The 13-Minute Murder Read online

  They’re a good ways away. A hundred yards or so at least. None of us are too worried about their aim.…

  But then one of them pulls the trigger.

  Ping! A bullet ricochets wildly off the metal siding of our truck, right next to where I’m sitting—and I yelp and duck down out of instinct.

  Christ, that was close!

  Hank has put the truck into gear. We’re about to drive off to freedom—but the sight of his baby sister getting shot at sparks a rage in Stevie I’ve never seen.

  With a furious grunt, he takes aim and lays down a deafening carpet of automatic gunfire across the grass—just inches in front of Billy and his clumsy posse’s paths—sending them screaming and stumbling and scrambling for cover.

  Damn, do I love my brother sometimes.

  “Let’s roll!” he yells to Hank, and the truck peels out.

  4 minutes, 10 seconds

  We’re speeding down the interstate…in a white Dodge Caravan.

  Nick stashed our second getaway car earlier this morning behind a rest stop at the three-way junction where State Highways 60, 33, and 83 all meet. Hank parked our red pickup to make it look like we were heading north, when really we went west. The cops will figure that out eventually, but it might slow them down at least a little.

  And given the amount of money we just lifted, we’ll take every single second we can get.

  All of us are still buzzing after another flawless heist.

  “Shit, we really did it!” Hank exclaims, drumming the steering wheel with excitement. “How much do you think we got?”

  We’d removed the minivan’s back row of seats last night so we could easily slide in the wheelbarrow. Nick, J.D., and I are back there now, on our knees, rubber-banding the heaping mound of cash and bearer bonds into neat stacks and stuffing them into duffel bags.

  “Half a mil, easy,” says Nick.

  “Try one and a half mil,” says J.D.

  I don’t say anything. I’m astonished by both of their estimates.

  But I push that amazement from my head. Right now, we’ve got to stay focused on the task at hand: getting our booty bundled before we reach our next getaway car—which is “about ninety seconds out!” Stevie informs us.

  I try to work faster. But I do ask: “What are the cops saying?”

  A police scanner is resting on the dash, just like during our bank robbery. But I still haven’t learned to decipher all its static and garbled chatter.

  Stevie’s sitting shotgun, keeping an eye on the road and an ear on the transmission. “They’re looking for us, all right. But in all the wrong places. For now.”

  Ninety seconds later, right on schedule, Hank slows the van as we near our third and final vehicle, a silver ’99 Chevy Impala parked just off the highway shoulder.

  We all leap out, toss six overstuffed duffel bags into the trunk, then pile in ourselves.

  We’re soon cruising down an empty back road, speeding past miles and endless miles of Texas farmland in every direction. Once we hit State Highway 70, it will be less than four hours till we’re back in Scurry County.

  Less than four hours till we’re home.

  My adrenaline rush is finally starting to fade. I yank off my itchy gray wig and close my eyes.

  I can make out every bump and crack in the asphalt. I can hear every tick and purr of the engine. I start to feel calm. Almost peaceful.

  Until an image of Alex pops into my head.

  For a split second—maybe it’s because I have my messy wig in my lap—I glimpse his unruly mop of brown curls. His peach-fuzzy cheeks. His megawatt smile—which I’d give away every penny we just got to see again, for just one second.

  A single tear runs down my cheek. I wipe it away, smearing my old-lady makeup, remembering why I really started doing all this in the first place.

  The biggest and hardest part of my plan is complete.

  Now we’ll just have to see if it worked.

  5 minutes, 30 seconds

  Special Agent Mason Randolph had just stepped in one heaping pile of shit.

  No, not the actual kind. He’d spent enough time on farms and ranches in his forty-one years to know never to take a single step without looking down.

  But it had been over two months since the Key Bank stickup in Plainview, and he and his team were still at square one.

  Until now.

  With no real leads, but no repeat robberies, either, many in his department had started hoping it was a one-off thing. A single crime committed by a couple of ballsy amateurs who just happened to get real lucky.

  But as Mason had argued in staff meeting after staff meeting, he never bought that for a second. He firmly believed the Bureau was chasing some exceptionally smart and special bad guys…who were only getting started.

  He begged and pleaded to keep the case active, and to put more bodies on it. But around week six, his supervisor pulled the plug.

  So Mason kept working the investigation on his own time. Coming in early and staying late to follow up leads all by himself. Calling in every favor he had to interview more witnesses and canvass party-supply stores to find who bought those masks.

  The fact was, when Mason Randolph sunk his teeth into a juicy case like this one, he was like a pit bull with a raw steak: he was never going to let go.

  Until justice was served.

  He was convinced the suspects were going to strike again. The moment he heard about Golden Acres, he knew they had.

  With a sense of déjà vu on the Gulfstream plane ride to the nearest airstrip, Mason explained to his team his rationale for linking the two cases. Similar M.O. Similar five-person squad. Similar language (“Hands up and keep ’em high!”) said with a similar west Texas twang.

  The bank and horse ranch were hundreds of miles apart. But with a new crime scene and new witnesses, there was hope the case might finally take a real step forward. They just might catch these guys—and recover the $1.2 million that had literally been wheeled away.

  Mason, his colleagues, and the entire Bureau let these sons of bitches slip away once already. He was not going to let that happen a second time.

  No matter what it took.

  “Good to see you again, Mr. Reeves,” Mason says, flashing a cheeky smile as he approaches the ranch’s crusty, cigarillo-chomping security head. “Feels like it was just last week.”

  Billy is being fingerprinted by an FBI tech at a mobile crime-scene lab in order to exclude his prints from the investigation. He growls, angry and humiliated.

  In fact, Mason had seen him just last week. Near this very spot, too.

  The agent had been in Amarillo on an unrelated homicide when a colleague in Narcotics passed along a tip. Rumor was, the Golden Acres’ annual private horse auction was going to be hit. Hard.

  Mason disliked crime of any sort—especially the preventable kind. So he made the seventy-minute drive to the ranch personally, off duty, for a little sit-down with Billy.

  But the grizzled, arrogant bastard couldn’t care less. Billy assured the agent that his team was the best in the business. And besides, even if somebody did try to pull something during the auction, most of the crowd would probably be packing more firepower than they were.

  Lotta good that did.

  “What do you want, Agent Randolph?” Billy snarls. “I already gave my statement three times. I screwed up. All right? You happy? How much I gotta say it? Y’all get off on hearing me talk shit about myself, is that it?”

  “Actually, sir,” Mason says, calmingly, “I came to offer you an apology.”

  Billy frowns. Cocks his head. Definitely not what he expected to hear.

  “When we met last week,” Mason continues, “I failed to impress upon you the urgency of the threat to your auction. I’m sorry. If I had, I’m sure you and your boys would’ve increased the ranch’s security and prepared for it accordingly. Probably would’ve thwarted it, too.”

  Billy eyes Mason. Warily, then appreciatively. “Damn right we would
’ve. Thank you, agent. You’re a good man.”

  And you’re a stupid one to believe me, Mason thinks. Billy didn’t listen to a damn word he’d said. Practically laughed in his face. If anything, this two-bit gun-toting cowboy owes him an apology.

  But Mason keeps those thoughts to himself. He knows there’s no point in going to war with one of the best witnesses he’s got. So today, he’ll be the mature one. Besides, a big reason he got to be one of the region’s top agents in the first place is his finely honed instinct for when to use vinegar and when to use honey.

  “If you think of anything else, Mr. Reeves, you’ve got my card, right?”

  With a tug on the brim of his cowboy hat, Mason heads out the door.

  Next, he walks all around the ranch’s grounds, silently taking everything in. He works best this way: soaking in the big picture, gradually narrowing in on the little stuff, and letting his brilliant mind wander and play and make connections.

  Mason sees a team of white-suited techs exiting the stable holding in their gloved hands an old leather bag that resembles a violin case. Interesting.

  Inside the building and across the lawn, techs are extracting bullets, collecting spent shell casings, and snapping pictures.

  At the valet stand, still others are making a plaster mold of the tire tracks of what witnesses say was a mid-1990s F-150 the bad guys used to make their escape.

  Mason surveys the complex crime scene solemnly.

  Yep, this is one big old pile of shit. And he’s up to his knees in it.

  Sweating like a pig in the July Texas heat, Mason dabs at his brow with a lacy handkerchief embroidered with his initials that he keeps tucked in his suit’s left breast pocket. It’s old and ratty, worn thin from years of use and washing. Mason knows it’s not the most attractive, or manly, accessory. He should probably spring for a new one.

  But the handkerchief was a long-ago gift from someone very dear to him. And in his line of work—hell, in his entire life—he doesn’t have all that many people who fit that description. So it’s not going anywhere.

  Suddenly, Mason’s cell phone rings, interrupting the quiet. He answers. He listens.

  He can barely contain his excitement.

  “Thank you, Detective. Sounds like this case just broke wide open.”

  Mason hangs up and jogs back to his car.

  He just might catch these bastards after all.

  4 minutes, 45 seconds

  I’m paralyzed. Frozen solid.

  My spine has been severed clean in two.

  My brain is screaming at my muscles to move, but they just won’t listen.

  At least, that’s how it feels.

  I’m standing in the farmhouse in the second-floor hallway…right outside Alex’s bedroom door. It’s shut. Which is how it’s been for almost five months now.

  I’m finally going to open it. Start cleaning out his room.

  At least, that’s my intention.

  By all “official” measures, my son has been 100 percent erased from existence for some time now. Every last piece of paperwork has been signed and stamped and filed. His health-insurance policy has been canceled. His name as a beneficiary in my will has been removed. His meager savings account has been closed. His high-school enrollment has been withdrawn. His cell phone plan has been terminated. His Texas State death certificate has been issued. His obituary has been published.

  In the eyes of the law, Alexander J. Rourke no longer exists.

  But in the eyes of his mother, he’s more present than ever.

  I know that feeling will never go away. And I don’t want it to. Alex is and always will be an enormous part of my life—maybe more so now than when he was alive. His memory has pushed me to do things recently I never thought I could.

  Still, his bedroom’s a damn mess. (I can remember, sadly, scolding him for five minutes at breakfast the morning before he died.) It’s time to get started.

  I take a deep breath. I’m ready.

  I inch my hand toward the doorknob…closer, closer…then instantly recoil when I touch the chilly brass, as if it were a hot stove.

  Come on, Molly. You can do this.

  I force myself to calm down. The horse-auction heist was only yesterday and I’m still pretty jittery.

  So maybe I’m not ready. Maybe I’m rushing this, trying to do too many big things at once. Maybe if the universe sent me some kind of sign…

  No. Stop it.

  Okay. I try again. I rest my hand on the doorknob…

  And actually twist it a half turn! The latch sticks a bit, then releases. I’m about to push open the door—

  Boom-boom-boom!

  I gasp, startled. Someone’s on the porch, pounding on the front door.

  “Sheriff’s Department! Open up!”

  Shit! The police! Here? Now? But how? My plan was perfect!

  I quickly hurry down the steps as the knocking continues.

  “All right, I’m coming!” I call, as casually as I can.

  I pass the picture window in the living room and see parked in my driveway a hulking Crown Victoria, emblazoned with SCURRY COUNTY SHERIFF’S DEPARTMENT.

  My heart sinks. No…it can’t be all over. Please. Not yet.

  I pause at the front door and take a moment to compose myself—and think the situation through.

  If this were a raid—on the home of a suspect “considered to be heavily armed and incredibly dangerous,” as we heard ourselves described yesterday on the police scanner—there’d be a whole lot more than one unit out front. The cops wouldn’t knock, either. They’d bust down my door, guns blazing. So maybe they just want to ask me a couple of questions. Get a statement. Start poking holes in my story and alibi.

  Whatever the reason for the police presence, I can’t delay the inevitable any longer. I plaster my very best “innocent” smile on my face and open the door.

  “Ms. Rourke? I’m Deputy Wooldridge. How are you?”

  A man around my age in a tan uniform and wide-brimmed cowboy hat is standing on my front porch. Smiling. Sort of. He looks friendly, but a little uncomfortable.

  I play it cool. I give away nothing.

  “Fine, thank you. How can I help?”

  “Sorry to bother you, ma’am. I’m here with a rather unusual request. It was approved by the county judge in the case. But it’s your right to decline, of course.”

  I hold my breath. I have absolutely no idea what this “unusual request” could possibly be or what “case” he’s talking about, either.

  As the deputy begins to explain, he glances back at his Crown Vic—and I notice a second vehicle parked behind it. An old white station wagon. Which I vaguely recognize, although it takes me a few moments to place it.

  Then it hits me. It belongs to the parents of Danny Collier. Alex’s best friend since first grade. The one who texted me from Alex’s cell phone when he had a seizure and stopped breathing at school.

  The boy who convinced my son to smoke the crystal meth that killed him.

  Deputy Wooldridge says that Danny and his parents have come to my house…because Danny would like to speak to me. And apologize.

  “It’s part of the deal, see, the family’s lawyer worked out with the court,” the officer says, almost ashamed. “He’s a minor, so he’s not looking at jail. But there are other penalties that Judge Thornton can impose. If Danny can show he’s taking responsibility, showing remorse, acting like a man…”

  I understand. But I’m incredibly stunned.

  I’d heard rumors about Danny’s court proceedings, but did my best to keep my distance. And right now, I’d almost rather be getting grilled by the police about my role in the bank robbery and horse farm heist.

  Anything instead of coming face-to-face with the last person to see Alex alive.

  I can’t really blame Danny for my son’s death. And I don’t. Like the deputy said, he’s just a kid. They both were. Two foolish boys messing around, trying drugs. They were close friends. I’m sure D
anny is as upset by what’s happened as anybody.

  As soon as he and his parents get out of their station wagon, I see I’m right.

  He looks so thin, almost gaunt, and has deep rings under his eyes. His parents stay by the car as he shuffles up to my front door. Keeping his gaze on the ground, he mumbles “Hello, Miss Molly,” then unfolds a handwritten letter, choking back nerves.

  “Alex…Alex was like my brother. He was really cool and fun to hang out with. I loved sharing comic books with him. And camping together. He even lent me his dirt bike sometimes after mine got broken. Which was really nice.”

  Danny swallows hard, then continues.

  “What happened last spring was the worst day of my life. It was so dumb. I see that now. I would give all the time in the world to go back and—”

  “Stop, please,” I whisper.

  Danny finally looks up at me. His eyes are bloodshot and wet. His lip is trembling. I can see his pain is real, his guilt genuine. I don’t want to hear any more.

  I can’t.

  Then I get an idea.

  “Neither of us can go back and change the past,” I say. “But what we can do, what we have to do…is keep Alex’s memory alive. Wait here a minute.”

  I disappear into the house, then head to the back porch. I reappear at the front door a few seconds later…pushing Alex’s shiny blue dirt bike. A peace offering.

  “When you ride it, think of him. How good he was. How much he loved it.”

  Danny nods and takes the handlebars, almost in awe.

  “I will, Miss Molly,” he says, wiping his nose on his sleeve, suddenly looking ten years younger. “I promise. I will.”

  5 minutes, 5 seconds

  Mason hates this part.

  He’s a crime solver. Not a speechmaker. Definitely not a cheerleader.

  But every once in a while, he knows he’s got to rally the troops. Especially when they’re under his command.

  “All right, listen up!”