A False Dawn

TWENTY-THREE

After resting my jaw for three days, I was becoming anxious to do what I knew in my gut I had to do. It was the feeling I got before combat during the first Gulf War. It was the mood that came over me when the hunt was closing in on a suspect in the streets or corporate offices of Miami.

I made arrangements for my neighbor to take care of Max while I was away. I didn’t know if I’d be gone a few hours or a few days. I did know that the FBI was interested in me, but why? The stories were now being carried by the national wire services. There were rumblings of a serial killer loose in the sunshine state, the land of Mickey and Shamu. The feds were being more reactive than proactive.

My immediate decision was whether to let them come find me, or go to them. I thought about it for less than a second before turning south on Highway 27. I wedged the Glock out of sight between my seat and the gearshift console.

I unzipped all of the windows on the Jeep and invited the wind along for the ride. The air was cool and mixed with smells of fresh plowed earth and orange blossoms. I drove through cattle country, sliced by drainage canals and dotted with orange and grapefruit trees. It was a cloudless morning, the sky deep blue, almost as if a bottomless indigo blow was covering the earth.

Glancing in the rearview mirror, I saw a car following about a quarter of a mile behind me. I accelerated from fifty to sixty-five. My cell rang. I didn’t recognize the number. I did recognize the man’s voice.

Floyd Powell, the commercial fisherman, said, “I run into my nephew this morning. We got to talkin’ about that killin,’ you know, the one with the girl. He told me he was frog giggin’ near there that night. Had his light on the bank where the frogs is at, and he says he seen what he thought was two people having sex higher up on the bluff. Says it wasn’t but a few seconds later when he saw a car headin’ down the dirt road toward State Road 44. Bobby said he thought it was odd ‘cause the driver never turned on his lights until he was on blacktop.”

“Can your nephew identify the guy?”

“Says he was too embarrassed to look good when he caught ‘em in this light.”

I thanked Floyd Powell and hung up. Now I knew why the girl I’d found hadn’t suffered a broken neck. The perp was frightened by the boat lights and fled the scene.

The approaching car in my rearview window caught my attention, but the driver kept his distance. Then I kicked the Jeep up to more than eighty miles an hour. It didn’t take a full mile for me to be certain that I was being followed.

The driver was good. Staying far enough behind to appear that he or she had lost me. I tapped my brakes, slowing back to about sixty. The car drifted at a distance behind me. The image grew smaller in my rearview mirror. The driver suddenly whipped off the paved road, the car kicking up a long rooster tail of dust, speeding in another direction, going down a dirt road.

I dialed Leslie Moore’s number. “Leslie, you mentioned that the chemical analysis found in the vic’s shoe isn’t used to grow citrus. What does it grow?”

“Primarily tomatoes, at least in the concentrations we found.”

“What does SunState Farms grow?”

“They’re also one of the largest growers of tomatoes in Florida.”

“Text the directions to SunState for me. I’m two miles north of Lake Wells.”

“Okay. I got the DNA results back from the black hair you found in your boat.”

I was silent.

“The hair came from the vic you found. Sean, someone is trying hard to set you up.”

“Wonder who that might be? Is Slater there?”

“I haven’t seen him in a couple of hours. Why?”

“Nothing. Just wanted to see if the pit bull was out of his yard.”

“Slater met with two agents from the FBI. They showed up yesterday right after I arrived for work. Asked to meet with Slater. They met behind closed doors for about a half hour. Slater didn’t say anything to me about what went on.”

“Maybe Slater called them.”

“That’s not his style either. If there is any truth to the rumors that he’s considering a bid for sheriff, maybe he’s using the FBI in some capacity to help with this case. I don’t know. I think—” She abruptly stopped talking.

“Is someone there?”

“When will the car be ready? Good, please check the brakes, too.” She hung up.

I drove silently for the next fifteen minutes. Then my phone beeped with a text message. I read the directions to SunState Farms. And I also read her last line, which said: Slater knows I rode out to your place. Be careful!