After deciding to tackle the desk first, he bent over and got to work on the locks.
Jones, in the interim, had found the back stairs and worked his way down to the basement, which was pitch-dark. His flashlight came on and he began nosing around to select the perfect place. The basement had recently been refinished and was nicely done in his view-a fifty-inch flat-panel hanging on the wall, with a pair of thick leather couches arrayed for a great view. There were two doors, and Jones eased open the nearest one first. A small bathroom that definitely wouldn’t do, and he quickly moved on. He opened the other door, and voilà-a storage room cluttered with boxes, oversize luggage, and unwanted furniture. Perfect, just ideal. He hauled in the bag and got to work, unpacking the contents and stashing bits and pieces in various places that weren’t too obvious, but not too inconspicuous either.
It was at that moment that the lights flashed on. He would remember that distinctly, for whatever it was worth. They emanated from outside and seemed to pour through every window in the house, accompanied by the loud sounds of both the front and side doors crashing open at once.
Then what seemed like an army of cops swarmed inside, hollering and flashing their guns. As though they had X-ray eyes, they spread out and lunged straight for the three men inside.
Phillips was still standing beside the door, hefting his bat, when three cops showed up, pointing big mean pistols in his face, one screaming, “Drop the bat, asshole, or you’re dead.”
Phillips cursed, closed his eyes, and dropped the bat.
Castile was caught just as he pried open the second drawer. He wasn’t ordered to do anything-two cops jumped on top of him, forcefully wrestled his arms behind his back, and slapped on a tight pair of cuffs.
Jones had just removed another brick of heroin from the sack when his turn came. Two cops pounded down the stairs and burst in, at exactly the wrong moment as far as Jones was concerned. They smiled as he dropped the brick and tried desperately to look innocent.
In less than a minute all three burglars were standing in the living room wearing matching pairs of cuffs. They were efficiently patted down by a mountain of a cop, who observed to the others that none of the three were carrying identification. The matching dark clothes, the lack of ID-the cops understood immediately. They were dealing with pros. “Keep your mouths shut,” a plainclothes officer barked in their faces every time they tried to speak.
The front door flew open and Mia Jenson, dressed in dark jeans and a dark overcoat, stepped inside. A gun was holstered to her waist; a pissed-off frown was holstered to her face. “Well, well, what are you boys up to?”
The breath seemed to escape from their lungs at the shock of seeing her. How did she get outside? They had seen her in bed, with the lights out. How did she get dressed, and what was she doing with all these cops?
The idea that they’d been set up dawned on them like a bad dream. One of the cops began blasting their rights into their stunned faces; they shuffled their feet and stood dumbly taking them in.
But they were all professionals and had a well-rehearsed routine in the event something like this happened. Well, not exactly like this, not with ten cops staring down their throats in a trap they had blundered right into. And definitely not with the home-owner standing with her hands on her hips, a pistol strapped to her waist and a knowing look in her eyes.
Castile owned the lead role, and plunged in with a high-pitched squeaclass="underline" “I don’t get it. What’s going on here?” he demanded. “What are you doin’ in my cousin’s house?”
“Your cousin?” Mia asked, cocking her head.
“Yeah, Juanita Alvarez. She asked us to do a little favor.” A perplexed expression popped onto his narrow face. “Wait a minute, don’t tell me we got the wrong address.”
Mia seemed to smile. “What kind of favor would that be?”
“She had some stuff in the basement she wanted picked up. Important papers in her office, too. The drawers were locked, so you know, I had to jimmy ’em open.”
Mia searched the faces of the other two men. “Is he telling the truth?”
“Absolutely,” Jones rushed to say.
“Definitely true,” Phillips echoed quite fervently.
The faces of the three men now looked aggrieved and flabbergasted at the shocking injustice of the situation. We’re good guys, their faces screamed, just doing a family favor, and how could this mean lady misinterpret the purity of our motives?
“What’s the bat for?” Mia asked Phillips.
“Uh… Juanita said the place had rats. I hate rats.”
She faced Jones. “And what’s in the bag?”
“Rat poison,” Jones said, smiling at his pals.
“And I suppose you lost the house keys Juanita gave you?” Mia asked, again facing Castile.
“Must’ve put ’em in the wrong pants,” he acknowledged, shrugging his skinny shoulders. They were sounding and looking quite cocky now.
Mia crossed her arms and stood back a minute. “What a creative alibi,” she said, heavy on the sarcasm. “If it weren’t for the pictures, and all we already know about you boys, I might let you walk out the door.”
“What pictures?” Castile asked. This didn’t sound good.
It wasn’t. A helpful cop quickly shoved a clutch of ten-by-twelve black-and-white photographs into Mia’s hand. Each was helpfully date and time-stamped. Mia flashed them up, one by one, long enough for all three men to enjoy a long gape. There was Jones picking his nose while seated in a nondescript gray car parked across the street from her house, taken a week before. Then Castile with his skinny, bony ass stuck up in the air, bent over, inspecting the lock of her side door in bright daylight only two days before-the time stamp said it was two in the afternoon. Mia was at work, and he wanted to be sure he brought the right pick for the break-in.
Then more shots of all three men taken at various times and in an assortment of angles and poses over the past week, observing her house, casing it, preparing the break-in.
The pictures were irrevocably damning. The alibi suddenly sounded stupid.
It struck Castile that this might be a good time to shut his mouth.
Mia said, very cool, very indifferent, “Breaking and entering, that’s good for seven years, minimum. But the bat’s a deadly weapon, and that has to be considered. I’d say at least another five.” She pointed at the bag by Jones’s feet. “I’m betting those ugly brown bricks are pure heroin. Looking at it, I’d say it’s about ten pounds’ worth, probably good for another thirty years. All told, that’s forty years, give or take a few. What do you think, Lieutenant?”
“A little on the cheap side,” the cop in plainclothes opined. He scratched his big nose and looked thoughtful. “Conspiracy, too. You forgot that.”
“Oh, damn. Add another five.”
They let that sink in a moment, then the lieutenant shifted his feet and said, “But I’m guessing the guy without the bat or drugs will cut a deal and rat out the other two. The guy with the bat, well, he could avoid the thirty for the dope, so probably he’ll squeal, too. That leaves bozo here”-he pointed a thick finger in Jones’s face-“my money’s on him. He’s doing the long stretch.”
Poor Marvin Jones suddenly couldn’t breathe. He closed his eyes and nearly passed out. This was so unfair.
“Sucker’s bet,” Mia announced, playing along. “Definitely, he’s the lifer.”
“We ain’t talking,” Castile sneered, looking more at Jones than anybody else. “In fact, we want our lawyers.”
The lieutenant, a rough-looking type with a pot gut, edged forward. He got up in their faces. “I suspect you guys already know how this game works. Still, here’s a few tips. Cops hate lawyers. Know what I mean? They suck all the generosity out of the room. Sure, you can have your damn mouthpieces, any damn time you want, but the deals won’t be nearly as sweet.”