Stuart Woods Holly Barker Collection Page 2

  She giggled. “Sure the closing can wait a few minutes.”

  “Would you muss my wedding dress?” he asked. That was how he referred to the white linen suit he had had made for the occasion.

  “No, you’re too beautiful.”

  “Tell you what, if you’ll call yourself Mrs. Oxenhandler for the rest of your life, I’ll tell you where you’re going on your honeymoon.”

  “Jackson, I keep telling you: nobody would choose to be called Mrs. Oxenhandler. You’re stuck, you were born with it. Can you imagine my cops calling me Chief Oxenhandler? They couldn’t keep a straight face.”

  “I think that’s a very dignified name for a chief of police,” Jackson said, trying to look hurt.

  “It’s a very dignified name for someone who handles oxen,” she said.

  “Well,” he sighed, “I guess you’ll find out where you’re going on your honeymoon when you get there.”

  She pulled the sheet over her head. “You won’t even tell me then!” she cried. She pulled down the sheet again, and he was standing in the bedroom doorway, looking splendid in his new suit.

  “See you at the courthouse,” he said.

  “In Judge Chandler’s courtroom, and you’d better be there early!” she called after him. She fell back on the bed. She would always remember that picture of him, standing in the doorway in his white linen suit and gold tie, with his hair still wet.

  Holly got out of bed, brushed her teeth and got into the shower, reaching for the shampoo. She had let her hair grow, and it was nearly down to her shoulders, though she wore it up when she was in uniform, which was most of the time. She was allowing herself two hours for the process—washing, rolling and drying her hair, putting on a little makeup, which she rarely wore, and getting into the short white sheath that would be her wedding dress.

  Daisy lay on the bathroom mat, watching her through the clear glass shower door, waiting patiently for her breakfast and to be let out. Holly laughed. Daisy would be her maid of honor; Holly had trained her to carry the bouquet all the way to the front of the courtroom before handing it to her. Daisy could do anything.

  Holly felt that she could do anything, too. She was bursting with happiness and expectation and with trying to figure out where Jackson was taking her on her honeymoon.

  She got out of the shower and called her office’s direct line.

  “Chief Barker’s office,” her secretary and office manager, Helen Tubman, said.

  “Hi, it’s me. What’s happening?”

  “Nothing, and if something were happening, I wouldn’t tell you,” Helen said. “It’s your wedding day, so I want you to hang up and do whatever you’re supposed to do on your wedding day.”

  “How many are coming?” Holly asked. She had posted an invitation on the squad room bulletin board.

  “Let me put it this way,” Helen said, “if there’s a murder in the middle of Beach Boulevard this morning, the body will have to lie there until you’re married and on your way to the airport.”

  “Oh, God,” Holly said. “That many?”

  “That many.”

  “Tell me their names, and I’ll put them to work.”

  “I’ll do no such thing,” Helen said. “Now you go get beautiful, and don’t bother me again.” She hung up.

  Holly hung up the phone, laughing, then went to feed Daisy and let her out into the dunes for her morning ablutions. She felt completely, insanely happy.

  Three

  THE MEN ASSEMBLED AFTER BREAKFAST, AND THE leader set up a drawing pad on an easel and ran them through their individual roles once more.

  “Any questions?” he asked.

  A hand went up. “Under what circumstances are we authorized to fire?”

  “Danger to your own life or another of us,” the leader replied. “The two guards will already be disarmed, so, unless a civilian is packing, we’re not going to have to deal with being shot at. Of course, there’s always the chance that some cop will wander in to cash a check and come over all brave, but the sight of our shotguns is going to put the fear of God into anybody who understands what a shotgun can do.”

  “Are we authorized to kill, if necessary?” the man asked.

  “Only if absolutely necessary,” the leader replied. “But if it becomes necessary, don’t hesitate. But remember, the police will work a lot harder on a murder than a robbery.”

  The man nodded.

  “Anybody else?”

  Nobody said anything.

  “Just remember: nobody moves until the armored car leaves. The guards will be locked in and safe, and they’ve got a radio.” He looked around. “All right, we drive separately to the shopping center, and each of you waits beside your car. Enter and leave the van one at a time through the front passenger door. Let’s go.”

  The group broke up and went to the four cars parked outside. The leader gave them a ten-minute head start, then he pulled on his gloves, got into his coveralls, hung the dust mask and goggles around his neck and put on his hard hat. He got into the van and drove out of the building, closing the garage door behind him with a remote control. He left the town and drove east, toward Orchid Beach. Half an hour later, he pulled into the parking lot. It was a big shopping center for a small town, anchored by a huge supermarket, with other stores strung out along both sides. The lot was three-quarters full. He drove up and down the lanes, stopping whenever he came to one of his men. Each was wearing a baseball cap, dark glasses and latex gloves. Each entered by the front passenger door, then moved to the rear and took a seat on one of the facing benches. After twenty minutes, all the men were in the van, cos tumed in their jumpsuits, masks, goggles and hard hats. They began loading their weapons from the ammunition on the bench beside them.

  Each had four clips of 9mm ammunition and a box of double-aught shotgun shells. Each loaded four shells into a shotgun, racked one into the chamber, then loaded one more shell. Each put the spare ammo into the side pockets of his jumpsuit.

  The leader glanced at his watch. “Right on schedule,” he said. Each weapon had had its serial number removed. None would ever be traced, except to the factory where it had been manufactured years before.

  As he turned the van into the parking lot, the armored car entered the other end of the lot, exactly on time. He parked the van and switched off the engine. “It’s going to get hot in here,” he said, “but I don’t want anyone to notice a van with the motor running.”

  He watched as the two guards on the armored car went through their drill; they looked bored. As they unloaded, a civilian, a man, drove up in a convertible, got out and went inside. The guards regarded him closely, then entered. They were inside the building for less than two minutes, then returned to their vehicle and entered it through the rear door, locking it behind them. The driver put the car into gear and drove out of the parking lot.

  The leader waited while the armored car stopped for a traffic light, then turned left onto Highway A1A. “Here we go,” he said. He started the engine and drove to the spot outside the main entrance that the armored car had just vacated. “Hats, masks and goggles on,” he said. He waited ten seconds, then looked at his wristwatch, a chronograph. He pressed a button. “Two minutes,” he said, “starting now.”

  Everybody got out of the van and started for the front door.

  Four

  JACKSON OXENHANDLER ARRIVED AT HIS OFFICE for the closing, with ten minutes to spare. His secretary had already set out all the documents on the conference room table, and he checked them once more. He liked for his closings to go smoothly.

  His partner, Fred Ames, stuck his head in. “You’re working right down to the wire, huh? I like that.”

  “Gotta bring in some bucks for you to squander while I’m gone,” Jackson said. “I’ll bet you’re off to Vegas tomorrow.”

  “Tonight,” Ames said, grinning. “I’ve got all your personal stuff ready to sign. It’s on your desk.”

  “After the closing, you and the girls come in; I’l
l need you all for witnesses.”

  “Got it.”

  The receptionist came to the door. “Everybody’s here, Jackson.”

  “Send them in,” Jackson said, then stood and shook everyone’s hand—both real estate agents, the sellers and their lawyer, and the buyers, who were his own clients.

  For the next forty-five minutes, everybody methodically signed documents, stacks of documents. Money, in the form of cashier’s checks, changed hands. There was some quibbling about a couple of contingencies in the sales document, and Jackson made small changes, making everybody happy.

  Finally, when everything was signed, everybody left, the sellers with a large check and the buyers with the deed to a very fine beach house.

  Jackson went into his office, and Fred Ames and two secretaries followed him.

  “You know the drill,” Fred said, setting the documents on his desk. “Does this document accurately reflect your wishes?”

  “It does,” Jackson said, and started to sign.

  When he was done, and the document had been properly witnessed, Ames set two plastic document wallets on the desk. “The policies came this morning; everything is in order.”

  “Put them in the safe,” he said to his secretary, handing her the wallets. “Everything else, too.” They complied, and he shooed them out of his office. He picked up the little recorder, found his notes and began to dictate. He went rapidly, knowing his secretary could follow his rapid speech. An hour and a half later, he stood up, straightened his desk, and left his office. He laid the cassette on his secretary’s desk.

  Fred stuck his head through the door of his office. “You’re really going to do this, huh? After all these years as a bachelor?”

  “Looks that way,” Jackson said, grinning. “You know, at the closing, nobody said a word about me being in a white suit with a carnation in my lapel?”

  “I explained to them,” his secretary said.

  “Oh. All right, I’m out of here. See you all at the courthouse, and after that, in three weeks.”

  Everybody waved goodbye.

  Jackson drove to the travel agent’s office in the shopping center near his office. He had to wait a minute for a parking place outside their door, and as he waited, he noticed a van drive by. “Environmental Services,” he muttered aloud to himself, chuck-ling. “Janitors, I’ll bet. The further inflation of the English language. One day, it will explode.”

  A woman left a parking space and he pulled in. Inside, the receptionist smiled. “You look sensational,” she said.

  “I know,” he replied, giving her a smile.

  She handed him a fat envelope. “There you are: tickets, itinerary, reservation confirmations, the works. And a little gift from us: a guide to the best restaurants.”

  “You’re an angel,” he said.

  “Have a wonderful honeymoon!”

  He left the agency and went back to his car. He spent five minutes going through everything in the envelope, making sure that the tickets, reservations and itinerary were perfectly accurate. Satisfied, he started the car and headed up the boulevard. He crossed the south bridge over the Intracoastal Wa terway, also known as the Indian River, and in another five minutes reached the bank.

  He parked the car and got out. An armored car was unloading at the front door, and the guards gave him a look. He laughed. What bank robber would be wearing a white linen suit?

  Only two tellers were open, and there was a line of half a dozen people at each. He got into line behind a blond man of his own height—well over six feet—wearing Bermuda shorts, Top-Siders and a yellow Polo shirt.

  The man glanced over his shoulder and grinned. “You look as though you’re dressed for a wedding,” he said, smiling.

  “Guilty,” Jackson said, raising his hands.

  “Your own?”

  “Guilty again. You a local or a foreigner?”

  The man laughed. “A foreigner, I guess. I’m down here to buy an airplane from Piper, in Vero Beach.”

  “Which airplane?”

  “The Malibu Mirage.”

  “Not the turboprop, the Meridian?”

  “I’ll have to make some more money before I get one of those.”

  “I fly myself, but I rent. Couple more years, I might spring for something nice. Where you from?”

  “New York.”

  “What do you do up there?”

  “I practice law.”

  “I do the same down here, when I’m not getting married. Have you done your flight training yet?”

  “Finished this morning; I’m just picking up a cashier’s check, so we can close on the airplane.”

  The line moved forward, and the man became engaged with the teller.

  Something made Jackson look toward the door. Four men were standing there, wearing blue jumpsuits, yellow hard hats, masks and goggles. Each of them was holding a shotgun at port arms. One of the men racked his shotgun, and everybody turned and looked at him.

  “Everybody be real calm,” the man said from behind his mask, “and we’ll be out of your way in just a minute.” He turned to the men beside him. “Get started,” he said. The three men walked rapidly toward an area of desks, where the bank’s officers worked. Immediately behind the desk was a large vault, open.

  Jackson noticed the blond man standing beside him. “Looks like we’re witnesses to a bank robbery,” Jackson said softly, without moving his lips.

  “Just do as they say,” the man said.

  “You bet,” Jackson said. He looked to his left to see the men in jumpsuits returning from the vault. Two of them stood guard as the third pushed a hand truck laden with canvas bags. They were going to pass within three feet of him. Jackson concentrated on trying to remember what the men looked like. He could hardly tell Holly he had witnessed a bank robbery and not noticed what they looked like. They ranged from about five-seven to six-feet-four and were identically dressed. What with the masks and the goggles, he could tell nothing about them but their height and weight. The tallest one had some gray hair visible at the nape of his neck. Holly was going to be pissed when he told her about this, and that wouldn’t be until they were on the airplane. He wasn’t going to have his wedding day ruined by a bank robbery.

  As the men approached, one of them backed into Jackson, then whirled around to point the shotgun at him. “Watch it, you stupid sonofabitch!” the man said.

  “You watch it,” Jackson said, fairly pleasantly. “You bumped into me.”

  The man made a sort of snarling noise and swung the butt of the shotgun at Jackson’s head.

  Jackson saw it coming and leaned backward. The shotgun butt brushed against his chin as it passed, and the man, having missed his mark, lost his balance and fell against Jackson.

  Jackson pushed him away, hard. “Get off me!” he said.

  The man recovered his balance and brought the shotgun to bear on Jackson.

  Jackson heard two things, nearly simultaneously. The blond man to his right yelled, “No!” and the shotgun must have gone off, because his head filled with the noise and something huge and heavy seemed to strike him in the chest.

  As he flew backward he saw only a stretch of ceiling. He didn’t feel it when he hit the floor.

  Five

  HOLLY PARKED HER CAR AT THE COURTHOUSE, checked herself in the mirror one last time and walked across the parking lot. Daisy trotted by her side, carrying the bouquet.

  Helen, her secretary, and Hurd Wallace, her deputy chief, were waiting by the side entrance for her.

  “Everybody’s here,” Helen said. “Except the groom, of course.”

  “Oh, he’ll be along, eventually,” Holly said. “He had a closing this morning, and he had to go to the travel agent’s and the bank.” They walked through the courthouse doors and started down the hallway. “He still won’t tell me where we’re going on our honeymoon.”

  “Gosh,” Helen said, “everybody else knows.”

  “Even Hurd?”

  “Yep,” Hu
rd replied, with a straight face. Hurd spoke only when necessary, and with an economy of words. Holly had never seen him laugh, or even smile.

  “It’s outrageous,” Holly said. “Everybody knows but me. If I have the wrong clothes, I’m going to murder Jackson as soon as we get there.”

  “I’d hate to have to extradite you,” Hurd said.

  “Aha! It’s out of the country!”

  “That’s why you needed a passport,” Helen said. “It’s not as though we’re giving anything away.”

  They reached the courtroom and walked through the big double doors. Virtually the whole of the Orchid Beach Police Department was present, most in uniform.

  “My God,” Holly said, “I hope the criminals are taking the day off, too.”

  Everybody laughed, a little too heartily.

  Her father, Hamilton Barker, a retired army master sergeant wearing an unaccustomed blue suit, stepped forward, took her shoulders and looked her up and down. “You look just like a girl,” he said.

  “Thanks, Ham,” Holly replied, with a touch of sarcasm.

  “Well, I can’t remember the last time I saw you in a dress. Was it your senior prom?”

  “If my father says anything like that again,” she said to the assembly, “shoot to kill.”

  “She doesn’t appreciate compliments,” Ham said to Helen.

  The judge appeared from her chambers, wearing her robes. “All present?” she asked, looking at her watch. She was a sturdily built woman in her fifties, with a mound of snow-white hair.

  “Everybody but the groom,” Helen told her.

  She peered over the bench at Daisy. “I don’t usually allow dogs in my courtroom,” she said.

  “She’s not a dog,” Holly replied, “she’s the maid of honor.”

  “Oh,” the judge said. “In that case, I’ll make an exception.”

  Ham looked at his watch. “Looks like he’s going to jilt you,” he said, grinning.

  “What time is it?” Holly asked. She didn’t have a dressy watch, and she wasn’t going to wear her steel Rolex with her wedding dress.