Criminal Enterprise by Owen Laukkanen Page B

Windermere replied, her eyes still on Tomlin.
    “Maybe I’ll have a coffee.” Tomlin stood. “Back in a second.”
    “Actually, Mr. Tomlin, this will only take a minute.”
    Tomlin stopped and looked back at the agent. She gave him the same apologetic smile. “I just need a few answers, and then you can get back to your business.”
    Tomlin looked at Becca, then back to the agent, wondering how fast he could cover the distance to the basement and his guns. Becca touched his shoulder, and he flinched. “I’ll make you some coffee,” she said.
    Tomlin hesitated. Then he sat down again and looked at Windermere. “What did you say was the problem, exactly?”
    “Bank robberies. Maybe you’ve heard about them. The one on Eat Street a couple of days ago. I’m trying to follow up on a lead.”
    “You’re not going to tell me I’m a suspect.”
    Windermere smiled. “To be honest, Mr. Tomlin, we don’t have any suspects. Not yet.”
    “Good.” Tomlin held her gaze for a second or two before he had to look away. He laughed. “I mean, not good for you guys, but, you know. Good that I’m not a suspect.”
    Shut up.
He turned away from those hypnotic eyes and stared out the front window instead, across the lawn to where Windermere’s dark sedan sat parked by the curb. He tented his fingers. “So what does this all have to do with me?”
    Windermere reached into her pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper. She unfolded it and slid it across the coffee table toward Tomlin. “Take a look,” she said. “Tell me what you think.”
    Tomlin picked up the paper. A photocopy of another piece of paper, smaller, both sides. A receipt; he recognized it. His shaky handwriting. Two sentences. He remembered scribbling out the words on the Jaguar’s cherry dash in that Walmart parking lot in Midway. Tomlin steadied his breathing. “From the robbery?”
    “Not Eat Street. A Bank of America in Midway. You see the flip side?”
    Tomlin nodded, aware of how intently she studied his face. The parking receipt had been the only scrap of paper he could find.
    “I talked to the attendants at that parking garage,” said Windermere. “They pointed me here. Said you paid for that receipt with your credit card.”
    Tomlin nodded again.
Think carefully, now.
He glanced back toward the kitchen.
Where the hell was Becca with that coffee?
    “It’s definitely my receipt,” he told her, pretending to study the note. “I would have parked there that day.”
    “You work downtown?”
    “Worked. I opened my own shop in the fall.” He held up the paper. “Moved across to Lowertown. Park on the street.”
    “Uh-huh.” She leaned forward again. “So, okay, listen. This is your receipt. How did it get into a Midway bank robbery?”
    Tomlin shook his head. “No idea.”
    “Your car wasn’t broken into at any point last summer?”
    He started to tell her no. Then he stopped. Nodded slowly. “Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, it was. That same parking garage, too. Funny thing.”
    Windermere gave it a beat. “Funny thing,” she said finally. “You filed a police report?”
    “They didn’t take much,” he said, thinking fast. “Just the change from my glove box. I figured they must have been addicts or something.”
    “And the receipt was in there, too.”
    “Must have been,” he said. “The worst part was trying to fix that damn window. Cost nearly a grand at the end of the day.”
    Windermere nodded again. “You got it fixed where?”
    Tomlin pretended to think. “One of those shops,” he said, frowning. “Those auto glass shops. I don’t remember which one.”
    “You keep a receipt or anything?”
    He shrugged. “I can check.”
    “Do that.” She smiled at him again. “It would really help me out.”
    “I’ll be in touch,” he said, standing. “Do you have a card?”
    She stood quickly, digging in her wallet as they walked back out to the landing. She handed him a business card. “Call me anytime. We get that