A Simple Robbery

Short Story by Steven P. Ross

Spencer Grimes knew he had the right home. A French Country design worthy of an Architectural Digest spread, (some would call it a mansion), the cream-colored all-brick structure was exquisitely landscaped, the grass soft as satin, and the front door a custom, rainbow-colored cut-glass design. Colorful flowers lay inside the second-floor window planter boxes.

What got Spencer more excited was what he didn’t see after watching the goings-on for the past five days. No sign of people. No cars in the stamped concrete circular driveway. One of the neighbors let it out they were in Europe. Visions of sugar plums started dancing in Spencer’s head.

He was stationed at a visually expansive lookout position in the early morning hours. No lights were on in the house or on the grounds. The moon cast eerie shadows over the property. A small breeze tickled Spencer’s nose with fresh lavender. Tapping his pockets for the tools he needed, including several lockpick devices and a small caliber gun, he moved forward.

The previous afternoon, posing as a utility worker, he cased the security system and used AI to identify the system vulnerabilities. The brains were hidden in bushes to one side of the manor. He was able to disengage the alarms and calmly walked up to the front door, making quick work of the locking mechanism. 

Inside and to his right were French doors opening up to a study. A brief inspection revealed a neatly organized room. The small guest bedroom contained only a queen-sized bed and one nightstand. He found no clothes in the closet. Withdrawing his gun and a small flashlight, he crept down the hallway until entering the kitchen.

A scraping sound came from behind and below a large island. Spencer pointed his gun at the disturbance. “Hey you, back there! Get up. Now!”

Two hands slowly rose above the counter. The top of a bald head moved away from the island and out in the open. Sitting in a wheelchair was a man in his seventies, his feet hanging over the footpads.

“I can’t,” the man said matter-of-factly.

 Spencer’s flashlight bore directly into the man’s bulging eyes. “Who the hell are you and what are you doing here?”

“I live here,” came a gruff reply. “Who are you?”

Spencer brought his gun down hard on the man’s left hand. “You don’t live here. I was told the damn owners are in Europe.”

The man howled, holding his bleeding hand. “What the hell! Why didja do that?”

“You lied to me.” Spencer’s eyes followed the man’s own. They were looking nervously toward the dining room across the massive hallway. Sitting on the table was an open briefcase.

“Stay where you are,” Spencer barked. Crossing the hallway, he glimpsed into the attaché and lifted up bands of currency.

Stunned, he faced the old man who was advancing toward him.

“Stay there! I will shoot you.” Spencer brought the gun in front of the man’s face. The man hit the wheelchair brakes. 

Spencer shook his head. “Holy shit. There must be at least a hundred grand in here. Where did you get all this?”

The man’s lips trembled. “Robbed a bank.”

Spencer laughed. “You gotta be kidding me.” He shut the briefcase. “I think I’ll be taking this off your hands. Now, give me your phone.”

The man withdrew a phone from a pocket hanging on his wheelchair. Spencer grabbed the device and pounded the man’s damaged hand again with the gun. Closing up the briefcase, he took it and stormed out the front door.

 “This is my lucky day!” he exclaimed out loud, as he walked a planned getaway route through a forest area with thick vegetation.

Sirens began blaring as he dashed his way into the bushes. Stopping, he listened as they were coming closer. I better hide this, just in case. Near where a path split in two directions, he bent down and placed the briefcase under some prickly weeds. 

Making a small mark on a nearby tree trunk, he found a red rubber band in one pocket and attached it to the closest overhanging branch. Exiting the forest, he encountered a grocery store parking lot and stomped on the man’s cellphone, throwing the debris in a nearby dumpster. He drove to a ramshackle motel a short distance down the road and bedded for the night.  

The next morning Spencer woke up early. Rain was falling furiously and the wind was beating hard enough that the windows were vibrating. The forecast called for clearing skies in the next hour, so he drove to a nearby diner.

A waitress greeted him with a warm smile. “Coffee?” she asked.

He took a second to admire the sight in front of him. Her nametag read “Simpkins”. “Yeah, sounds good,” he replied. As she poured, he asked, “How ya doin’?”

“I’m doing fine, considering I haven’t been working here that long. Seems this whole town is in a tizzy after a local bank was robbed late last night. The bad guys got away with thousands. The cops haven’t caught the thieves or recovered the money.”

After a breakfast of biscuits and gravy, Spencer felt the warm rays of the sun. He left a small tip and raced back to the parking lot. Ensuring no one was around, he walked back into the dense vegetation and spotted the rubber band. Carefully putting on a rubber glove he went to retrieve the prize. Shedding the sharp thorns from the bushes, he grabbed the briefcase and rushed to his car. Locking the doors, he opened it. 

Empty. 

Spencer got out of the car and searched the surrounding forest area without success. As he re-entered the parking lot he was met with three cruisers and an unmarked squad car. 

“On your knees!” shouted several officers, guns drawn.

He did as he was told. 

“Where’s the money?” one of the plainclothes detectives demanded.

“What money? I don’t know nothin’ bout no money.”

The detective retrieved the briefcase. “Lookee here. This tag on the inside sleeve has the name Nelson and the address of the house a witness swore you just robbed. You’re a lucky guy. There’s no money in here. See this little doohickey? The caller told us there was a tracking device inside the briefcase. We’re placing you under arrest for breaking and entering.” He was read his rights. “Now, get in the car.”

At the police station, Spencer was led out of the cruiser, clearly uncomfortable with the handcuffs scraping his wrists. A non-descript 1980’s Oldsmobile Cutlass passed by and stopped, it’s exterior a combination of peeling green paint and rust. The bald driver smiled at Spencer and waved his bandaged hand.

Leaning over from the passenger seat, still in her waitress uniform, Simpkins was laughing in his direction. 

“Thanks for the tip,” she cried aloud, flashing dollar bills in each hand.