Criminal Enterprise by Owen Laukkanen Page A

bumper and brushed the snow from the license plate. The plate was still there. He glanced at the photocopy again. The license plate matched.
    Stevens stared at the car, his mind spinning with questions. Then he looked back to where Waters stood by the fork in the trail. “This is it,” he called back. His voice seemed to echo for miles. “This is my car.”
    Waters stared at him a moment. Then he started toward the Thunderbird. Stevens turned back to the hulk and studied it again. Sylvia Danzer’s car, marooned in the wilderness.
How in the hell did it get here?
    Waters arrived beside him. “Not the best road for a T-Bird.”
    “The plates match,” Stevens said. “This is my fugitive’s car.”
    Waters leaned forward and brushed snow from the bodywork. “So where’s your fugitive?”
    Stevens looked beyond the car and into the vast woods. “Could be anywhere.”
    “Probably long gone,” said Waters. “Crashed the car here and set out on foot. Bummed a ride on the highway and disappeared again, right?”
    “Maybe.” Stevens studied the snow-covered windows again. “Or maybe not.”
    He stepped through the snow to the driver’s-side door. Wiped the snow from the window and peered into the dark car. He squinted and looked closer. Waters watched him. “You see something?”
    Stevens looked in through the window one more time. “We’re going to want to call forensics,” he told Waters. “It doesn’t look like my fugitive got very far.”

25
    T OMLIN WOKE WITH the sun shining bright through the bedroom windows and the bed empty beside him. He sat up, rubbing his eyes, and glanced at the clock on the bedside table. Ten after eight. He’d be late for work, he knew, but he didn’t care. He stared up at the ceiling and felt himself drifting off again.
    Then Becca came into the bedroom, a strange look on her face. “Time to get up,” she said. “Someone’s at the door.”
    Tomlin opened his eyes. “Who?”
    “A woman.” Becca shrugged. “She’s asking for you.”
    Tomlin rubbed his eyes again.
Tricia, probably.
“Tell her one minute.” He sat up and pulled on his clothes from the day before. Brushed his teeth quickly, splashed cold water on his face, and examined himself in the mirror. Dark circles under his eyes. Maybe a couple new wrinkles. Otherwise, he looked normal. Likable. He buttoned his shirt and walked out to the hallway.
    She was waiting in the front landing as he walked down the stairs. About halfway down, he knew it wasn’t Tricia. Tricia was short and white and skinny and dressed like a punk rocker. This woman wore dressy low heels and slacks. She was taller than Tricia, and in her thirties, but just, with smooth coffee-brown skin and long black hair and piercing hazel eyes that watched him as though they already knew every one of his secrets. Tomlin felt a sudden chill as her eyes met his.
    “Carter Tomlin,” she said. “Carla Windermere. Got a couple questions to ask you.”
    She showed him a badge. FBI. Tomlin looked at the woman and then at her badge again, fighting the sudden, intense urge to start running.

26
    T OMLIN STARED AT the young FBI agent in his doorway, his mouth suddenly very dry.
She knows,
he thought.
She knows everything.
He cleared his throat. “Questions,” he said. “What’s the problem?”
    Windermere smiled, apologetic. “Sorry to bother you so early,” she said. “Looks like you had a late night.”
    Tomlin forced a laugh. “Just busy,” he said. “Tax season’s coming. Everybody and their dog wants their refund tomorrow.”
    “You’re an accountant.”
    “I try to be,” he said. “Come on in.”
    He led her into the living room, and they sat as Becca came in from the kitchen. “Everything all right?”
    Sure, honey.
The nice FBI lady is just going to arrest me and take away all of your stuff.
Tomlin pasted a smile on his face. “Everything’s fine.”
    Becca looked at Windermere. “Would you like some coffee?”
    “I’m fine,”