The Night Monster (4 page)

“Thanks for calling me back so fast,” my daughter said.

“Anything for you,” I said.

“Are you coming to the game tonight? A bunch of the girls’ fathers said they’ll be there.”

“Of course I’m coming to the game. Now tell me what’s going on.”

“There’s been a creepy guy with a video camera lurking around the court during practice. He kept shooting closeups of the team, even when we were just standing around listening to Coach. He’s got a press badge, but something tells me he’s a stalker. I asked one of the security guards to talk to him, but the guy disappeared.”

Bad guys trying to get close to young women often posed as TV reporters or fashion photographers. I said, “What did he look like?”

“He was white, kinda short and thin, in his late forties. He was wearing dirty Bermuda shorts, a faded blue T-shirt, and a baseball cap. During the break, I tried to snap a photo of him with my cell phone, but he took off running.”

“You might have scared him away.”

“He’ll be back, Daddy.”

“You think so?”

“I’d bet money on it.”

Intuition was the messenger of fear. Jessie’s gut was telling her that this guy was a threat. It was time to stop questioning and start helping.

“I’ll look for him at the game tonight,” I said.

“Thank you, Daddy.”

———

I drove east, to the beach, and pulled into the parking lot of the Sunset Bar and Grill, a ramshackle building that sat with one half in the sand and the other half over the ocean. I lived in a rented room above the bar with a spectacular view of the water. One day a hurricane would come and blow it all away, but for now, I called it home.

I showered and put on my best clothes, then headed downstairs. Behind the bar was a shaven-headed, heavily tattooed ex-convict named Sonny. I’d leaned on Sonny after my life had fallen apart, and he’d never let me down. He gave me a plate of table scraps, which I placed on the floor for my dog.

“How did you get all those Band-Aids on your arms?” Sonny asked.

“Wrestling with an alligator,” I replied.

“Yeah, and I’m Peter Pan.”

“You’ve put on weight.”

“Up yours.”

“I need to go out later. Can you babysit Buster for me?”

“Hot date?”

“My daughter’s basketball game.”

“The place won’t be the same without you.”

“I bet you say that to all the boys.”

At six o’clock I left the Sunset and drove to the Bank Atlantic Center on the west side of the county. Built ten years ago with taxpayer money, the Center is a concrete and glass arena that hosts rock concerts and sporting events. Inside, I bought a cold beer and a couple of hot dogs, and sat in the stands with a group of fathers whose daughters were also on the team. It was the second round of an NCAA regional tournament, the Lady Seminoles of Florida State vs. the Lady Cougars of Ole Miss, and the game was expected to be close. I started yelling at the opening tip-off. By the half, I was so hoarse I could hardly speak.

The game was just as advertised, and hotly contested. I’d been watching women’s hoops since my daughter had started playing in high school, and knew the names of every player on both teams. With two minutes left in the game, Sara Long, the Lady Seminole’s leading
scorer, sunk a three-pointer that put her team firmly ahead. I rose from my seat along with the rest of the fathers and cheered.

That’s when I spotted the stalker.

He stood with a group of photographers beneath a basket. Small and thin, he wore green shorts, a ratty T-shirt, and a Marlin’s baseball cap pulled down low. His sole interest was the Lady Seminoles, and his video camera never stopped filming.

I hustled down the aisle toward the floor. Every security guard in the Center was a retired cop, and there wasn’t one who didn’t know me. I was going to ask one of the guards to pull this creep off the floor and check his credentials. Chances were, they were fake, which would be grounds for having him arrested.

I hopped over the restraining gate, and started moving around the court toward the basket. The game was winding down, the eyes of everyone in the stands on the players. When I was a few feet away from the stalker, I stopped. A plastic reporters’ pass hung around his neck, the ID portion turned around. I didn’t think that was a coincidence.

“Hey buddy, don’t I know you?” I asked.

It was a line I’d used often as a cop. It tended to scare the crap out of bad guys.

The stalker lowered his camera. His chin was covered in gray stubble, and his teeth hadn’t seen a dentist in years.

“I don’t think so,” the stalker said.

I grabbed the ID, and flipped it over. It was blank.

“Where’s your press pass?” I asked.

“I must have left it in my car.”

I pointed at the exit. “Let’s go.”

“You a cop?”

“Used to be.”

His shoulders sagged. Body language could tell you a lot about a person’s intentions. This guy was guilty as charged.

A roar shook the arena, and I looked at the court. Jessie had stolen the ball out of an opponent’s hands. She dribbled effortlessly down the court, planted her feet and took a shot, the ball arcing perfectly through the basket.

“That a girl,” I shouted.

Something hard hit me in the chest. Losing my balance, I fell backward, and hit the floor on my backside. It took a moment for me to get my wits. The stalker’s video camera lay beside me. Looking up, I saw him sprinting toward the exit.

I jumped to my feet. In my experience, only guys who were wanted by the police ever ran away.

I’d hooked a live one.

he temperature dropped ten degrees as I ran into the parking lot. It was a perfect night, with a soft breeze blowing off the ocean and a pale full moon. I lived in paradise, although it often got spoiled by guys like this.

The stalker had vanished. I climbed onto the bumper of a pickup truck, and tried to find him. When that didn’t work, I shut my eyes, hoping to hear where he’d gone. The hiss of traffic on the Sawgrass Expressway sounded like steam escaping out of a pipe, and drowned out all sound.

I hopped off the pickup and trotted up and down the aisles. I was guessing my stalker had jumped into a car and was hiding from me. A maroon Ford minivan with fast-food wrappers lying by the driver’s door caught my eye. Something told me that the scumbag with the video camera had dropped them there. As I approached the vehicle, my cell phone rang. Caller ID said
JESSIE
.

“Hey honey,” I said.

“Where are you?” my daughter asked.

“I had to run outside. Did you win?”

“We beat them by eight points. One of the fathers said you were chasing somebody. Did you find the stalker I told you about?”

“Yes, but he gave me the slip. Let me call you right back.”

“We’re heading back to the motel. Call me if you find him, will you?”

“You bet.”

I closed my phone and slipped it into my pocket. Then I approached the minivan, and stuck my face to the tinted windshield. I couldn’t see inside, and I went around to the back and tried to look through the back window. It was covered in duct tape. I considered peeling the tape back, then decided I was overstepping whatever rights I had as a pissed-off father. I dialed the sheriff’s department on my cell phone and heard an operator pick up.

“This is Jack Carpenter. Who’s this?”

“Hey Jack, it’s Gloria,” the operator said. “How you been? I heard you were working solo these days.”

“That’s right. Who’s on duty tonight?”

Gloria passed along the names of the cops working the night shift. One was a detective named Bob Smith who’d worked for me in Missing Persons, and who knew how to get things done. I asked to speak to him, and Gloria patched me through.

“This is Detective Smith,” he answered.

“Jack Carpenter here.”

“Hey, pal, what’s up?”

“I need for you to run a license through the system.”

“I can do that.”

I started to read the license off the minivan. My eyes weren’t what they used to be, and I stepped forward to get a clearer look. As I did, there was a loud ripping sound, and I lifted my eyes to see an enormous arm spring through the duct-taped window, and grab the front of my shirt.

“Hey!” I shouted.

I went straight up in the air, my feet no longer touching the ground. I am a big guy—six foot one, a hundred ninety pounds soaking wet—and the giant arm shook me like a rag doll. I had never felt so helpless.

The minivan started up and backed out of the spot. I was afraid the driver would back up into another car and crush me to death. I
drew my Colt and aimed at the back door. I didn’t like shooting at someone I couldn’t see, but there was no other choice. Before I could get off a shot, the giant arm tossed me through the air.

I landed on my back, my skull snapping against the pavement. The Colt and cell phone left my hands, and I heard them skip away. The sickening taste of blood filled my mouth. The minivan braked in front of me, its gears shifting. I rolled to my left just as it backed up, and watched the tires missing my head by inches.

The minivan’s rear door slid back, and I heard someone get out. A dirty work boot appeared by my face. It was the biggest foot I’d ever seen.

The boot came down square on my head, pinning me to the ground. Struggling to free myself, I envisioned my brains being ground out of my skull.

“Get back in the van,” someone said.

I recognized the voice. It was the stalker I’d been chasing.

“Nuh-uh,” the owner of the giant foot grunted.

“People are coming!”

“I want to kill him.”

“There’s no time.”

“There’s always time to kill.”

“Do as I say, before someone sees us.”

“But I want …”

“Get in the fucking van!”

The foot left my head. It was like the weight of the world had been lifted from me. I tried to rise, but a fist crashed down on my skull.

“Hey buddy, are you okay?”

Opening my eyes, I saw a pear-shaped man wearing the traditional maroon colors of Florida State standing over me. He had a rolled-up program in his hand, and wore a concerned look on his face.

“I think so,” I said.

“Had too much to drink, huh?”

“Guess so.”

“Would you mind moving? I need to get into my car.”

I was lying next to the driver’s door of the guy’s car. I rolled out of the way and heard him get into his vehicle and drive off.

I slowly got to my feet. The parking lot was nearly empty. I looked at my watch and realized I’d been out cold for nearly ten minutes.

I worked my jaw back and forth and tilted my head from side to side. Nothing felt broken, and I was thankful that I was still alive. I tried to remember the minivan’s license plate, but the letters and numbers had gotten jumbled in my brain.

I searched for my Colt and my cell phone. I found my phone first. It had been stepped on, and the face was cracked. It refused to power up.

My handgun took longer to locate. It had followed Murphy’s Law and landed beneath one of the few remaining vehicles in the lot. I crawled on my belly like a snake to retrieve it.

My aging Acura Legend was parked on the other side of the lot. Reaching the street, I traveled several blocks until I found a service station with a pay phone. Pulling in, I called Bob Smith back.

“I was starting to worry about you,” Smith said.

“I got mugged while we were talking. Someone inside the minivan jumped me.”

“You hurt?”

“Just my pride.”

“Give me the license again.”

“I whacked my head, and can’t remember it. I don’t think it will do any good anyway. Something tells me the minivan was stolen.”

“What was the make?”

“Maroon Ford, about ten years old.”

I listened to Smith’s fingers bang on a keyboard.

“You’re right,” Smith said. “A 1998 maroon Ford minivan belonging to a house painter named Terry Williams was stolen from his driveway in Lauderdale Lakes last night. Williams told the uniform who responded to the call that he was surprised the vehicle was taken, because it didn’t have any seats.”

“Why didn’t it have seats?”

“Williams said he used the vehicle to transport his painting equipment, and he took the seats out.”

A pair of guys stalking a women’s basketball game had purposely
stolen a minivan with the seats ripped out. It sounded like a perfect vehicle for a kidnapping.

“That’s not good,” I said. “I need you to send a cruiser to the Day’s Inn on State Road 84. The Florida State women’s basketball team is staying there, and I think these guys have their eye on one of the players.”

“Will do. Are you heading there now?”

“Yep. Tell the cruiser to meet me behind the motel. That’s where the players stay.”

“Got it.”

I ended the call and jumped into my car. The average response time for a police cruiser in Fort Lauderdale was eight and a half minutes. I knew from experience that a lot of bad stuff could happen in that amount of time. I punched the gas pulling out of the service station and started running red lights.

he Day’s Inn on State Road 84 was a time warp. Hot pink stucco and a flashing neon vacancy sign, it had been there for as long as I could remember. The Lady Seminoles usually rented a row of rooms in the back, away from the highway.