The Last Kind Word (Mac McKenzie #10)

The Last Kind Word (Mac McKenzie #10) Page 54

“Claire is my fiancée,” Jimmy protested. “This is my son.”

“He’s not your son,” Josie said.

“I don’t care,” I said. “Geezus, people—no wonder Fenelon knows what we’re doing. Even the frickin’ bartender at Buckman’s knows what we’re doing. God knows who they told. And you, you’re no better.” I stepped close to Josie and glared into her eyes. “Giving out chunks of cash in a public place the day after you pull a job like you’re frickin’ Robin Hood? You must all be suicidal. Everyone in the county has to know you’re the Iron Range Bandits. The fact the sheriff hasn’t already scooped you up is astonishing to me. Now this. We’re going to rob an armored truck. What better reason to throw a party?”

“Now, now, Dyson,” the old man said. “Let’s not get carried away.”

“Hey, pal, you’re the one who’s going to get carried away—straight into federal prison for twenty goddamn years. Tell me something. If by some miracle you pull this off, what are you going to do with the money? Do you think you can walk into a bank and pay off your mortgage with cash—pay your power, your cable, your utility bills with cash—and not make people suspicious?”

“Brian can help you launder the money,” Claire said. She was perfectly sincere.

I threw up my hands.

“I can’t work like this,” I said. “Listen. You’re all good people at heart. You have no business doing this shit. Robbing grocery stores, robbing armored trucks—you’re not wired for it. You have a chance, though; a chance to get out clean if you just quit. Quit now before the cops get wise to you. Get rid of the guns.” I waved at the map. “Get rid of all of this. Stop thieving. Stop pretending that armed robbery is going to solve all of your problems.” I was staring at Skarda when I said that last line. “If you do that, you can go on enjoying Sundays like you’re enjoying this one. If you don’t, every damn one of you will be spending your best years in prison. Some of you might even die there.” I was speaking to the old man when I said that. The expression on his face suggested that he had thought about it before.

“As for me,” I said, “I’m going to Canada.”

That’s how I left them.

I actually felt proud as I fired up the Jeep Cherokee, shoved it in gear, and headed down the long access road. This undercover gig—not so tough, I told myself. I had discovered the name the ATF wanted, and I could give it to them without implicating the Iron Range Bandits. Maybe the county sheriff would come for them now and the law—if not justice—would take its course. If it did, though, it wouldn’t be because of me. I would not be the agent of their destruction. I might even be able to help them out, give them G. K. Bonalay’s name; maybe take care of some of their legal fees. After all, they did open their house to me. Actually, it was a house owned by the dead stockbroker from Chicago; still …

I halted the SUV at the end of the access road where it met the county blacktop, pulled out the cell phone, and called Bullert.

“Brian T. Fenelon,” I told him after he answered. “Roy Cepek bought the AKs from a local punk named Brian T. Fenelon. Roy told me that Fenelon said he got them from some Mexicans. I met Fenelon. He’d rat out his own mother if you make it worth his while.”

“What reason would we have to arrest him?” Bullert asked.

“I’m sorry, Chad. Am I missing something?”

“You say he’d talk if we put pressure on him. Okay, what do we have to pressure him with?”

“Gee, I don’t know. What’s the going rate for selling illegal weapons these days?”

“Were you there when he sold the weapons? Have you seen him with the weapons?”

“No.”

“I see…”

“I see, what? Give me a name, you said. Don’t worry about arresting anyone, just give me a name.”

“And a location,” Bullert said.

“Look up his address in the goddamn phone book.”

“We have no evidence that Fenelon is running guns. You telling me what Roy told you, that’s hearsay, inadmissible. If we arrest Fenelon on that alone, c’mon, McKenzie, even a third-year law student would go screaming to a judge claiming we violated the man’s rights. Fenelon would be free in thirty-six hours. By then the Mexicans—if there are Mexicans—will be gone.”

“Then turn the case over to Homeland Security. They don’t give a shit about judicial rights.”

“McKenzie…”

“A name, you said. Remember? You have no idea what I went through to get that.”

“Enlighten me,” he said.

So I did.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa—whoa,” Bullert chanted. “Wait a minute. You did what?”

“Convinced them to rob an armored truck.”

“Are you insane?”

“The point was to keep the Bandits from robbing any more grocery stores—”

“I appreciate that.”

“And to supply a reason for them to need the guns, for them to set up a meeting with their supplier to get the guns.”

“Everything you’ve done is illegal.”