He slipped the cigar ring into his pocket. “Let’s go,” he said.
It took five and a half hours to drive up to
Raiford, and they arrived just as the warden was leaving. He balked at the idea of an impromptu visit by a private eye and an out-of-town cop. But when Joe threw the weight of a missing child and the Miami PD at him he relented. They had a meeting at nine A.M. tomorrow with Ellis’s longtime former cell mate, Yancy Rowen.
But for now
, there was nothing to do but wait.
They stopped at a restaurant a couple miles east of the prison for an early dinner. Louis immediately
went
to the pay phone and called Susan for an update, hoping against hope that there had been a break in the case. Maybe the killers had called back, or Wainwright had a lead on Ellis, or even the most extreme hope that Ben had been found. But there was nothing. When he told Susan that he and Joe were at Raiford to track down Ellis’s past, Susan told him to be careful and added, “Thank Detective Frye for me, too.”
After t
hey ordered dinner Joe went to call Miami and check in with her department. As he waited for her, Louis sipped his coffee, looking around the small restaurant. It was a crowded log-cabin place attached to a motel called THE LAST STOP. He wondered how many relatives had spent the final minutes of a loved one’s life inside one of the tiny rooms.
He rubbed the back of his neck. He was stiff from
the long drive, his chest still aching. And he was tired from too little sleep, too much coffee, and the constant chill in his bones.
He glanced down at Byron Ellis’s file on
the table. They had spent the drive up going over it, reworking what few clues they had, trying to put themselves in the minds of Ellis, his unknown partner, and even Austin Outlaw. But they had come up with nothing.
The waitress brought their food. Louis stared at his burnt rib-eye. He had ordered medium rare but he was too hungry and too tired to send it back. He picked up his knife and fork and tried to cut it
.
Joe slid back into the booth across from him, pulling Ellis’s file toward her. “Listen, I had a thought
,” she said.
Louis didn’t look up as he sawed the rib-eye. His brain was slowly shutting down, and a part of him just didn’t want to talk about this anymore. It had nothing to do with the need to find Benjamin. It was the futility of the day, the closed doors in Copeland,
the constant rehashing of the information in Ellis’s folder, and the silence of Susan’s telephone.
He suddenly realized Joe had said nothing more and he looked at her. She was pouring ketchup onto her fries.
“What was your thought?” he asked.
“Never mind. Sometimes things get distorted when you look too long at them. We’ll talk about it in the morning.”
He took another bite, wondering if she had seen the weariness in his eyes. His gaze drifted to the fogged window. The temperature this far north was a good twenty degrees colder than back at home, making everything feel even worse. He wiped his sleeve on the glass. Beyond the blur, he could see the string of doors for THE LAST STOP motel. He counted sixteen. There was one car in the gravel parking lot.
“Louis, can I ask you something?”
His eyes moved back to Joe’s face. That question usually meant something more personal was coming, something that would require he open a door to a place inside him to answer, a place she wanted or needed to go in order to get to know him better. He didn’t open those doors for many people and wasn’t sure he wanted to now.
A quick image of Mel
Landeta flashed in his head, followed by his words --
you sure like living on your little island, don’t you?
Louis had
eventually let Mel onto his island, both literally and figuratively. Now he would easily call Mel a friend.
Joe was still waiting for an answer.
“Sure,” Louis said. “Go ahead.”
“Are you happy doing what you’re doing?”
That wasn’t what he had thought she was going to ask. He hesitated. “I’d be happier if this steak was edible.”
“I mean the work you’re doing and where you’re doing
it”
He didn’t want to go into all this. “Yeah, I like it fine.”
Joe sat back, swirling a fry in ketchup. She didn’t seem to feel the need to ask more, but now he was curious.
“Why do you ask?”
She bit off the tip of the fry. “Major Anderson asked about you.”
“Your boss?”
She nodded.
Louis waited for her to say more
, and when she didn’t he took a bite of the steak, stalling, trying not to seem too interested. She continued to eat her fries, one by one, biting off the tips then dipping them in the ketchup.
“What did he say?” Louis asked.
“Just wanted to know how you were doing,” she said, shrugging. “Asked me what I thought of you.”
“Why did he want to know?”
She finally stopped nibbling at the fries and leaned forward. “The department is under pressure to diversify. They’re making progress at the patrol level, but the upper ranks are still a bunch of stale, pale males.”
He knew where she was going with this. He pushed his plate aside and leaned toward her.
“Now, he didn’t even come close to any kind of a firm job offer,” Joe went on, “but I know him and I know how he thinks. He’s already done some homework on you and he wouldn’t ask my opinion if he wasn’t considering something further down the road.”
“But not entry level.”
“I’m just guessing, but I think he’d want to keep you for himself.”
“Homicide?” Louis asked.
“Crimes Against Persons.”
Louis was quiet
.
“Are you interested?” she asked.
“I have things to take care of first,” Louis said. “But yes, I would be.”
Joe ate a couple more fries then wiped her mouth with a napkin. “I think we should go snag some rooms,” she said.
Louis glanced at her half-eaten burger. “You’re not finished.”
She shrugged. “You look beat. I can get this wrapped up to go.” Before he could object she motioned to the waitress.
Louis waited for her outside under the awning, hands in his pockets. She came up next to him and they headed across the lot toward the motel office, heads ducked into the wind.
“Here, take this.” She handed him the wrapped burger. “I’ll get our bags
. You go on in.”
Louis nodded and went into the office, a bell tinkling above his head. It was warm and stuffy inside, and a gnarled little man looked up from behind the counter. He set aside his
newspaper and wobbled over, laying his veined hands on the counter.
“I take cash only. Up front.”
Louis pulled his wallet from his back pocket. “No problem.”
“Rooms are twenty-five fifty, plus tax.”
Louis grabbed the pen off the counter and started filling in the card. The bell tinkled again and he felt a rush of cold air at his back. Joe came up to the desk, carrying their overnight bags. The man’s little brown eyes zipped to her, suddenly alive with interest.
“You got dinner. I’ll get this,” Louis said to Joe.
The man’s eyes went from Louis to Joe and back to Louis. “You two together?” he asked.
Louis looked up, the pen paused over the card. “That a problem?”
The man held Louis’s gaze for a moment, his whiskered jaw clamped shut. Then he grabbed a room key from the cubbyholes behind him and slapped it on the counter.
“We need two,” Louis said.
The old man glanced at Joe then turned and plucked a second key from the cubbyholes, setting it on the desk. Joe came forward and picked it up.
“Thanks,” she said. “How’s the heat in the rooms?”
Louis was amazed to see her giving the man a smile. And even more amazed to see the old geezer smile back.
“Not too good, ma’am,” the man said. “Old and rusty like me.”
“Awful cold up here,” Joe said.
“Yup,” the man said. “Happens every few years. The orange growers hate it. Call it a killing rain. But it
ain’t never been this bad.”
Joe nodded and hoisted her bag, turning to the door. Louis followed. It had started to rain again, and as they hurried
across the lot, he looked up. The rain glinted in the floodlights like tiny knives slicing through the darkness.
Adam Vargas settled back into the cracked seats of the black ’71 Camaro. He had parked his car across the street from the Lee County Sheriff’s office so he could watch the cops going in and out the glass doors. He hadn’t wanted to use his own car for this. He didn’t want it to end up impounded like they had done with Bryon’s car. But there had been no choice, so they had been forced to backtrack to East Naples to pick up the Camaro. Like Byron said, they couldn’t keep stealing new cars.
Vargas chewed at his cuticles as he stared at the parade of uniforms. Things had gotten fucked up again.
They still weren’t sure Outlaw was dead. Hell, now they weren’t even sure that had been Outlaw last night. The TV said he was dead, but Byron said they couldn’t trust it, that they had to be sure this time.
So now Byron had a new plan. A way to find out for
sure.
Vargas turned on the wipers to clear the drizzle, his eyes watching the cops. They seemed to travel in pairs. He needed a guy by himself and he was getting tired of waiting.
For once in your life, Adam, be patient. Don’t kill the first cop you see and don’t take a cop from Sereno Key. It’s a small department. They know each other. Get one from the county sheriff. They got lots of them.
Vargas looked up at the darkening sky. The heavy clouds were lead-colored, but the rain had turned misty, hovering in the air like gray wet ghosts. He knew it was only five P.M. but it was
almost dark. That would probably be better anyway, doing this after dark.
A tall guy came out, pausing to zip up his dark green
jacket. Good...he was the right size. His hair was dark, clipped short, high above his ears. He walked with long strides, arms bent, eyes jumping around the parking lot.
Vargas sat up in the
seat, watching as the cop put on black leather gloves.
The cop climbed into a marked cruiser and drove out of the lot, turning east
. Vargas followed.
The cop didn’t seem to be in a hurry, barely doing the speed limit
. Vargas could tail him easily, the cruiser’s bubble lights visible even in traffic.
Vargas followed him for over an hour. He watched the cop make a traffic stop, cruise through McDonald
’s for a burger, stop and chat with a guy in another cruiser, and finally pull into one of those huge convenience store plazas with a Pizza Hut counter inside and fifteen gas pumps outside. Vargas pulled in after him and watched as the cop disappeared toward the back of the store.
Piss
stop. Perfect.
Vargas got out, and pulled his T-shirt ov
er his belt, covering the sheath of the knife. He hurried through the rain into the store and back to the restrooms. He pushed on the door with his shoulder, afraid it might be a one-person bathroom and the door would be locked. But it swung open. And it had a latch-type lock on the inside that he could flip closed.
It was a big john with bright fl
orescent lights and white tile floors. The porcelain urinals and sinks gleamed from a fresh rub-down of Formula 409. The stalls were painted aqua blue, the handles as polished as rich people’s silverware.
As Vargas let the door wheeze close,
the cop turned to look at him over his shoulder. Vargas gave him a friendly nod. As the cop turned away, Vargas coughed, watching to see if the cop looked his way. When he didn't, Vargas hacked again, using the sound to cover the click as he used his elbow to lock the door.
Byron’s words were there in his head again, guiding him.
You can't slit his throat, Adam. You’ll mess up the uniform. Use this. It has a knot in the middle. Come up from behind and get this on his throat right in the middle. You’ll have to jerk it real good.
Vargas put his hand in his pocket and drew out a small cord that Byron had cut from the drapes at the motel. He unzipped his pants with the other hand as he approached the urinals so the cop would hear the sound he was expecting to hear. The cop was shaking himself off when the cord went around his neck, and Vargas could feel it catch in the folds of skin as the cop’s chin instinctively came down toward his chest.
Vargas gave the cord a quick snap, drawing it tight.
The cop started to struggle, one hand raking at the cord around his neck, the other grappling for the gun on his belt. The cop managed to grab the grip and was fighting to free the gun from the holster.
Vargas slammed him sideways into the stall partition, smashing the right side of his body against the wall. He heard a clatter of metal and saw the gun skitter across the tile.
Va
rgas jerked the cord again, pulling it so tight he could feel the loop getting smaller as it cut deeper and deeper into the cop’s neck. The cop was weakening, his sputtering starting to fade to gasping whispers. Vargas gave him one last shove forward, ramming his head into the top of the urinal.
The cop
’s head hit with a fleshy thud and he crumbled to the floor, the upper part of his body supported only by the cord still in Vargas’s hands.
Vargas dropped the cord and leaned against the sink, drawing deep breaths.
Jesus. Motherfucking asshole wouldn’t die.
The door rattled. He had to hurry.
Vargas dragged the cop to the last stall and flopped him down. Pulling off his own jeans and T-shirt, he bent and started stripping the cop. He was dead weight, and damp and fleshy, and nothing was coming off easily. Vargas broke a lace trying to get the shoes off.
Damn it. Damn it.
He was going to blow this. He knew it.
He worked quickly to dress himself, his fingers shaking as he buttoned the dark green uniform shirt
.
The door rattled again.
Vargas zipped and hooked the pants, hoisting up the utility belt and pulling it tight across his belly to buckle it. He was surprised it was so heavy, even without the gun.
The gun.
Vargas dropped to his knees and searched the tile floor. He spotted the gun in the first stall and quickly retrieved it, careful not to touch the stall wall.
When he stood, he caught sight of himself in the mirror.
Shit...
The
white shirt stretched tight across his chest and the gold star gleamed under the florescent lights. The gun belt was snug on his hips, the stripe down the green pants perfectly aligned.
It fit. It fit...perfect.
Vargas took a step back, staring at himself in the mirror, a smile creeping onto his face. He spread his feet and cocked his hand over the gun. With a jerk, he moved to draw the gun. But it sat too high on his belt. The barrel caught in the holster as he tried to whip it out and the gun almost spun out of his hand.
Damn it.
He’d have to lower the belt so it rested more on his hip.
Another rattle of
the door.
Vargas hurried back to the cop, and wedged his own sneakers onto the man’s feet. He almost touched the door handle but stopped in time, grabbed a wad of toilet paper and used it to lock the stall door. He crawled out underneath on his elbows. Grabbing the green nylon Lee County Sheriff’s Department parka, he threw it on, and stuffed his T-shirt and jeans inside before zipping it.
Using his forearm, he flipped up the door lock. A guy was waiting outside, his knees kind of squeezed together. But he took a respectful step back, seeing the uniform. Vargas didn’t acknowledge him, walking from the store.
Outside, he reached into the jacket pocket and retrieved the cop’s black gloves, pulling them on as he walked.
He walked slowly, holding himself tall. Tall and perfect.
Perfect. This was fucking perfect. Byron would be proud. He had done
good so far...didn’t leave a print, didn’t make a sound.
Perfect. All he needed now was a hat.
When he reached the cruiser, he paused for a moment, admiring it then pulled the door open. He stared at the radio, at all the lights and gadgets and buttons and things. And the big locked-down shotgun between the seats. He eased into the driver’s seat.
He started the car, and sat there for a moment, hands resting on the wheel. His eyes went to the brimmed hat sitting on the passenger seat.
He picked it up and put it on. He sat higher in the seat to look at himself in the rearview mirror. He smiled.
It wasn’t exactly a cowboy hat, but it would do.
He was inside the door. He couldn’t believe how easy it was. The asshole outside hadn’t given him a second look. The cop inside had even opened the door for him. His name tag read A. JEWELL. Vargas figured him to be about his own age, maybe twenty-three or twenty-four. He had fair, scrubbed skin, short blond hair, a shaved neck, and lots of ear showing. A rookie.
“The sheriff asked you to stop by?” Jewell asked.
Vargas smiled as he took off his hat
. “Yeah, wanted to know if you guys needed anything. I had a few extra minutes.”
“I could use a hot meal. We’ve been living on soup, peanut butter, and coffee.”
“I'll stand watch if you want to run and get something.”
Jewell looked toward the back bedrooms then shook his head. “No, I better not
. I need to stay here.”
Vargas shrugged. “No problem.”
Jewell’s eyes lingered on him a few more seconds.
The gloves. He's looking at the gloves. No, the gun belt is too low.
Shit.
Jewell finally wandered into the kitchen. Vargas came deeper into the living room and looked around, edging toward the hallway. One of the bedroom doors was open and inside he could see a black woman. She was folding towels and stacking them on the bed. She had to be the mother. She didn’t look very happy.
She looked up and saw him, and Vargas tensed, his heart jumping at the thought she might somehow know he wasn't a cop, or somehow know through some weird maternal thing that he was the man who had taken her child. Her brown eyes remained on him for a moment and he gave her a nervous smile. She didn’t return the smile, but instead reached out and softly closed the door.
Va
rgas set the hat down on the table near the front door and went to the kitchen. There was a weird black contraption hooked to the phone, a bulletproof vest hanging on a chair, and a tape recorder on the kitchen table. Next to the recorder was an empty coffee cup and a manila folder. Paper-clipped to the front of the folder was a black and white photo of Byron Ellis.
Jewell was pouring himself a cup of coffee. For a
second, Vargas thought about shooting him but knew the cop outside, the woman, and anyone else in the house, would hear the shot. Plus he wasn’t sure how quick he could get that damn gun out of that dipshit holster. Especially with gloves on.
“Where is everyone?” Vargas asked.
Jewell didn’t look up as he added sugar. “The Chief is back at the station, Detective Frye is staying out on Captiva at Mr. Kincaid’s place. And I’m not sure where Mr. Kincaid is.”
Vargas turned away. He wasn’t sure who any of those people were, but he did know that Jewell didn’t mention Outlaw. Outlaw was either in the morgue or in this house.
He moved back to the hall, glancing behind him. The second bedroom door was cracked, and Vargas placed a gloved hand against it, pushing it open gently.
There was someone on the lower bunk bed, a nightlight illuminating his dark brown face and curly black hair. His hands were under his head and he was snoring softly. This was Outlaw. He could see it now. This was the guy they had first seen in the park. How the hell could he have mistaken that other guy for this asshole?
Vargas’s hand moved to the knife hidden under his jacket and he wondered if he could do it now. But then he heard Byron ragging on him again.
Don’t try anything in the house unless you are sure you can get away. Don't be a fucking cowboy, Adam. I need you to come back safe.
If he did Outlaw now, he would have only a few seconds to get out of the house and back across the causeway. He’d have to do the woman and the cop, too.
“What are you doing?”
Vargas spun around and he found himself face to face with Jewell. His hand almost came out with the knife. But Jewell stepped back quickly, too far for Vargas to get a quick swing. Jewell’s hand was resting on the butt of his gun, and his holster snap was undone.
Vargas brought his hand from his jacket, empty. “Just looking.”
Jewell was staring at Vargas’s chest and it took Vargas a second to realize the sheriff’s jacket was open far enough to reveal the gold star, name badge, and everything else on the shirt.
“Lieutenant
Zompa,” Jewell said, a new hint of respect in his voice. “I’m sorry. But we should leave the man alone. He was up most of the night.”
“Right,” Vargas said. “No problem.”
Jewell turned his back and started back into the living room. Vargas’s hand went into his jacket again.
Another door opened. “What the hell are you doing?”
Vargas turned to see the black woman.