The heist kindle, p.3
The Heist Kindle, page 3
“Yeah, but an armored car. That’s bold. You don’t see too many armored car jobs these days. The risk factor’s just too high,” Mo says.
“Looking at the other jobs these guys have pulled off, I’m thinking the risk factor is one of the selling points,” Astra says as she flips through the file. “A diamond exchange, a rare coin expo, and now this armored car job. Lots of security, lots of risks.”
“Lots of upside though,” Lucas adds. “Big risks, but big dollar targets too.”
I nod. “I think it’s too early for us to speculate on their motives just yet. But, yeah, it could be the money, it could be the thrill of pulling off the job, or it could be a bit of both,” I tell them. “We’ll know more when we hit the ground and start investigating. What we do know for certain, though, is that each of these jobs was carried out with surgical, almost military precision. They were in and out without a hitch. At least, until the armored car job. Something went sideways, and they killed two of the three guards.”
“Two of the three?” Astra asks. “Why not all three?”
I shrug. “Maybe those two offered resistance. Maybe they pulled a gun,” I say. “Maybe the robbers made a mistake and didn’t kill the third guy. Maybe it was mercy. We won’t know for sure until we talk to him and see what’s what.”
“Not to ask the obvious question, but how do we know these three jobs were pulled by the same crew?” Lucas asks.
“We need to confirm that, of course. But a preliminary analysis of the tactics used seems to point in that direction,” I say. “Also, we have surveillance footage that shows the crew that hit all three sites wore the same plastic distortion masks.”
A distortion mask is made from hard, clear plastic that’s not only fogged but has a wave pattern built into it that breaks up—or disrupts—the face, preventing anybody from getting a look at who’s underneath it. These particular masks also had an added layer of protection as they have an alternating checkerboard pattern of the clear, fogged plastic and black, painted squares. They’re not unique, but they’re not common either; so, to have the same masks at all three robbery locations suggests to me that the same crew is involved in each of them.
“All right, let’s save all other questions for the plane,” I say. “Philly PD needs us out there, so let’s get ourselves loaded up. We’re wheels up in sixty. Let’s go, people.”
And with that, everybody jumps to their feet, the bullpen becomes an anthill of activity, and the wheel starts to turn once more. The next stop on this never-ending, crazy train of crime we’re riding is Philadelphia.
Philadelphia Police Department Incident Command Post; Philadelphia, PA
“First Deputy Commissioner Harold Saunders,” he introduces himself.
We all take a minute to make introductions. After we landed in Philadelphia, I sent Rick and Nina to the field office to get us set up in a conference room there. Then, I took Lucas, Mo, and Astra with me to the scene of the armored car job where I’d expected to meet with an area commander or maybe just the incident commander. The fact that PD sent out the second in command of the entire department tells me just how seriously they’re taking this situation.
“Commissioner Rafferty apologizes for not being here himself,” Saunders goes on after the introductions are made. “He had a meeting with the mayor that could not be put off. But he did want me to convey his sincerest gratitude for you and your team getting out here to help us so quickly.”
“It’s not a problem,” I reply. “We’re just glad we can help.”
Saunders is a tall, stout man with a stern, rigid, and almost militaristic bearing. I’m pretty sure he’s spent time in one branch of the armed forces or another, and if I were forced to choose, I’d say he was a Marine. He just screams Marine to me for some reason. His iron-gray hair is cut short, and he’s got flinty, dark eyes, a dusky complexion, and a square jaw. First Deputy Commissioner Saunders is still fit, but he’s got that middle-aged, administrative paunch around the middle.
After learning that he’d be meeting us at the latest crime scene, I did a quick bit of homework on the man. Saunders is a man who came up walking a beat and still carries that tough, street-cop mentality around in his everyday life. He’s a no-nonsense sort of man who doesn’t like to be trifled with and one whom I’m willing to bet has the respect of both his peers and his subordinates. He seems like a cop’s cop and an advocate for the rank and file. That’s something I can respect.
“So, can you walk us through the sequence of events?” I ask.
Saunders nods. “As near as we can tell, the armored transport came down this street here and was broadsided by that truck—”
“Do we know who owns that truck?” Lucas asks.
“It was stolen in Ardmore a few days back,” Saunders answers. “And, as you can see, they obviously made a couple of after-market modifications.”
He’s pointing to the steel ram bar that had been welded to the front end of the truck. It was crude work, but it did the job. The big stolen F-150 had been driven straight into the transport, the combination of speed and power doing a good job of bending the frame of the armored car. The transport likely still runs, but it’s a testament to how quickly things happened that the guards weren’t able to get out of there before it all went down.
“Anyway, after they stopped the transport, they moved in, cut a hole in the side of it, deployed tear gas, and flushed out the guards,” Saunders goes on. “At that point, we think one of the guards went for their weapon, and the crew put them down. Two of the three anyway.”
“The guard who survived should go buy a lottery ticket,” Astra says. “He’s probably the luckiest person in the world right now.”
“He’s probably not feeling too lucky right now,” Saunders replies. “Single shot to the chest. I’m sure he’s in horrible pain.”
“But at least he’s alive,” Mo notes.
Saunders nodes. “Yeah, there is that.”
“What was the response time between when the transport triggered their alarm and when your units were on scene?” I ask.
“Three minutes,” he replies. “And they were long gone by the time we arrived.”
I survey the scene, looking at it from the macro perspective as I consider the sequence of events that Saunders gave us. I don’t see anything that directly contradicts it.
“Cold. Ruthless. Efficient,” I muse. “And they knew the clock. They were in and out before your guys got here, and they left very little behind.”
“I’d dare say these guys are pros,” Astra says.
“And they didn’t hesitate to kill those two guards when they needed to,” Lucas adds. “That makes them lethal and cold-blooded.”
I turn back to Saunders. “And you’re certain it’s the same crew that’s responsible for all these different robberies?”
Saunders nods. “Yeah, we’re pretty sure. But maybe you can confirm that for us,” he says. “I’ll have all our files and surveillance videos sent over to your field office.”
“That would be great, Commissioner,” I say. “We’d appreciate that.”
“Of course. Anything we can do to help,” he replies and glances at his watch, clearly stressed about time. “We’re at your disposal, Agent Wilder. Anything you need, just give me a shout.”
“I’ll do that. Thank you, sir,” I say. “And we appreciate you walking us through the scene. But if you need to be somewhere, we can take it from here.”
“I appreciate that. I hate to cut and run like this, but—”
“Think nothing of it. We’re on the case, and I’ll be sure we give you regular updates,” I say.
“Thank you, agents. Call me anytime.”
And with that, he turns and walks back to his SUV. His driver holds the door open for him and Saunders disappears into the back seat. The driver closes the door then jumps behind the wheel and takes off, leaving us alone in the alley with the transport and the truck. A Philly PD cruiser sits at the end of the alley with two bored-looking cops leaning against their car, arms folded over their chests, wearing matching expressions of irritation. It makes me wonder who they pissed off to get stuck babysitting the crime scene.
With my team in tow, I walk over to the armored transport, taking care to avoid stepping on anything. The scene has already been processed and the evidence gathered, but I still don’t want to disturb anything that might have been left behind. It doesn’t happen often, but every once in a while, a tech team will miss, overlook, or just plain disregard something that turns out to be important—which is why I’ve found it to be important to take care with a scene, even one that’s been processed already. I turn to Lucas and Mo.
“Do me a favor and give the grounds a sweep,” I say. “Look for—”
“Anything no matter how small or innocuous it may seem,” they say in unison.
They’ve both got mischievous grins on their faces, telling me they’ve heard me give this speech more than a few times already. We share a laugh, and then Mo and Lucas fan out to look for clues. Smiling and shaking my head, I turn back to the transport, thinking that’s the most obvious place for clues that might have been left behind to be lurking about. Astra falls into step beside me, and together we walk over to the wreckage and stop, our eyes on the pavement at our feet. We stare at the three bloodstains on the ground in silence for a moment as if paying our respects. After a couple of days of being exposed to the elements, they’ve faded to the color of rust.
“That’s grim,” she remarks.
“Yes, it is,” I reply. “But it shows their level of discipline and sense of self-preservation. They acted without hesitating. They eliminated the threat to them at the drop of a hat. I do not doubt that when we catch up with these guys, they’ll be just as ruthless with us or put us down without thinking twice.”
“You always know the most comforting things to say,” Astra tells me. “You really know how to put a girl at ease.”
“I do my best,” I say with a chuckle.
I step up to the side of the transport and snap on a pair of black nitrile gloves as I inspect the hole in the side of it. Leaning forward, I run my fingertips lightly around the edge of the hole.
“What is it?” Astra asks.
“It wasn’t an explosive that blew this hole in the transport,” I say. “I’m thinking it looks more like a chemical burn.”
“How do you figure?”
Astra leans forward and looks at the hole a little closer as well. I point to the edges of the hole.
“The edges aren’t ragged like they would be if an explosive were used. The edges are bubbled. It’s more like something ate through it. Like some sort of an acid solution maybe,” I tell her.
“It would have to be some serious acid,” Astra comments.
I nod. “Probably either sulfuric or hydrofluoric acid,” I reply. “It would have to be very seriously concentrated to eat through the metal this quickly though.”
“We’ll probably want our team out here to do some testing,” she says.
“Yeah, I was thinking that too.”
Astra stands up and looks around, a troubled expression on her face. I give her a minute to work through whatever has the wheels in her head spinning. Still frowning, she turns to me.
“Doesn’t it seem strange to you that the transport would come down a one-way street this dark and narrow, with no alternate way out?” she asks.
“It’s possible there was an accident on the main road,” I offer. “They may have diverted down this street to avoid it. I know most transport companies don’t like their trucks to stop for any reason once they’re loaded down.”
“Yeah. That’s possible too,” Astra admits.
“It’s not a bad thought though. This street isn’t ideal for transport,” I note. “We’ll have Rick check on that and see if there were any accidents in the area that night.”
Astra is looking down at the faded, brown stains on the ground, the frown on her face growing deeper, her expression growing darker. It’s not hard to see the wheels in her head are still spinning wildly. Giving her a little more time to think and process, I walk the scene. I’m not sure what it is I’m looking for, but I’m hoping that I’ll know it when I find it.
The heels on my boots thump hollowly on the pavement as I walk the scene. I cast my gaze at the buildings that surround us. There are a lot of windows that overlook this narrow street, but not a single person contacted the police. The initial alarm the police received was triggered from inside the transport. I stop walking and cross my arms over my chest as I look at the windows in the buildings around us, troubled by something without knowing exactly what it is that’s bothering me. And that’s when it occurs to me.
“Outside of the initial alarm, do you recall anything in the file about radio traffic?” I ask.
Astra shakes her head. “I don’t remember seeing anything about it,” she replies. “Why? What are you thinking?”
“Not sure. I just think it’s strange there was no radio communication during the assault.”
“Maybe the robbery crew jammed their radio.”
I nod. “Yeah, that’s kind of what I’m thinking. Adds to my thought that we’re looking for guys with military backgrounds. This was well organized and executed to perfection. They made no mistakes and got out of here with every single dollar in the transport.”
“Well, they made one mistake,” Astra says.
“Yeah? What’s that?”
“They left one of the guards alive.”
“I wonder if it was a mistake or if he just didn’t give them a reason to kill him.”
“Seems like a big risk to leave somebody alive,” Astra says.
I have to admit that leaving a witness alive is sloppy work. It’s also dangerous to them. The fact that they killed two guards should have necessitated the killing of the third. Either somebody was careless—something I have trouble believing—or something happened that lit a serious fire under their backsides and kept them from double-checking their work. What that something could be, I wasn’t sure. These guys are so cold and efficient, they don’t seem the type who’d rattle easily.
I finally shrug. “It could just be they were confident he couldn’t ID them.”
“Yeah, maybe so.”
My gaze on the pavement, I widen the circle I’m walking, then stop. On the ground by the toe of my boot is a faded, brown patch that looks a lot like the dried blood stains near the transport. If it is what I believe it is, then I think I’ve found the reason the crew got sloppy with the third guard—they had a man of their own who needed help.
“Blood,” I say. “I think.”
Astra comes over and looks at where I’m pointing. “Looks like it.”
“So, I’m thinking this is why the guards all got shot—they took the first shot and hit one of the guys on the robbery crew,” I say. “After that, all hell broke loose. But it might explain why one guard survived—the crew was focused on getting their guy out of here and to a doctor.”
“We’re going to want Rick to check out hospitals—”
“I doubt they would have taken him to a hospital. They likely had their own medic on standby to deal with any wounds,” I say. “But you’re right; we should at least have him run the search.”
I pull a yellow triangle marker out of my pocket and set it up over the blood spot.
“We’re going to want the techs to get a swab of this blood spot,” I say. “Hopefully, they’ll be able to get some DNA out of it.”
“Fingers crossed,” she replies.
“Lucas, Mo, you two finding anything?” I call.
“Nothing, boss,” Mo replies.
“All right, let’s pack it in. Do me a favor and call the field office. Have them send a crime scene unit out here to reprocess the scene,” I say.
“On it,” Lucas reports.
As they do that, I walk over to the bored and resentful-looking cops who are babysitting the scene to fill them in on what’s going on and let them know they’ll need to stand watch for a little bit longer—news they aren’t thrilled to hear. But they assure me they’ll keep the crime scene locked down until our techs get here.
That done, we load up into our SUV and head back to the field office ourselves. We’ve got a lot of work to do, and I feel like we’re already well behind the eight ball. We’ve got a lot of catching up to do if we’re going to find this rip crew and take them down.
Conference Room J42; Philadelphia Field Office; Philadelphia, PA
“Agent Wilder.”
I stop and turn to see a man in a dark suit walking toward us. He’s not tall and not short, neither thin nor fat. With his neatly-styled, short brown hair and brown eyes, the man is average in every conceivable way. He looks like the sort of man you’d forget five minutes after meeting him. But I think that ordinariness might be a real asset when you’re out working in the field—especially if you’re doing undercover work. The man stops in front of us and extends his hand.
“SAC Clark Montgomery,” he introduces himself with a firm, businesslike handshake.
“It’s nice to meet you, sir,” I tell him. “And you beat us to the punch. I was going to check in with my team then come track you down to introduce myself.”
“Well, I had somebody keeping an eye out for you. I wanted to talk to you the moment you got in,” he tells us.
“Oh, about anything specific?” I ask.
“I was just curious why one of my teams wasn’t assigned to the case,” he says. “Why did you bring your team across the country to work this case?”
This isn’t the first time the local field office has questioned why one of the Black Cell teams was brought into town to work a case they feel is theirs to work. Just as there’s tension between local law enforcement and the federal units, there’s tension between the local federal units and the Black Cell teams—and for the same reasons. Just as local LEOs resent the feds for sweeping in and bigfooting a case from them, the local field office units feel that’s what we do to them. SAC Montgomery’s feathers aren’t the first I’ve had to try to unruffle when we arrived to work a case.
