure.” I handed him my Stephen Michaelson driver’s license. He looked at it for a few moments, then half-turned, keeping one eye on us, and handed it through the window of the squad car to the other cop, who was on the radio running our plate.

“How ‘bout your friend?” He leaned down to look at Reggie. “Got some ID, sir?”

Reggie dug in his back pocket and came up with his fake license, which also had a Sacramento address. I handed it to the cop, who looked at it and passed it to his partner.

“What did you guys put in the trunk?”

This was what he had been leading up to.

“Our backpacks,” I said.

“What do you have in them?”

“Water, a guidebook, a jacket, my camera-that kind of stuff.”

“You sure that’s all? They looked pretty heavy.”

“Why all the questions, Officer?”

“I get curious when I see people putting bulky backpacks in the trunk of a car in the middle of the night. Makes me think they might be burglars.”

“Not us,” I said and laughed. “We’re just tourists.”

“Would you mind stepping out of the car?”

“Why, Officer? Are you detaining us?”

“Just get out of the car,” he said, filling his voice with that cop threat they get so good at. “You, too.” He leaned down to look over at Reggie again.

I rolled the window up and opened the door. As Reggie and I got out of the car, I pushed the button that snapped the locks down and then slammed my door.

“Why did you lock your car?” the cop said.

“Just habit. I don’t want anyone to steal it.”

“Can I see your car keys, please?”

“Why?”

“I need to do a routine check to make sure you don’t have anything illegal in the vehicle. There’s been a lot of burglaries around here lately, and your friend looks like a guy I arrested last year. You don’t have anything to hide, do you?”

“No, Officer, I don’t have anything to hide. But I don’t consent to any searches.” I paused, looking him in the eye. “Are we free to go now?”

Cops are so used to riding roughshod over people on the street that it confuses them if you assert your rights calmly and politely. After a moment’s indecision, the lurch fell back to a default tactic honed during countless late-night encounters with scared petty crooks, drunk kids, and timid citizens. Stepping up nose to nose, looming over me with his extra two inches of height, he breathed salami fumes in my face.