Dead Run

CHAPTER 42

Tuesday, November 20

3:00 p.m.

Rick hadn’t seen Bill Hunter-Wild Bill, they used to call him-since he quit the Miami force. The man hadn’t changed much-still chain-smoked, still called waitresses “honey” and still had the most direct gaze Rick had ever encountered.

“Thanks for taking the time to see me,” Rick said, speaking up to be heard above the din of the busy coffee shop.

“No problemo. How’ve you been?”

“Traded in my badge for a bar. Rick’s Island Hideaway.”

“Catchy name.”

“Thanks.” He smiled. “You ever come down to Key West, stop in. The drinks are on me.”

“Apparently, you’ve forgotten how much cops can drink.” The other man’s smile faded. “I heard what happened to your boy, Rick. I couldn’t be more sorry.”

Rick looked away, then back. “Thanks, Bill. I appreciate that.”

The waitress stopped by their table and refilled their coffee. Bill watched her walk away, then turned to Rick. “You say you’re looking into the Taft murders?”

“That’s right.”

“Seems you’ve got some kind of copycat operating down there.”

“Maybe. Maybe not. That’s what I’m trying to find out.”

“Mind telling me why you’re so interested? You’re not a cop anymore.”

Rick hesitated, uncertain how to respond. He decided on the direct approach. “I’ve got a feeling about this case. The local boys are missing something important and…I don’t want anyone else to die.”

“Still the cocky cowboy, I see.”

“Yee-hah.” Rick leaned forward. “You worked on the investigation. I figured if anybody could offer insight into how that son-of-a-bitch thought, it’d be you.”

The other man didn’t deny it. “I put together a file for you. Some official stuff, my personal notes. A half-dozen pictures.” He inched the legal-size envelope across the scarred Formica tabletop, then shook a cigarette out of his pack and lit up. “It’s all public record now.”

“Thanks, man.” Rick opened the envelope, sifted through the contents, then looked at his friend. “You one hundred percent satisfied that Taft’s the one.”

“Absolutely.” Bill drew in a lungful of smoke, then blew it out. “Taft was the creepiest SOB I ever had the pleasure of busting. Bar none.”

“In what way?”

“He was proud of the way he had mutilated those women. Proud, Rick.” He shook his head, expression faraway. “He liked telling us about it. Got off on it, you know? Like he was reliving it through us. Told us where all the bodies were.” His mouth curled with remembered distaste. “I used to shower after being in the room with him. The evil…it was like it oozed out of him.”

The man took another, final drag on the cigarette then tamped it out half-smoked. “But it wasn’t just that,” he said, leaning closer. “It was his eyes, man. They were dead. Flat and lifeless as a shark’s.”

A shark. A killing machine. A creature with an insatiable appetite.

In Taft’s case, an appetite for killing.

“He scared the shit out of me.” Bill paused for a moment to light another cigarette. “I never told anybody that before. But it’s true.”

The hair on the back of Rick’s neck prickled. “What about an accomplice? Anything ever suggest he may not have worked alone?”

The detective narrowed his eyes, though whether with thought or against the smoke curling up from the tip of his Camel, Rick didn’t know. “He could have had an accomplice, though nothing in the evidence supported that. Taft always maintained he had a spiritual adviser who offered divine help.”

“Any connection to football or the Miami Dolphins?”

“Not that I know of. He may have been a fan.”

“He go to college?”

“Did a semester at Florida State in Tallahassee. It didn’t last. Flunked out.”

Rick’s heartbeat accelerated. “What year?”

“I’d have to check.”

“I’d appreciate it.” He cleared his throat. “Any markings on Taft or his victims?”

“What kind of marks?”

“Tattoos. Maybe of a strange-looking flower. Like a horned flower?”

Bill shook his head, and Rick shuffled the papers, digesting all that his friend had told him. “As far as you know, were any of Taft’s victims pregnant?”

The other man’s expression altered subtly. “Why do you ask?”

“One of our victims was. The bastard took the fetus.”

“Shit.” Bill took a long drag on his smoke. “Yeah,” he said, voice thick. “Two of ’em. One six months along.”

“Did he-”

“Yeah, he did. Sick prick.”

Silence fell between them. Rick pulled a picture of Taft out of the file. The killer stared out at him, movie-star handsome. “I didn’t remember that he was so good-looking.”

The other man smiled without humor. “Evil takes many forms, my man. And if you’re dealing with anyone associated with Taft, I suggest you don’t forget that.”