Spying an abandoned newspaper on a chair against the wall, Dixie reached over to pick it up and caught a glimpse of Police Chief Edward Wanamaker entering a room down the hall. A thick, stumpy man, mid-fifties, without a single gray hair in his black mane, Wanamaker always looked as if
he could single-handedly conquer an army. If his voice had matched his looks, it’d be as rough as burnt cork. Every time Dixie thought of him issuing commands in his Irish tenor, she couldn’t help smiling.
The Chief stopped to speak with a younger man who had the sort of nondescript appearance Dixie associated with FBI or Internal Affairs. She watched their lips but couldn’t make out what they said. Edging closer, she found an angle that allowed her to see partially inside the room. She unfolded the newspaper and pretended to read.
Councilman Jason “Gib” Gibson, a shrewd, hardheaded businessman, stood military-stiff at the end of a conference table, talking to another FBI type. Known for his loud and dogged criticism of the HPD—before and after Wanamaker came aboard—Gib Gibson reminded Dixie of a pit bull. Once he got his teeth into a juicy, headline-making issue, only a bigger, tastier issue would entice him to let go.
“Ms. Flannigan!” The desk officer scowled at her. “Would you wait over here, please?”
She smiled. “Can’t shoot me for being curious.” The stupid remark was out of her mouth before she realized how deliberate it sounded.
The officer didn’t miss it. His nostrils flared and he looked ready to come out of his chair.
“Sorry. Scratch that,” Dixie muttered hurriedly. “Foot-in-mouth disease.”
Fortunately, she spotted Rashly headed her way, tamping tobacco into his pipe bowl.
“C’mon. I gotta get outta here,” he said. “D’ you eat?”
Lunch, sort of. Dinner, no. What time zone was he in?
“I could eat something.”
She hurried alongside as he continued toward the elevators. He’d been raking his hands through his white hair. It stood on end, revealing the silver-dollar-size bald spot that rarely showed except when he was agitated. He’d shed his gray suit jacket and rolled up his shirtsleeves. His square face looked fierce. They reached a turn just as Mayor Avery Banning approached from the other direction. Dixie and Rashly stepped back for the Mayor to pass.
“Pardon me, Ms. Flannigan, Sergeant.” With a distracted nod, Banning stormed grimly by.
Dixie watched him enter the meeting room down the hall.
“Councilman Gibson and Mayor Banning together? That should be fun to watch. Robbery and two civilian fatalities—ought to be enough ammunition to make Gib a happy man. What do you suppose is going on in there?”
Rashly didn’t reply until they’d reached an outdoor parking area and he’d struck a lighter to his pipe.
“Goddamn media.” He puffed to coax the tobacco to burn. “They’re chapping the Chief’s butt about those two robbery shootings, and Gibson’s egging them on. Wouldn’t be so bad if our guys hadn’t stepped over into Webster territory for one of the squeals. Banning called the meeting here to throw the reporters off. He’s probably in there now trying to talk some sense into Gibson.”
Dixie hadn’t realized that HPD officers were involved in the Webster shooting. Jurisdiction between HPD and Webster had always been a little slippery.
“Rotten timing for Banning,” she mused. “Puts an ugly blemish on his Memorial Day commendation to Wanamaker for taking down that drug ring.” A particularly nasty gang-related drug ring. HPD Narcotics had gained points with the public and earned some favorable press afterward. But how did that balance against nine officers gunning down one elderly woman?
Despite his remark about eating, Rashly didn’t appear to be headed anywhere in particular. Just needed a smoke break, Dixie figured. And to walk off some steam. He stopped beside Councilman Gibson’s Lexus and scowled at the familiar personalized license plate:
VIGILANT.
“Do politicians ever stop politicking and do the goddamn job they’re hired for?”
“Not if they have an eye on a better job.” Dixie realized she’d carried the newspaper out. She tucked it under her arm.
“Everybody in that room back there’s trying to scrape off shit and fling it on someone else. You ask me, it’s Gibson running his mouth got that officer killed today.”
“You think the sniper was retaliating for the robbery shootings?”
“What the hell else? Nothing unusual in Art Harris’ record or personal life. When was the last time we had a cop killer in this town? We got men ready to round up the whole Ames family, line ’em up for a firing squad.”
“Rash, you’re not serious.”
“I’ve never seen this department so stirred up. Me, I don’t see the Ameses in it. You were there today. They look like a family hepped up on revenge?”
“Just the opposite. Carrie Severn blames her mother for bringing disgrace on the family.” She studied Rashly’s weathered face. “Was Arthur Harris one of the cops who shot Lucy Ames?”
He stared back at her. “Names of officers involved in the Ames and Pine shootings were not released to the public.”
“So his murder may have nothing to do with the robbery shootings.” When Rashly didn’t say anything, she took the hint and moved on. “Any leads on the missing money?”
He shook his head. “Like it dropped into a pit.”
“What about the woman who started it all, the one robber last week who got away?”
“I’m not buying that third robber crap.”
“Her description doesn’t it either Lucy Ames or Edna Pine.”
“Put a dark wig and sunglasses on either of ‘em, it could fit.”
Dixie didn’t want to hear that. “Does that mean you’re not looking for her?”
“It means we got refocused this morning after an officer caught a bullet.” He knocked his pipe against the building and dumped the ash under Gib’s Lexus. “I didn’t call you up here, Flannigan, to answer your damn questions. I’m being up front with you because I want you to know exactly what you’re getting into messing with this case.”
“And I’m trying to understand the reason a friend was killed. I knew Edna Pine, knew her husband, and grew up with her son. Unlike Carrie Severn, Marty doesn’t believe his mother went batty since he last saw her. The man’s hurting, Rash. And there are too many unanswered questions for you guys to drop—”
“I never said we were dropping anything.”
“No, but you’d sure like it to go away. Two aging widows decide to pull a Butch-Cassidy-and-Sundance-Kid, including the part where they go out in a blaze of bullets. Do you
really
believe that’s what happened?”
“People change, Flannigan. Some get old and doddering, some old and crazy, some old and mean. I know people who believe growing old is a fate worse than death.” He scowled at his reflection in the Lexus window. With a harsh sigh, he turned away from it. “So, what answers have you come up with?”
“No answers. Only more questions.” She told him briefly about the changes in Edna’s lifestyle leading up to the robbery. “Marty feels responsible. He needs to know what happened to make his mother do something so alien to everything she believed in. She was an old-fashioned woman. Never worked outside the home. Never got involved with causes. Never took an interest in politics.”
“You’re saying you struck out at the funeral?” Rashly glared at her. “What’re you holding back?”
Dixie hesitated. She hadn’t consciously held back anything but her hunches. Yet dealing with Rashly meant dealing the whole deck.
“I learned one thing: Lucy Ames didn’t have much support from her family after her divorce. Her daughter’s bitter. Her son didn’t care enough to show up. Lucy must’ve been a very lonely woman.”
“So?”
“Edna was lonely, too. And somehow they became acquainted. Which means they started hanging out wherever lonely senior women go for company.”
“Sounds like some blue-haired singles club.”
“Exactly. I know Edna went to a club called Fortyniners. And I’ve a hunch that if I backtrack her movements for the past few months, I’ll run across Lucy’s name.”
“Stay out of it, Flannigan. We’ll do all that.”
“I’m a single woman. I’ll do it better.” Seeing Rashly’s scowl darken, Dixie rushed on. “What I’ll look for is that third name.”
He heaved another harsh sigh. “You’re convinced there was another Granny Bandit.”
“The press only started using that term after Edna was killed. Take another gander at the mystery woman’s description—”
“Hell, Flannigan, give me ten eyewitnesses and I’ll show you ten totally different sworn descriptions.”
“True, but some points were agreed upon.” Dixie was guessing here, based on what the press had reported, and hoping Rashly would confirm. “The first woman—brown hair, medium build, big sunglasses, pegged between thirty-five and fifty-five—was
not
the image of a grandmother.”
But Rashly shook his head. “You’re stretching.
Three
women pulling off near-perfect holdups? What’s true is Edna Pine and Lucy Ames maybe didn’t know each other at all. Ames does the first heist, gets away clean, and goes for the second. Pine picks up the idea after seeing the news reports.”
Dixie mentally added the part he hadn’t said,
as a way to commit the perfect suicide.
“You’re suggesting two middle-aged women
independently
acquired handguns and successfully executed bank robberies. I might buy that idea, except for the missing cash. That money didn’t disappear into
The Twilight Zone.”
Rashly gave Dixie one of his penetrating mean-cop looks. “You’ll be doing your friend a favor, Flannigan, if you convince him to let this go. Bury his mother, put a
FOR SALE
sign on her house, and head back to his business in Dallas. Whatever you uncover isn’t going to make him any happier.”
“You think I’ll get in the way of finding your cop killer.”
He looked out at the city street, filled now with late-afternoon traffic.
“So Ames and Pine hook up together somehow and cry on each other’s shoulder about the rotten deal God handed them. About how miserable it is to make a good home, raise a family, only to have them all leave—move away, die, whatever reason. And this pair of sob-sisters decide to stir up some attention for themselves. Only it backfires. Or they have that part figured in, too, convinced they’d rather be remembered as a real-life Thelma-and-Louise act than written off as a couple of old bags
who’d outlived their usefulness.” Rashly turned his hard stare back at Dixie. “Figure that’ll make your friend feel better?”
“I figure there’s another female out there smart enough to mastermind three heists, use suicidal women for the risky part, and end up with all the loot in her own pocket.” Until talking to Rashly, Dixie hadn’t realized the strength of her conviction.
His eyes got that faraway look that meant he was considering it. “I saw you studying the women at the funeral. Think one of them is your first Granny Bandit?”
“Or is planning to be the next one.”
Rose Yenik cupped the revolver in her left hand, impatience quickening her movements. Practice had not gone as well as she had hoped. The Shepherd had asked her to stop before all the chambers were empty.
“I can do what needs to be done,” she told him.
Afternoon light filtering through narrow slits in the window blinds cast stripes on the wall and across his gentle presence. Tall plants and the soft-pillowed chair she sat on made her feel cozy. Rose loved the fragrance of this room, spicy and romantic. Drinking tea with him in his most private office let her know he considered her special.
“I know you can do it, Rose. I saw your strength the moment I gazed into those incredible blue eyes. That strength now must be converted to patience.”
She opened the loading gate with her thumb. “I can have patience.”
“I’m sure you can.” Standing, he moved behind her and kneaded her shoulders, his hands soothing her. “So where’s all this tension coming from?”
“I want to do my part.” She pulled the hammer back two clicks. “To get on with it.”
“You aren’t worried.”
“No, no.” When his hands abruptly stopped moving, she
admitted, “Certainly, I’m somewhat concerned. That’s to be expected.” She knew about worry.
God will punish you, Rose.
Her mother’s precious lobster plate shattered, porcelain shards and red clawed creatures flying everywhere.
Do you know what that platter cost? God will punish you
, Mother promised. Spilled juice on the piano keys.
God will punish you, Rose Yenik!
His magical fingers continued their massage. “Everything has been rehearsed. What’s to worry about?”
Grasping the pistol grip, she rotated the cylinder and pushed a cartridge out of the chamber. “Lucy, Edna—”
“Lucy and Edna went on to the next life. Their courage and commitment ensured perfection of the soul.
Nobody
was hurt. You know that.” His fingers paused. “Have you been watching newscasts?”
God will punish you, Rose.
Her hand shook. “Only one.”
“Rose, we talked about that.”
“It’s worse not knowing. I don’t mind if I … follow Lucy and Edna. You know I don’t. It’s—” As she removed another cartridge, her gaze fell on a copy of an architectural rendering, more beautiful than usual in the filtered sun rays:
THE CHURCH OF THE LIGHT
. “I was selected, and it’s what I want … to do my part. Only, I need to get on with it.”
“Patience, Rose.”
All the chambers empty now, she closed the loading gate, placed her thumb on the hammer spur, and pulled the trigger to release the hammer, guiding it gently in place with her thumb.
“I can have patience,” she repeated.
His fingers encircled her throat, lightly brushing her jaw, sending a tiny electrical shiver down her spine. “I want you to stay here tonight, Rose. Forget money, forget the newscasts. Let the serenity of the Church settle your worries.”
Climbing into the Mustang, Dixie pitched the newspaper she had carried from Homicide Division onto the passenger seat. She eased into bumper-to-bumper rush-hour traffic leaving downtown and finally turned onto the expressway feeder.