Final Victim (1995) (33 page)

"Yeah. Checked him and a real pretty girl in about an hour and a half ago. He's in Thirty-seven, she's in Room Forty."

MacLamore looked at his watch. It was almost five A
. M
. He kne
w t
ime was an important part of the equation. In an hour, the streets would begin filling. . . . The more looky-loos, the more confusion. He wanted this to be a quick surgical extraction. Tactically, he had two ways to go: One was to evacuate all the rooms to avoid any possible collateral damage. But he was afraid a full evacuation would make too much noise and alert the perp. The other option was to do a hard entry--swarm both rooms simultaneously and light up the perp at close range if he got frisky.

Lieutenant MacLamore decided on a compromise. He evacuated the rooms on both sides of 37 and 40 to avoid the chance that a stray round might go through a wall and hit someone.

The residents of those rooms now stood across the street, talking in hushed tones, not ten yards from where The Rat was parked, watching.

An ambulance called by MacLamore pulled in silently, and the paramedics walked to the SWAT truck and checked in. MacLamore did the pre-op briefing by the back of the black SWAT step-van.

"Okay, according to the NCIC computer, this guy killed two cops in Illinois," MacLamore said. "We got an anonymous tip and the desk clerk confirms his picture ID. This is a redball, so don't hesitate to light him up. I'll take Room Thirty-seven, along with Delgado and Smith. Procopio, Nash, and Washington--you guys take Forty. Remember, he could be in there fucking his bitch. So just 'cause you got the girl's room, don't cut them any slack. Go in hard. If he twitches, use him up fast, everybody get some. We go on my signal. I'm Blue, Procopio's Red."

They nodded solemnly.

"Standard-pattern entry--wide deployment, forty-five-degree cover fire. Questions?" Nobody spoke. "Let's do it."

They moved away from the SWAT van, slamming banana clips into the HK-MP5s and chambering rounds in their automatics. They were al
l p
umping adrenaline as they climbed the interior stairwell to the outdoor corridor on the second floor. They began edging down the wall quietly on rubber-soled combat boots. When they got to Room 37, MacLamore and his two-man Blue Team deployed there, as Procopio and his Red Team went on to Karen's door. Once they were positioned, MacLamore and Procopio motioned each other and took out room keys. Simultaneously, they slid them slowly and silently into both locks.

Inside his room, Lockwood had been unable to go to sleep. He was lost in a jumble of thoughts about Claire, Heather, and his bumble-fucked career. His mind turned to his confused feelings about Karen. He had always had problems with the new academics that were showing up by the busload at Customs. Brainiacs with no field experience, who felt their degrees gave them sway over any situation. But Karen had proved very different. She had, in a short time, managed to penetrate his defenses. Maybe it was that daredevil streak or her gentle smile. He had finally begun to sort out his feelings about her. He knew now that what bothered him about her relationship with Malavida was his own desire to explore his feelings for her. But he had promised his daughter that he would raise her, and he was determined to keep that promise. He didn't think there was any way that these desires could coexist. Besides that, he had other problems: If he was fired from Customs for malfeasance, his pension would be dust and he'd have no job. He couldn't figure out where the money to buy a farm was going to come from, but one way or another, he would make it happen.

Then he heard a metallic click in his door. It sounded like a tumbler in his lock being turned over. Lockwood quickly rolled, and his hand went for the .45, which he had put on the bedside table. He just go
t t
he gun in his hand when the door was kicked open, and three men in black jumpsuits were instantly in the room.

"You're dead, motherfucker!" MacLamore yelled, aiming his weapon.

Lockwood was already squeezing off a shot. The .45 bucked in his hand as he rolled backwards. His shot hit one of the three SWAT team members. The man screamed and went down. Lockwood completed his somersault and landed on the far side of the bed as two 9-millimeter rounds thunked into the mattress where he'd been. A third round went whizzing over his head.

"Police! Drop it, police!" MacLamore found cover as he yelled at Lockwood, curled low behind the bed.

"Prove it," Lockwood yelled back.

MacLamore threw his badge case over the bed. It landed next to Lockwood. He looked at it. "I'm coming up. Nobody shoot. Here's the gun."

He flipped the .45 onto the mattress and started to rise. He got halfway up when he was high-lowed. His chin took a flying head butt from Lieutenant MacLamore; Smith hit him with a shoulder tackle from the far side. They drove him backwards into the wall. The three of them went to the floor in a tangle. Then MacLamore and Smith pinned him. They slammed Lockwood's head into the floor several times to get rid of unburned adrenaline. They put handcuffs on, ratcheting them as tight as possible, cutting off his circulation, then yanked him to his feet. MacLamore checked Delgado, who was bleeding from a through-hole in his hip, then triggered his walkie-talkie. "Blue Team. We're clear in Thirty-seven. One down. Delgado needs a dust-off. It's through and through, but he's spilling blood like a son of a bitch."

Procopio's voice answered immediately. "Red Team is also secure," he said. "No injuries. I'll notify the parameds."

They sent Delgado off in a wailing ambulance. Lockwood and Karen were lated in separate rooms as MacLamore began a preliminary interrogation.

"Shut the fuck up," MacLamore yelled when Lockwood started to say something.

"I'm a Customs officer on leave of duty."

"You're wanted for a double police murder in Illinois and you put a round in one of my men."

"You came through the door waving a machine gun. You never identified yourself as a cop! Who taught you your hard-entry tactics? You fucked up!" Lockwood shouted back.

Both of them were still yelling as the Watch Commander hit the scene. He was a bull-necked sixty-year-old captain named Fred T. Fredrickson. In Miami police circles, he was known as Fred T. Fred. He had thirty years on the force, a command persona, and a no-nonsense, take-charge presence in a crisis. The minute he arrived, everybody settled down.

As the sun came up over Miami, Lockwood and Karen were transported to the Dade County Sheriff's Office in the backs of two separate squad cars. They drove past The Rat, who watched from his rental car across the street. He had heard the gunfire and been sure they would be killed. His nipples were on fire. They had been burning all afternoon; his skin was tender and growing red. A sign that The Wind Minstrel was coming. As he watched Lockwood and Dawson being taken away, he wondered if they were archangels, sent from heaven. How else could they have managed to survive?

Chapter
29

Vic Kulack arrived in Miami with Lockwood's Federal arrest warrant in his pocket. The last time Kulack had been in South Florida had been a disaster for him. He had left in defeat with an official reprimand because of the cluster-fuck during the take-down on Operation Girlfriend. All of his troubles after that had been courtesy of John Lockwood. It was one thing to have Lockwood go stress-related and have him run through a head check in Washington . . . but this was too good to be true. This was the all-time, outta-the-park, bounce-it-in-the-parkinglot home run.

He was picked up by an IA-ASAC from the Miami office named "Pecos Bill" Broder. Broder had been raised in Texas and had an accent you could hang a Stetson on. He had been Kulack's second-incommand on the IA investigation on Operation Girlfriend and shared Kulack's hearty dislike for Lockwood. As they rode across town to the Dade County Sheriff's Office, Broder filled Kulack in.

"They got our boy strung up t'the barn door," Broder drawled. "The list a'shit he's pulled this time is impressive, even by his standards. In descending order: He put a hole in a SWAT commando, hit a cop at Jackson Memorial, and ditched a police escort at a crime scene. He also moved evidence, the suspect's truck, I think. Dade Sheriff's recovered it last night, but as evidence, it's vomit. Got Malavida's blood and everybody's prints, including Karen Dawson's, all over it."

"Ah, yes," Kulack growled, "Awesome Dawson . . ." Kulack knew that since she was a civilian, there wasn't much he could get her for. Aiding and abetting, or maybe some after-the-fact bullshit. He'd elected to leave her off the warrant because she had juice at DOJ.

They arrived at the Dade County Sheriff's Office, and, once Kulack had checked in with the Extradite Transfer Office, he left Broder downstairs and was taken to a tobacco-colored room on the third floor. The Sheriff's main building was in downtown Miami, and Kulack thought the place looked like it had been designed by Plains Indians. It was a bunch of big, square structures with flat roofs that looked like a series of huge shoe boxes, which were called annexes because they'd been added over the years as the department grew to accommodate the ever-increasing need for South Florida law enforcement.

Kulack sat impatiently in a wood-backed chair in the windowless, badly ventilated interrogation room and waited.

His prner was finally led in by a detective. Kulack noted with displeasure that Lockwood wasn't in restraints, even though he had been arrested for a handful of Class A felonies.

"Shouldn't this piece of shit be handcuffed?" he said without waiting for an introduction.

The last to enter the room was the Watch Commander, Fredrickson. He closed the door behind him.

"I'm Captain Fred T. Fredrickson," he said, extending his hand. Kulack made no move to accept it.

"This douchebag walked a Federal convict out of Lompoc Prn using bad paper," Kulack said. "Then he gets him critically injured. He's not an active Customs Officer anymore, but he's down here pretending he's on the job, which is a violation of Title Eighteen of the U
. S
. Penal Code, Section Nine-Twelve: Impersonation of a Federal Officer. That's before he even gets around to plugging one of your guys and swinging on some poor schmuck working a folding chair at the hospital."

"Why don't you slow down," Fred T. Fred said as he found an empty seat and plopped down in it. "You're filling this little room up with exhaust."

"I got the paperwork here. I wanna get moving. I got a plane t'catch." Kulack pulled the warrant out of his pocket and smiled over at Lockwood. "If you're hoping that the DOAO is gonna pull your flaming gonads outta the campfire again, you're in for a big shock."

Lockwood let it all fly past. He saw no need to start up with Kulack. The game was over.

"You're a little rigid, friend," Fred T. Fred said, looking with disgust at Kulack's bulging, throbbing neck veins. "What happened down here was a mistake. Our SWAT team had bad information. Looks like this Leonard Land character hacked into the Customs computer, stole Lock-wood's picture and prints, then put it all in the NCIC database, along with a phony Illinois police report saying he killed two cops. . . . Didn't happen. I think we should--"

"Not to be rude or undiplomatic," Kulack broke in, "but I really don't give a flying fuck what you think. This turkey is stuffed and already cooking. I wanna get him outta here."

"I think," Fred T. Fred said slowly, "we may have a serial killer operating in Southern Florida. I think this guy wants Lockwood, and John's agreed to be the bait."

"Unless you wanna file some paper with the A
. G
.'s office, it'll have to wait. I'm taking him with me now."

Kulack stood, pulled out his cuffs. "Turn around," he barked and, when Lockwood did, he slammed the bracelets down on his wrist. Lockwood hadn't been in cuffs since he'd been caught stealing cars as a juvenile. Yet this was the third set of bracelets he'd had slammed on him in less than twenty-four hours.

Kulack yanked him around and pushed him toward the door.

"You have to pick him up at the prners' exit. That's where the paperwork gets signed," Fred T. Fred told Kulack, who grunted and left them all standing there.

Lockwood rode down in an old, slow Otis four-man elevator with Captain Fredrickson. "Listen, Captain, you seem like a pretty okay guy. . . . I'm worried about Karen Dawson. . "

"She's still upstairs. She'll be fine. She's about to get released."

"I know . . . but this guy who came after me, he probably was coming after both of us. She's a civilian. If I'm not here, she'll be walking around unprotected."

"Why don't you ask Kulack to take her back to Washington as a material witness?"

"He won't do it."

"Whatta you want me to do?"

"You've gotta put somebody on her . . . somebody who won't get faked out. The Rat is smart and he's dangerous. That computer of his is lethal. It's an offensive weapon. He can strike from long range through the phone lines. He almost got Malavida and he almost got me. We're only alive 'cause we got lucky."

The elevator door opened and Fred T. Fred looked at Lockwood. "I'm short-handed. I'd like to help, but I can't supply bodyguards to everyone who might get attacked. You should convince her to go back to Washington."

"I tried," Lockwood said. "She won't go."