The dead woman in the crime scene photograph had gone down swinging. Her mouth was bloody from biting her attacker, and her knuckles were raw from the blows she’d inflicted. She was at an age when most people didn’t fight back, but that wasn’t the case here. She had put up a hell of a battle, and had the wounds to show for it.
Her name was Elsie Tanner, and she was seventy years old. Her granddaughter, Skye Tanner, was now missing, a victim of ruthless kidnappers. Based upon evidence found at the crime scene, Elsie had tried to save Skye, and paid the price. She could have run, but had fought back instead. That made her aces in Jon Lancaster’s book.
He slipped the photograph back into the string envelope and secured it, then climbed out of his vehicle. The American Legion hall was serving as command center for the search for Skye, and was his first stop.
The hall was as quiet as a tomb. On the first few days of a search, the victim’s memory was still fresh, and the energy level was high. There would be frequent police updates, TV trucks parked at the victim’s home, and volunteers plastering phone poles with posters. No stone was left unturned.
That changed after three days. By the end of the third day, the energy had faded, and most of the volunteers had gone home, leaving the victim’s friends and family to fill the void. The ranks of the police thinned, with officers pulled away to handle new cases. The media moved on as well, needing a new story to keep viewers tuned in.
Most people stopped caring after three days. Lancaster was different that way. It was on the fourth day of a search that he started caring. As a cop, he’d learned that if a person wasn’t found in three days, something terrible had usually happened to them. The missing person needed help, and he was willing to give it to them.
The hall was prefab, with a pitched aluminum roof and a concrete floor. A bar took up the right wall. On the opposing wall, two women sat beneath a giant American flag, answering the phones. With any search, it was standard procedure to set up a hotline where tips could be called in. The women’s task was to field these calls and, if the information was important, get the caller’s name and number and pass it on to the police.
He was being stared at. Behind the table stood a nicely attired redhead with a cell phone glued to her ear. He’d been around enough newspaper reporters to peg her as one. He ignored her, and approached the bar.
The bartender nodded politely. He had sad eyes and hadn’t shaved. Lancaster introduced himself as an agent of Team Adam and ordered two coffees. He asked the bartender what the ladies liked in their coffee. The bartender placed two steaming mugs on the bar, then handed him two creamers and several sugar packets.
“My name’s Russ,” the bartender said. “It ain’t none of my business, but what’s Team Adam? Can’t say I’ve ever heard of it.”
“It’s a special arm of the National Center for Missing and Exploited Children,” he explained. “We assist in missing kid cases when law enforcement hits a wall.”
“Well, the police sure need your help here. Sheriff’s office can’t get out of its own damn way. An outsider did this, anyone can see that.”
It was common for fingers to be pointed at the police when searches stalled. He’d read the sheriff’s report and thought they were doing a good job.
“Did you know either of the victims?” he asked.
“Elsie was my friend,” Russ said.
“I’m sorry for your loss.”
Russ pulled out a metal flask and took a swig. He was boiling mad, and the booze soothed his nerves. He offered Lancaster the flask, but he declined.
“Elsie was a fixture in these parts, always helping people out,” Russ said. “My trailer burned down, and Elsie let me stay with her until I got back on my feet. She was into rescuing dogs, kept them at her place. They had to farm them out to families when she got murdered.”
“What can you tell me about the granddaughter?”
“Skye’s a good kid. She moved in with Elsie because of trouble at home. She was a server at G. Peppers and helped out when the lodge had parties. People liked her.”
“You said that an outsider was responsible. Why?”
“You’re not from around here, are you?”
“Fort Lauderdale, born and raised.”
“Keystone’s different. We have the lowest crime rate in the state, hasn’t been a murder or a kidnapping that I can remember. People watch each other’s backs.”
“You lived here a long time?”
“My whole life.”
Lancaster placed a Team Adam business card with his private cell number on the bar. “Call me if you hear anything.”
“Be happy to. Coffee’s on the house.”
“Much obliged. Who’s the looker on the cell phone?”
“Be careful. Her name’s Lauren Gamble. She’s a reporter with the local rag.”
“Trouble?”
“With a capital T. Rumor is, she’s trying to break a big story so she can get a job in another city.”
“I thought Tampa was a nice place to live.”
“It is, if you don’t have stars in your eyes.”
Lancaster crossed the hall and placed the steaming mugs on the table along with the condiments and his business card. The card had a catchy hotline — 1-800-THE MISSING — that never failed to get people’s attention.
Their names were Barbara Aderhold and Dawn Thrasher, and they’d been working the phones for twenty-four hours straight. Exhaustion was starting to creep in, their voices cracking. They echoed Russ’s sentiments about Elsie and Skye being good people, and shared his view that an outsider was to blame.
“How are folks dealing with this?” he asked.
“People are staying inside and keeping their doors locked,” Aderhold said. “They’re convinced that what happened to Skye is linked to the other disappearances around the state.”
“There’s no proof of that,” he said.
“You wouldn’t have known it by the number of police that showed up,” Thrasher said, sipping her coffee. “There must have been fifty cops at Elsie’s place after it happened. It was like an invasion.”
“The FBI’s also gotten involved,” Aderhold added. “Their agents hauled in a bunch of my friends, and interviewed them at the Marriott on State Road 54. I hear the agent running things is a real bitch.”
The FBI played rough and mean and had no qualms about trampling on people while carrying out their jobs. He took a slip of paper that contained Elsie Tanner’s address out of his wallet and showed it to the two women.
“Can you tell me how to find Elsie’s place? I’d like to go have a look around. My GPS was worthless once I got into Keystone.”
“Elsie lived down on Woodstock. The marker is impossible to see at night,” Aderhold said. “You might want to wait until tomorrow.”
There was rain in the forecast, and whatever remained of the crime scene would be washed away if he waited until tomorrow. He thanked the women for their time and walked out of the hall.
Standing in the parking lot, he wrestled with his next step. He needed to visit Elsie Tanner’s place to get a feel for what had happened. Every year, a half million kids went missing. The good news was, nearly all came home, safe and sound. But a tiny fraction were never heard from again. Up to now, Skye was part of that fraction, and if he was going to have a chance of saving her, he needed to look at the crime scene tonight.
The warmest summer in the state’s history had ushered in the coldest winter in fifty years, and he shivered while going to his car. A woman’s voice stopped him.
“I can help you.”
A yellow security light illuminated the gravel lot. Gamble had followed him outside, and wore an eager look on her face.
“Do you have information to share?” he asked.
“I don’t know any more than you do,” she said. “I’m a reporter—”
“I know who you are. Your name’s Lauren Gamble, and you’re with the local newspaper. The bartender filled me in.”
“So he did. I can take you to Elsie Tanner’s home, if you’d like. I’ve been there twice. You won’t find it yourself, even in daylight.”
“That’s very kind of you. What do you want in return?”
Her pretty face registered surprise. “Who said I wanted anything?”
“If you didn’t, you’d be home having dinner. Now what do you want?”
“I’d like to interview you for the story I’m writing.”
“Why? I don’t know any more than you do.”
She held her cell phone by her waist. Her eyes darted down to the screen and then back at him. He hated when people glanced at their cell phones during conversations, and he stifled the urge to rip it out of her hand and give it a toss.
“Checking for messages?” he asked.
“I was looking at a story I found about you on Google,” she said. “You helped catch a pair of serial killers a few months ago, among other things. You’re famous.”
“I don’t want to be the focus of your story. This isn’t about me.”
“But people need to know that you’re helping.”
“What good would that do?”
“You heard what those women said. Everyone is scared. Not just in Keystone, but around the state. Ten women vanished before Skye Tanner, and the police don’t have a clue who’s behind it. It will put people at ease knowing that a famous cop was hired to help solve this.”
He felt a raindrop on his head. He needed to see the crime scene before it was washed away. He electronically opened the doors to his vehicle.
“I’ll drive,” he said.
“Do we have a deal?” she asked.
“Yes, but only if you agree not to print anything prematurely.”
“You’re saying that I can’t run my story until you give me an okay.”
“Correct.”
“I can’t do that. My publisher has final say.”
“Then I can’t help you. Good night.”
He got into his car. The best relationships were mutually beneficial. Gamble needed him for her story so she could punch her ticket out of here, and he needed her to be his navigator. But he could always find another navigator, and Gamble would have a hard time finding another investigator who’d be willing to talk with her. As he threw his car into reverse, she rapped her knuckles on his window. He lowered it.
“You win,” she said. “I won’t run the story until you give me permission.”
“I want that in writing.”
“Will a text do?”
He nodded, and Gamble came around the vehicle and took the passenger seat. He gave her his cell phone number, and she sent him a text, promising that her story wouldn’t run until he’d agreed the time was right. He pulled out of the lot, and she told him to turn right on Gunn Highway, which was Keystone’s main artery.
“What’s with the snorkeling gear?” she asked.
A mesh bag containing a mask, snorkel, and flippers lay across the back seat. Beside it, a duffel bag was stuffed with clothes.
“I was planning a trip to Key West,” he said.
“But you came here instead,” she said.
He nodded, and she finished her thought.
“That must suck, having to ruin your vacation for work,” she said.
She was reading the situation wrong, and he decided to set her straight.
“Just so you know, no one told me to come here,” he said.
“Then why are you here?” she asked.
“I volunteered.”
While he drove, Gamble gave him the lay of the land. Unlike the rest of Tampa, which had been ravaged by development for fifty years, Keystone’s residents had thwarted the bulldozers by showing up at every rezoning, arguing how they wished to keep their rural lifestyle. Sometimes they brought lawyers, but mostly it was residents wearing yellow T-shirts, loudly telling the county commissioners how they felt.
“Why yellow?” he asked.
“It made them stand out,” she said. “From what I heard, the commissioners got tired of dealing with them, and decided to let the residents write the laws. That’s why Keystone is still rural, while everything around it is ugly strip malls and cookie-cutter houses. Take a left at the next traffic light.”
“Was Elsie Tanner part of the group?”
“She was one of the ringleaders. I saw a tape of her giving a speech at a rezoning. You did not want to cross that woman.”
He took a left onto an unlit two-lane road lined by a canopy of imposing oaks.
“She must have pissed off plenty of developers,” he said. “Could one of them be behind her murder, and Skye’s abduction?”
“I doubt it,” Gamble said. “Developers are a funny group. Once Keystone got its way, the developers moved in because they knew the property values would hold.”
“If you can’t beat them, join them.”
“Something like that. Take the next right.”
He made the turn and drove past a farm ringed by an eight-foot-tall chain-link fence. The creatures residing behind it didn’t look like any breed of horses that he’d ever seen before, nor did they resemble goats or sheep.
“What are those animals?”
“Those are alpaca. They’re part of a ranch that’s open to the public.”
“Why the tall fence? Are the owners afraid they’ll jump out?”
“The fence keeps away predators. Alpaca can’t protect themselves. It’s amazing they’ve survived as a species. Your next turn’s on the left. May I ask you a question?”
“Go ahead.”
“The first four abductions took place in Miami. The fifth and sixth took place in Collier County, outside of Naples, the seventh in Fort Lauderdale. The eighth, ninth, and tenth took place in Central Florida — one in Winter Park, one in Kissimmee, and one in Lakeland. The tenth happened in Jacksonville, and now Skye gets abducted. Do you think the kidnapper is driving around, randomly picking his victims?”
He shook his head and took a sharp left.
“Why not?”
“The victims are being moved to a place that the police can’t locate. That would indicate their abductions are premeditated, and not random acts.”
“Do you think the victims are alive?”
“I do. We have a dozen missing women and not a single body. If our assailant wanted these ladies dead, he’d kill them on the spot, like he did with Elsie Tanner. But he’s not doing that. He, or they, have an ulterior motive.”
“You think it could be a gang?”
“I’m not ruling it out. The abductions have taken place several hundred miles apart. That would be difficult for a single person to pull off.”
“What would their motivation be?”
“I have no earthly idea.”
“Have you ever dealt with a case like this before?”
No two abduction cases were alike, and he let the silence be his answer.
“Could a demonic cult be behind the abductions?” she asked.
He hit the brakes. There wasn’t another vehicle in sight, and he turned to face her, freezing Gamble in her seat. “That’s a stupid question. Cults leave clues as a way of claiming responsibility, and there’s none of that here. Cut it out, or I’ll take you back to the American Legion hall.”
“The sheriff in Polk County said during a news conference that a group of devil worshippers might be behind these crimes. If you don’t agree with the sheriff, then just say so.”
He threw the car into drive and pointed it down the road.
“The sheriff of Polk County is an idiot,” he said.
“May I quote you on that?”
“Be my guest.”
“Slow down. It’s up ahead.”
A hundred yards down the road, she made him stop and retrace his steps. Using his headlights, she found the unmarked dirt driveway that led to Elsie Tanner’s farm, and told him to drive down it. Elsie lived in the sticks, and he wondered how her abductor had managed to find her place without drawing unwanted attention to himself.
The driveway led to a clapboard house with a rusted tin roof. Light streamed through the front windows. He parked and stayed in the car.
“Did Elsie have a husband or a partner?” he asked.
“Not that I’m aware of,” Gamble said.
“Well, there’s someone home, and we’re trespassing. Here’s what I think we should do. Get out, but stay close to the car. If someone comes out, and starts acting funny, jump in the car. Understood?”
“Loud and clear.”
They both got out. Lancaster made it a point to slam his door, so whoever was inside would know there were visitors. The porch light came on, and a short woman wearing coveralls stepped outside wielding a shotgun, its barrel pointed at the ground.
“Who the hell are you, and what do you want?” she demanded.
“Should we run?” Gamble whispered.
There was a difference between threatening someone and protecting yourself.
“Talk to her,” he whispered back. “She’s not going to hurt us.”
“Hello. My name is Lauren Gamble, and I’m a reporter with the Tampa Bay Times. This man is Jon Lancaster, and he’s a famous law enforcement agent. We’re here because we’re trying to find out who murdered Elsie Tanner and kidnapped her granddaughter. Would you mind if we had a look around?”
“You got credentials?” the woman asked.
They produced their business cards. The woman cautiously crossed the front yard. She was missing a front tooth, and her skin was bronzed by the sun. She took the cards and studied them. Looking at her male guest, she said, “Team Adam. Does that have something to do with the little boy that was murdered way back, Adam Walsh?”
“It was named after him.”
“And you work with them.”
“I offer my services when they’re needed.”
“There’s been a few dozen detectives and FBI agents snooping around, trying to figure out who murdered my mother and stole my kid. What the hell do you bring to the party that they don’t, Mr. Lancaster?”
“Are you Elsie’s daughter?” he asked.
“Yes, I am,” the woman said.
“I’m sorry for your loss. To answer your question, I’m a specialist in finding missing people. I worked missing persons cases as a cop, all of them successfully. Before that, I was a Navy SEAL, and participated in over a hundred and fifty missions whose purpose was to rescue people in distress.”
She laughed in his face. “You were a SEAL? Well, I guess that makes me the fucking pope. Get out of here. You were no god damn SEAL.”
Her words stung. He didn’t have an athletic build, and his round belly suggested that he spent his off-hours lying on the couch guzzling beer. His appearance was the by-product of a condition called gastroschisis, which gave him a big stomach and made him look fat. The truth be known, he worked out every day, and could hold his own against the fiercest adversary.
“On the contrary, I was a SEAL,” he said.
“Is that so? My cousin was a SEAL, and had a bone frog tattoo on his arm to prove it,” the woman said. “He said that every SEAL got a bone frog tattoo to honor the SEALs who died in combat. Let’s see your tattoo, Mr. Lancaster.”
He undid the buttons on his shirt and parted the lapels. He had a single tattoo on his body, and it was of a large frog skeleton crawling up his right shoulder.
“Well, shut my mouth,” the woman said. “Please accept my apologies. You don’t look like you were a SEAL. I bet you hear that all the time.”
“I’m used to it,” he said, buttoning his shirt back up. “With your permission, I’d like to take a look around the property before it starts to rain.”
“You’re not going to find anything. It’s been picked clean.”
“I’d still like to have a look, so I can get a sense of what happened. I’m sorry, but I didn’t catch your name.”
“It’s Carla Jean. My second husband and I are having issues. He and Skye don’t get along, and Skye took my maiden name just to piss him off. I sent Skye to stay with my mom until we got things worked out. Then this happened.” She shook her head and started to cry. “Fuck, there goes the waterworks again.” She wiped away her grief and threw her shoulders back. “Can I offer you a glass of iced tea? It’s all I’ve got.”
“Iced tea would be fine. Thank you.”
He arched an eyebrow. Gamble took the hint, and followed Carla Jean inside.
He traipsed across the property listening to the frogs. It was rectangular shaped, mostly pasture, the north side bordered by wetlands. Before the wetlands started, there was a large firepit. It was here that Elsie Tanner had died.
He stood with his belly pressing the crime scene tape and used the flashlight on his cell phone to light up the ground. Elsie had been cutting the grass when a stranger had driven onto the property, entered the house, and abducted Skye. It was believed the teenager had either been tied up or knocked out before being taken to the stranger’s car. When Elsie had tried to stop him, she’d been beaten and dragged to the firepit.
Elsie’s killer was a sadist. Not content to knock the old woman out, he’d broken her nose and jaw, then crushed in her head with a blunt object. Killers who used their hands had rage issues, and Elsie’s killer had been filled with fury. The police report said the murder weapon hadn’t been found, and the detective handling the investigation had speculated that the killer had taken it with him.
Lancaster found this aspect of the crime puzzling. The killer had made no effort to cover up his crime, so why take the murder weapon? It was possible that he’d purchased the murder weapon earlier, and didn’t want it traced back to him, but that was only a guess.
It felt like a revenge killing. If that was the case, then hopefully the police would be able to find a person in Elsie’s past who was carrying a grudge, and track them down.
He took another hike around the property. The main pasture was about four acres and ringed by three-board fencing. A John Deere mower sat in its center, waiting for an owner who would never return.
He sat down on the mower. The police report said that Elsie’s cell phone was in her pocket when she died. Why hadn’t she dialed 911 when the intruder entered her property? Had she panicked? Or was there another reason she hadn’t made the call?
The mower was pointed at the house. He imagined Elsie seeing an unfamiliar vehicle come onto the property, and a strange man jump out and go inside. Surely it would have alarmed her, so why not call the police? Based upon what Gamble had told him, Elsie was a smart lady. Yet for some reason, she hadn’t reacted.
It started to rain. First small drops, then larger ones that bounced off the mower and danced in the air. He stayed put, his thoughts consumed by this contradiction. Why hadn’t Elsie called the police or a neighbor for help?
The light on the back porch flickered on, and Gamble came outside. Finding him in the darkness, she motioned that he was needed inside, and he climbed off the mower. He’d gotten to see the crime scene, but it hadn’t provided any insight.
As he jogged toward the house, he gave the firepit a final glance, wondering if he’d ever know what had happened. A flash of white caught his eye. Behind the pit, a slip of paper impaled on a tree branch flapped in the wind. It looked like a receipt, and he realized that it was directly above where Elsie Tanner’s body had been found.
“What does it mean?” Gamble asked.
They sat in the American Legion lot as rain pounded his car. Pinched between his fingers was a sales receipt he’d rescued from the tree on Elsie Tanner’s property. It was wet but still decipherable. He needed to turn the receipt over to the sheriff’s office, and tell the detective running the investigation what he believed had actually happened the afternoon Elsie was murdered. The police had their facts mixed up, and he needed to gently straighten them out. He couldn’t do that with a reporter hanging on his coattails, and it was time he and Gamble parted company.
“I’ll let you know once I talk with the sheriff,” he said.
She glared at him. “I thought we had an agreement.”
“We do have an agreement.”
“Then honor it. What does that receipt mean? I have a right to know.”
He’d borrowed a stepladder from Elsie’s garage in order to climb into the tree. Gamble had held the ladder so he wouldn’t fall, and her pretty clothes had gotten soaked. She’d helped him, and she wasn’t going to let him pretend that she hadn’t.
“I think the police made a mistake. This receipt may confirm that,” he said.
“You’re saying they screwed up.”
“Call it an error in judgment. The crime report states the kidnapper came onto the property and abducted Skye. Elsie jumped off her mower to confront him, and the kidnapper dragged her to the firepit and murdered her. That’s the police’s version, only there are problems with it.”
“Do you mind if I take notes?”
“This is off the record.”
She started to object, and he shut her down. “I could be wrong. If you publish it, and I am wrong, the investigation might get thrown into turmoil. Now, do you want to hear the rest?”
“Please.”
“Here’s what’s wrong with the police version. First, Elsie didn’t call 911, yet her cell phone was in her pocket. That would indicate that the kidnapper surprised her, and she didn’t have time to make the call. Second, her farm isn’t on Google Maps, yet the kidnapper knew where she lived. I think the kidnapper tailed Elsie when she was doing an errand, and followed her home.”
“Which is how the sales receipt fits in. It fell out of her pocket when her assailant dragged her across the ground to the firepit.”
“Correct. Now here’s the third thing, and it’s a big one. The police believe Skye was the target, but I don’t believe that’s the case. I think Elsie was the target, and Skye was collateral damage.”
“Why do you think that?”
“The other ten victims are linked by age. They were either middle aged, or elderly. Skye is sixteen years old. She doesn’t fit the profile of the other victims, but Elsie does. She was the one the kidnapper wanted.”
Gamble spent a moment processing what he had just said.
“How does the sales receipt help you?” she asked.
“I think it may lead us to the killer.”
“You’ve lost me.”
He flipped on his car’s overhead light and held the receipt so she could read it. It was from a GNC health and nutrition store in the Citrus Park Mall, which a search on Google had told him was six miles away. The receipt’s time stamp showed that four days ago, at 3:56 p.m., a product called Dr. Joints Advanced had been purchased for sixty dollars.
“Here’s what I believe happened. The afternoon that Elsie was killed, she went to the mall to buy supplements,” he said. “I think the kidnapper was at the mall, and followed her home. He scouted the neighborhood to make sure it was safe, then came onto the property, and used a ruse to get Elsie off her mower. When he tried to abduct her, Elsie fought back, and he killed her. The receipt fell out of Elsie’s pocket, and got blown into the tree. The kidnapper didn’t want to leave empty handed, so he abducted Skye.”
“How do you know the receipt wasn’t just floating around the property?”
“The property was spotless.”
She thought about it. “You’re right, it was spotless. So was the inside of the house. How do you know Elsie bought the supplements, and not Skye?”
“I went on the GNC site, and read the product review for Dr. Joints Advanced. It’s a supplement for older people suffering from joint pain. That tells me that Elsie made the purchase, and the receipt fell out of her pocket.”
“Or it fell out of someone’s trash can and got blown into the tree.”
“A dollar says I’m right.”
Gamble smiled. “Okay, let’s say you’re right, and that Elsie was at the Citrus Park Mall four days ago. There were probably hundreds of other shoppers there as well. How are you going to finger her killer?”
“I’ll start at the GNC store, which should have surveillance cameras. I’ll get the store to show me the videotape of Elsie buying the supplements. If the killer isn’t on the tape, I’ll pay a visit to mall security, review their surveillance tapes, and find Elsie leaving the mall. If I’m right, her killer was there, and followed her home.”
“What if mall security erased the tapes?”
“I worked a mall robbery when I was a cop. Malls keep surveillance tapes for a year, in case they’re sued. It’s the only way they can get insured.”
“And you figured all this out by that little piece of paper. I guess that’s why they pay you the big bucks.”
“No one’s paying me anything,” he reminded her.
“That’s right, you volunteered. I was meaning to ask you why.”
She was being a wiseass, and he did not respond.
“Not going to tell me, huh? I’ll figure it out eventually. Guess you’d like me to get out of the car, so you can go see the sheriff,” she said.
“If you don’t mind,” he said.
“The sheriff’s office is on Gunn Highway, right next to the mall.”
“Great. Thanks again for your help.”
To his annoyance, Gamble did not get out.
“What about the clue I found in the kitchen?” she asked. “Are you going to share it with the sheriff as well?”
Hanging over the stove in Elsie’s kitchen was a framed quote that read, “No Good Deed Goes Unpunished.” Gamble had pointed the quote out to Lancaster before he’d gone tree climbing. He hadn’t understood the significance, and had forgotten about it.
“Why do you think that quote’s important?” he asked.
“There was a similar quote in the house of the Lakeland victim,” she said.
“You went to the Lakeland victim’s house?”
“My boss sent me. He thought it would add depth to the piece I’m writing. The missing Lakeland woman is a retired teacher named Amy Potter. Her husband invited me into the kitchen for coffee. There was a plaque by the refrigerator that said, ‘Some of your greatest hurt will come from people you helped.’ It struck me as odd, you know?”
He was suddenly glad Gamble had stayed in the car.
“You found a link between Amy Potter and Elsie Tanner,” he said.
“It sure feels that way. But what does it mean?”
“I heard similar sentiments when I was a cop. You help people, but later regret it. Elsie Tanner and Amy Potter may have both helped people, and gotten burned.”
“Is that significant?”
“It’s a link, and needs to be explored. Are you up for it?”
“Me? I wouldn’t know where to start.”
Murder cases weren’t solved in a day. It was all about digging, and grim resolve. Gamble’s cell phone beeped in her purse. She pulled out the device and visually devoured the message. It seemed to rattle her, and she looked at him. “A nurse has gone missing in Gainesville. Her neighbor found her car running in the driveway. My boss wants me to drive up so I can file a story in the morning.”
“Are you okay with that?”
“Not really. This is scary.”
She shivered from an imaginary chill and started to get out. He stopped her.
“Do you own a gun?” he asked.
“It’s back at my apartment.”
“It’s not doing you any good there.”
“I know. My boss doesn’t want us bringing guns to work, so I leave it at home.”
“But you know how to use one.”
“Absolutely. I got a concealed weapon permit when I moved into my apartment. I go to the pistol range twice a week.”
He reached over and punched a combination into a lock in the glove compartment. It sprang open, revealing four semiautomatic handguns resting in a specially made rack.
“Take your pick,” he said.
She examined each weapon before settling on the GLOCK and slipping it into her purse. It seemed to calm her down, and she flashed a brave smile.
“Thanks, partner,” she said.
The link between Amy Potter and Elsie Tanner may have been nothing, but it still needed to be explored. He let Google Maps guide him to the sheriff’s office in Citrus Park, and parked in the lot beside the building. Then he called a fifteen-year-old girl named Nicki Pearl.
“Hey, Jon,” she said cheerfully.
“I hope I’m not interrupting anything,” he said.
“Nope, homework’s all done.”
“How would you like to do some snooping for me?”
“You bet I would.”
Four months ago, Nicki’s parents had hired him to figure out why strange men were stalking their daughter. During his investigation, he’d discovered that Nicki was taking a CSI course at school, and had a real passion for police work. After his job was finished, and Nicki was no longer in danger, he’d accepted an invitation to speak to her class about cases he’d worked back when he was a detective. He’d made it a point to emphasize to the class that while knocking on doors was important in solving cases, it was forensic work that often brought the bad guys to justice.
“Write down these two names. Amy Potter, Elsie Tanner,” he said.
“Done. Who are they?” she asked.
“They’re both victims of horrible crimes. Amy Potter was abducted in Lakeland, and Elsie Tanner was murdered outside of Tampa. A reporter found a link between them that needs to be checked out. It may be important.”
“Cool. What’s the link?”
“They both helped people, but got burned for it. I want you to do background searches of them on the internet. See if they’re in some way connected.”
“This sounds like fun.”
“There’s more. I also need you to visit the clerk of courts websites in Lakeland and Tampa, and do searches of their names. Maybe they were both involved in a lawsuit, and the person they sued is now paying them back.”
“Which would explain the motive.”
He smiled into the phone. During his talk, he’d emphasized the importance of learning a motive, since it often led to discovering a criminal’s identity.
“Last thing,” he said. “I need you to see if there are newspaper articles where Potter and Tanner are mentioned. I’ll give you a tip that should help. Most newspapers archive past stories on their websites. These stories don’t come up in a Google search. You have to visit the newspaper’s site, and do a search on the internal search engine.”
“That’s stupid. Why don’t they just post the links, instead of making people do the extra work?”
“I asked a reporter at the Sun Sentinel in Fort Lauderdale that question. She told me that when a person uses the site, they’re exposed to advertising, and that’s how the paper makes money.”
“I still think it’s stupid. I’ll start tonight.”
“Not before you get your parents’ permission. Understood?”
“Sure, Jon. I’ll ask them once I get off the phone.”
“Good. Have you spoken to your aunt Beth lately?”
“Not in a while. She disappeared on us. Are you guys still dating?”
Nicki’s aunt was Special Agent Beth Daniels with the FBI. He’d met Beth while protecting Nicki, and they’d ended up catching a pair of serial killers. A bond had formed that had led to several dates. The relationship had been going in the right direction, and they’d decided to spend a long weekend together hiking in the Smoky Mountains. On the first day, Beth had gotten a phone call from her boss, who’d assigned her to a new case. Beth had left that day, and he hadn’t heard from her since.
“Status unknown. I haven’t spoken to your aunt in a month,” he said.
“She’s like that. Don’t take it personally.”
It was amusing to get dating advice from a teenager, and he laughed silently into his cell phone.
“Would it be okay if I got my CSI class involved?” she asked. “My teacher gave us this cold case to work on as a project, only it’s boring, and no one’s into it. This case would be great, since it’s happening right now.”
Nicki’s CSI classmates were sharp kids. After his talk, they’d asked questions about cutting-edge forensics such as scrape DNA and latent fingerprint detection, and obviously had done a lot of reading. Having them work on this would save time, and might very well lead to a breakthrough. The only problem was, if they discussed it on Facebook or Instagram, the police investigation could be jeopardized.
“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” he said. “If one of them discusses the case outside of the classroom, or on social media, it would create real problems.”
“What if I get them to sign a pledge?” she asked. “That’s what the Secret Service agent who visited the class made us do. If we broke it, our teacher said she’d fail us.”
“The whole class?”
“Uh-huh. We’re all trying to keep our grade points up to get into college. Nobody wants to get an F, so we stayed quiet.”
“Okay. Run it by your teacher. If she’s willing to get the class to sign a pledge, then get them involved. If not, you’ll have to play Sherlock Holmes by yourself. Sound fair?”
She giggled. “That sounds like a great idea.”
He found Nicki — unlike most teenagers — easy to have a conversation with, and he would have kept talking to her, only the GNC store would be closing soon. He needed to go inside the sheriff’s station, and convince whoever was on duty to visit the mall with him to review the store’s surveillance tapes. If he was lucky, the face of Elsie’s killer would pop up, and he’d be one step closer to rescuing Skye.
“I’ve got to run,” he said. “Say hello to your folks.”
The sheriff’s Patrol District III headquarters in Citrus Park was a squat brick building that backed up to dense wetlands. Entering the lobby, he combed his hair with his fingers so he looked presentable. A female deputy with a name tag that said Lacko sat behind a sheet of bulletproof glass at the reception area.
“Can I help you?” the deputy asked.
He took out his Team Adam business card and held it up to the glass. “I need to speak to whoever’s working the Elsie Tanner investigation,” he said.
She studied him. Not liking what she saw, she frowned.
“How do I know you didn’t find that on the ground?” she asked.
Several clever answers came to mind. He buttoned his lip and pulled out his driver’s license and also held it up to the glass. She did not back down.
“There’s no one here. Come back tomorrow,” she said.
“You’re here by yourself?” he asked.
“Just me and T. J.”
“T. J.?”
“Deputy Stahl. He runs the Special Investigations Division.”
“Then let me speak to him. I visited Elsie’s property, and found a piece of evidence that may be important.” He removed the GNC sales receipt from his wallet and showed it to her. “It was stuck up in a tree.”
“What did you do, climb up and get it?” she asked.
“That’s right. I was afraid it would get ruined in the rain.”
“Is that why you look like such a mess?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“That sounds crazy enough to be true. Give me the receipt and your driver’s license and business card, and I’ll go talk to T. J.”
He passed the items through a slot in the glass. Lacko secured them with a paper clip and disappeared into the back of the station house. His earlier conversation with Gamble was bugging him, and he pulled out his cell phone and got on the internet.
Using Google, he found and quickly read a story about Amy Potter’s kidnapping in Lakeland’s only newspaper, the Ledger. The Polk County sheriff, a local character named Homer Morcroft, was quoted as saying that a demonic cult might be involved, yet he gave no evidence to back up the claim.
The quote bothered Lancaster. Saying that devil worshippers might be involved was like adding gasoline to a fire. On a hunch, he did a search of Morcroft, and discovered other outlandish quotes that he’d made over the years, along with press conferences posted on YouTube. Morcroft obviously enjoyed the spotlight, and seeing his name in the papers.
He looked up from his phone to find a man wearing jeans and a long-sleeve athletic shirt standing before him. He was built like a gymnast, with broad shoulders tapering down to a thin waist.
“I’m T. J.,” he said, offering his hand. “It’s an honor to meet you.”
Lancaster’s cheeks burned. Stahl had checked him out, and found stories on the internet about the cases he’d broken. He would have been happy if no one ever saw that stuff, but the internet was like an echo chamber, and nothing ever faded away.
“I’d like to talk to you about what happened at Elsie Tanner’s place,” Lancaster said. “I think I may have a new angle for you to consider.”
“That sounds good to me. We can use all the help we can get.” Stahl used a plastic key to get back into the station house, and they walked past a cubicle farm to a corner office. “You want some coffee? I just brewed a fresh pot.”
Lancaster never said no to coffee. He took a chair in front of Stahl’s desk and soon was sipping from a steaming cup. The desk was cluttered with family photos of Stahl’s wife and freckle-faced son. In one photo, the boy was wearing a baseball uniform and holding a bat. It made Lancaster choke up, and he averted his gaze.
“So how does the sales receipt play into this?” Stahl asked, sitting across from him. “Lacko said you found it in a tree on Elsie Tanner’s property.”
“I believe it fell out of Elsie’s pocket when she was dragged over to the firepit,” he said. “The sales receipt establishes her at the GNC store in the Citrus Park Mall an hour before she was killed. I think her assailant was at the mall, and tailed her home.”
“That explains how he found her place. That’s been bothering us,” Stahl said.
“I also believe Elsie was the intended target of the kidnapping. The kidnapper came onto her property, and talked her off her lawn mower. When he tried to abduct her, she resisted, so he killed her. Rather than leave empty handed, he grabbed Skye.”
“Which explains why Elsie didn’t call 911,” Stahl said.
“Correct. Her kidnapper got the jump on her.”
“What was his motive?”
“I don’t know. She had a reputation for being a Good Samaritan, which may somehow play into this.”
“I heard she was a do-gooder. You think she helped someone, and it came back to bite her?”
“Could be.”
“If Elsie was at the GNC store, there would be a surveillance tape of her.” Stahl paused. “And maybe one of her killer as well.”
“That’s what I’m hoping. If her killer didn’t come into the store, he may have tailed her from the parking lot, and we can spot him on the mall’s surveillance videos.”
“I like it. The mall stays open until ten. Let me call the GNC store, and see if the manager will let us look at their tapes. We’ll start there.”
The key to any investigation was to keep it moving forward, and see where it led you. Stahl placed a call to the GNC store at the Citrus Park Mall, and was put on hold. Covering the mouthpiece with his hand, he said, “Did you run any of this information by the FBI? They’re here, running their own investigation.”
“No, I came straight here,” Lancaster said.
“I’d like to keep it that way.”
“You want me to stay away from the FBI?”
“If you don’t mind. I had some good leads, and that bitchy agent in charge scared off my witnesses. She’s a real horror show. You ever work with the FBI?”
“A few times. They’re not the easiest bunch.”
“That’s an understatement.” Stahl took a business card off his desk and passed it to him. “If you ever run across this little lady, run like hell. She’s the worst.”
He stared at the card and saw Beth’s name in dull black lettering. Beth was a relentless investigator, and he could see her rubbing Stahl the wrong way. He saw no reason to tell Stahl they knew each other and spoil the party.
“Thanks for the warning,” Lancaster said as he returned the card. “I was doing a little reading, and saw that the sheriff in Polk County is claiming that a group of Satan worshippers may be involved in these abductions. Why would he say that?”
“If I tell you, will you keep it a secret?”
“Of course.”
“A schoolteacher was abducted in Lakeland last week. While the police were searching the property, they found the number 666 written in spray paint on the driveway. The husband claimed he had no idea how it got there.”
“That’s the number of the beast,” Lancaster said.
“That’s right. It’s from chapter thirteen of the book of Revelation. ‘Let the one with understanding reckon the meaning of the number of the beast, for it is the number of a man. His number is 666.’”
“Anyone could have painted that on the driveway.”
“I know. It was a stupid thing for the sheriff to say.”
The manager came on the line, and Stahl arranged for them to meet at the store before it closed. Ending the connection, he rose from his desk and strapped on his sidearm, which he covered with a baggy sweatshirt.
“Let’s roll,” Stahl said.
The Citrus Park Mall was a stone’s throw from the station house. Stahl parked in a space near the entrance between Macy’s and Sears and killed his engine. The deputy’s negative comments about Beth were bothering Lancaster. Beth was a tough cookie, but her track record for catching criminals was stellar, and more than made up for her antics.
“Do you mind if I ask you a question?” Lancaster asked.
“Go ahead,” Stahl said.
“I may run into Special Agent Daniels while I’m conducting my investigation. Would you mind telling me what she did to piss you off so badly?”
“Special Agent Daniels doesn’t like District III, and we don’t like her.”
“Sounds like you have a history.”
“That’s one way to put it. A couple of years ago, a ten-year-old was found strangled in the woods not far from here. We had a suspect, a high school junior named Lenny DeVito, who had possession of the dead kid’s bike. We got a sample of DeVito’s DNA and sent it to the crime lab. If it matched the DNA on the kid’s clothes, our case was solved.
“That same week, a local politician got shot to death answering his front door. The politician was fighting with his stepson over money, so the stepson gets hauled in, and his DNA also gets sent to the crime lab. Because the politician was connected, his stepson’s DNA test was put in front of DeVito’s test.
“That’s when Daniels swooped in. Whenever a juvenile gets murdered, the FBI takes a look at the case. Daniels reviewed the evidence and decided that a psychopath killed the kid, and not Lenny DeVito. She ordered my boss to have DeVito’s test done first. My boss doesn’t like to be pushed around, so he said no.
“The next day, the paper ran a story saying the sheriff wasn’t cooperating with the FBI, and how a rampaging killer may be on the loose. It made us look really bad.”
“So Daniels leaked the story to the paper. How did it play out?”
“My boss caved, and had the crime lab run DeVito’s test first. It was a match to the DNA found at the crime scene, just like we thought. DeVito was guilty.”
“So Daniels was wrong.”
“Dead wrong.”
“Did the paper run a follow-up story, and clear the sheriff?”
“We’re still waiting for that one.”
“I’m guessing Daniels didn’t apologize.”
“When hell freezes over. Let’s go.”
Ersatz pop music serenaded them as they walked through the mall to the GNC store, where the manager waited for them by the checkout. He had a shaved head and wore a tight-fitting polo shirt emblazoned with the store logo.
“We need to see your surveillance tapes from four days ago,” Stahl said. “Are they located on premises, or do you work with an outside security company?”
“The surveillance tapes are on a computer in the back room,” the manager said. “Can I ask what you’re looking for? I might be able to help you.”
“We think a lady named Elsie Tanner was in your store, buying supplements.”
“That’s the woman who was murdered,” the manager said.
“That’s right. Did you happen to see her?”
“I think so. She was a regular customer. Nice lady. I hope you solve this thing soon. We’ve hardly had any customers, and this is usually a busy time of year for us.”
They went down an aisle stocked with vitamins and supplements that promised to make their users bigger and stronger. The back room was for storage and had cardboard boxes piled to the ceiling and a desk with a computer, which the manager booted up.
“What time of day would you like to see?” the manager asked.
Stahl showed him the sales receipt. “That time.”
“Gotcha. I’ll pull up the video taken on the camera at the checkout.”
The manager worked the computer in slow motion. His forte was obviously sales, and Lancaster leaned against the wall to wait.
“What can you tell me about Elsie?” Stahl asked.
“She came in every few weeks, was always pleasant to deal with,” the manager said. “Pretty smart too. She could talk about any subject.”
“Did she ever mention any problems?”
“Not to me. Several of my customers knew her. She was well liked. Here’s the tape you’re looking for. Wait, I think that’s Elsie. Have a look.”
Most retail stores used security cameras to prevent theft, and these systems ranged from ultrasophisticated to cheesy. GNC’s system was first rate, and the image on the screen was sharp. Elsie Tanner stood at checkout with a tub of supplements tucked under her arm. She paid with cash and made a point of counting out her change.
The manager chuckled under his breath. “Elsie was a stickler about her change. One time, the cashier shorted her a few pennies, and she raised a real ruckus.”
Lancaster tuned the manager out and watched Elsie leave the store. If his hunch was correct, her killer had also been in the store, or in the mall, or in the parking lot, and had followed her home. If his hunch was wrong, and Elsie’s assailant hadn’t been in any of those places, then he was doing a fine job of wasting everyone’s time.
Several seconds passed. A large man wearing a cowboy hat entered the picture. He sported a Fu Manchu mustache and thick sideburns, and was dressed in black like a gunslinger in a spaghetti western. He did not buy anything and also left the store.
“Who’s that guy?” Stahl asked.
“Looks like Black Bart,” the manager said.
“Come again?”
“A gentleman bandit from the Wild West named Charles Boles, used to leave poetry behind after his robberies,” the manager explained. “I read a book about him in high school. That guy could be his twin brother.”
“Let’s take a look at him again.”
The manager rewound the tape and found Black Bart. He was big and wide and had a pack of smokes tucked in his shirt pocket. Lancaster shot Stahl a glance. He wanted to ask the manager some questions, but didn’t want to overstep.
“What are you thinking, Jon?” Stahl asked.
“Black Bart looks out of place,” he said. “He didn’t buy anything, and he smokes.” The deputy shook his head, not making the connection. It was the opening he needed, and to the manager, he said, “Do many of your customers smoke cigarettes?”
“Our customers don’t smoke. They’re health nuts,” the manager said.
“What kind of person comes into your store?”
“We get a lot of athletes who are looking for an edge. And people who are health conscious. Those are our two main groups.”
“Which group would Black Bart fall into?”
“Neither. He looks like a one-timer. One-timers never buy anything.”
A smoker wearing cowboy clothes in a health and nutrition store with a woman who would get murdered an hour later. Either it was a coincidence, or they’d found their man.
“I need you to print copies of Black Bart’s photo for us,” he said.
The manager typed a command. A printer hidden by boxes started to whir.
“Does the mall monitor the parking lot?” he asked Stahl.
“Twenty-four seven,” the deputy said. “The system is housed in the security offices. It’s a pretty sophisticated operation.”
“I need you to take me there,” he said. “I want to see if Black Bart followed Elsie to the parking lot. If he did, there will be a film of it. If we’re lucky, we might be able to read the license plate on his vehicle, and find out who he is.”
The manager brought them the copies of Black Bart’s photo.
“I hope you solve this,” the manager said. “Elsie was good people.”
The mall was closing, the stores rolling down their security grilles. Together, they jogged to the security offices by the north entrance. The mall had a number of modern features to deal with terrorists and active shooters, including bomb-proof trash cans and bulletproof security cameras, and Lancaster hoped the surveillance videos of the parking lot weren’t the usual Twilight Zone variety, but were instead high quality.
While he ran, he studied the photo clutched in his hand. Black Bart’s legs were pencil thin, and grossly underdeveloped compared to the rest of his body. The man looked deformed, and would not be difficult to track down.
They were in luck. The security office remained open until the last employee went home. Two uniformed male guards sat in front of a wall of video monitors that rotated between surveillance cameras inside the mall and those out in the parking lot.
Stahl made the introductions. The guards were retired cops and very friendly. The thin one was named Woody, his partner Chase.
“You’re working late tonight,” Woody said.
“We caught a break in the Elsie Tanner case,” Stahl said. “Elsie was at the GNC store four days ago, and a guy who was also in the store may have followed her outside and tailed her home. We need to see the surveillance tapes of Elsie going to her car. Hopefully, this guy will be on them, and we’ll be able to make out the car he’s driving.”
“What’s our suspect look like?” Woody asked.
Stahl handed him a photo of Black Bart. “Ever see this joker before?”
The guards studied the photo. They both shook their heads.
“That’s some hat,” Woody said. “Shouldn’t be too hard to find him. What time did this take place?”
“Elsie made her purchase at the GNC store at 3:56, then left. Let’s start there,” Stahl said.
Woody and Chase began typing in commands. They were wizards on their keyboards, and surveillance videos from four days ago lit up the monitors. Not that long ago, mall security guards had been as skilled as school crossing guards. Times had changed; today, they were soldiers on the front line, and trained in everything from computer science to emergency preparedness.
“Found him,” Woody said. “He’s on monitor number one. Take a look.”
The video was in the upper left-hand corner of the matrix. The camera was fixed, and recording the common area in front of the GNC store. The mall was busy, and they watched Elsie sift through the crowd with Black Bart trailing a few steps behind her. She crossed the common area and entered a Hallmark gift shop.
Black Bart sat down on a bench outside the store. He took out his pack of smokes and removed a cigarette, which he placed between his lips. He was about to light up when he seemed to remember where he was. He put the cigarette back into the pack and returned the pack and lighter to his pocket.
“That didn’t look like a regular cigarette,” Lancaster said. “Can you play it back again? I’d like to see what he was smoking.”
The tape was rewound and played again. At the point where Black Bart placed the cigarette into his mouth, Woody froze the frame. Lancaster leaned in for a better look. It was a normal cigarette, only it had been previously smoked, with a charred tip.
“That cigarette’s been smoked before,” Woody said. “Who the hell saves cigarettes, and smokes them again?”
“Guys in prison,” Lancaster said.
Woody looked over his shoulder. So did Chase. Stahl eyed him as well.
“You think he’s an ex-con?” Stahl asked.
Florida had over two million residents who’d done time in prison. It wasn’t a stretch to think that Black Bart might be one of them.
“Probably,” he said.
“How does that play into this?” Stahl asked.
“I don’t know,” he said.
Black Bart rose from the bench and went to a quiet spot to take an incoming call. He continued to watch the front of the Hallmark store while carrying on his conversation. He appeared agitated, and gestured angrily with his hand while speaking.
“Maybe it’s his wife,” Woody said.
“Or his girlfriend,” Chase said.
“It’s more likely his partner,” Lancaster said.
The three men again gave him puzzled looks.
“Working off the assumption that this guy is planning to kidnap Elsie, he would let a call from a lady friend go to voice mail,” he said. “Not so if the call was from his partner. He would take that call, because it was pertinent to what he was doing.”
“What’s the partner’s role?” Stahl asked.
“His partner is probably the driver.”
“Why do you think that?”
“His partner isn’t inside the mall, because we haven’t seen him on the video,” he said. “That means he’s probably circling the parking lot, waiting for Black Bart to call him.” He paused. “These are just guesses. I could be wrong.”
“It would explain a lot,” Stahl said.
Lancaster looked at the deputy, not understanding.
“There are aspects of Skye’s kidnapping that don’t add up,” Stahl said. “Skye worked out at CrossFit and was into mixed martial arts. We couldn’t understand how the kidnapper subdued her so easily. According to a neighbor down the road, they heard Skye scream, but only once.” He paused to let that sink in. “If there were two kidnappers, it would explain how they got Skye out of there so quickly.”
The crime report had given the same account. Skye had emitted a single scream, then gone silent. He had read that line in the report twice. It was why he was here.
“He’s finishing his call,” Woody said.
On the monitor, Black Bart was wrapping up his call. He wore a frown, and was not pleased at how the conversation had gone.
Elsie emerged from the Hallmark store and headed down the mall. By changing camera feeds, Woody was able to follow her. She window-shopped at Banana Republic and queued up at Starbucks. Black Bart stood a safe distance away, watching her.
Coffee in hand, Elsie headed for the exit on the building’s south side. Black Bart gave chase while making a call. His steps were quick, as if he were afraid of losing her. Elsie went outside, and Black Bart followed her.
The video stopped. Lancaster could feel his heart pounding in his chest.
“Let me retrieve the outside surveillance video,” Woody said. “It’s on a different platform, so this will take a second.”
“Think he’s calling his partner in the car?” Stahl asked.
“That’s exactly what I’m thinking,” Lancaster said.
“Got it. Here we go,” Woody said.
The parking lot surveillance video began to play. The time stamp said 4:14. The sidewalk was wide and choking with people. Elsie sifted through the throng and made her way to her vehicle. Black Bart remained on the sidewalk, his cell phone pressed to his ear. His cowboy hat made him easy to spot in the crowd.
Elsie got into a Prius and backed out. The parking lot was full, and several drivers were vying to claim her spot. She left the lot at a crawl.
A midnight-black Chrysler 300 SRT pulled up to the sidewalk. The car was a favorite among criminals, with a cheap luxury feel, but dialed down enough to go unnoticed. It also had a Hemi V-8 engine that could produce over 470 horsepower.
The driver jumped out, and let Black Bart take the wheel. The driver ran around to the passenger side and hopped in. He looked to be in his midforties, and wore a baseball cap with the rim pulled down — an attempt to keep his face hidden.
It didn’t work. Just as the passenger door closed, his face became visible. It lasted no more than a second. Just long enough for Lancaster to recognize him.
The Chrysler took off. The Prius was sitting at a traffic light, trying to leave. The Chrysler came up behind it. The light changed, and together they drove away.
“Let’s see if we can get a read on the Chrysler’s license,” Stahl said.
Woody replayed the video. The back end of the Chrysler was never visible to the camera, and they could not make the plate.
“I need a copy of this video,” Stahl said. “My boss needs to see this.”
Woody made a copy and emailed it to the deputy. Stahl thanked the two guards for their help, and he and Lancaster left the mall. They didn’t speak again until they were in the deputy’s car.
“You got real quiet back there. Is something wrong?” Stahl asked.
He looked at the raindrops on the windshield and said nothing. Stahl had picked up on his anxiety, and stared at his passenger with murderous intensity.
“I said, is something wrong?”
He shook his head but avoided making eye contact. Telling Stahl the truth would only make the situation worse. He decided it was time to end the conversation.
“You need to share the video with the FBI,” he said.
“Like hell I will,” Stahl said, now on the defensive.
“That’s a mistake. The FBI agents know what they’re doing, even if they are jerks.”
“I’ll be the judge of that.”
“It’s withholding evidence.”
“Screw you.”
Stahl was steaming, and he drove Lancaster back to the District III parking lot without another word being spoken between the two men.
Lancaster’s head felt ready to explode. Getting into his car, he drove up the street to a Key West — themed restaurant called Ballyhoo, and parked in the lot. The skies had opened, and the rain was coming down so hard that he couldn’t hear himself think. Logan had been gone for twenty-five years, and yet it felt like he’d never left. Balling his hands into fists, he pounded the steering wheel.
“You stupid son of a bitch,” he roared.
He only stopped when his hands were sore.
He needed to track Logan down before the police found him. His brother was garbage, but that didn’t mean he was going to throw him to the wolves.
He checked out the nearby hotels with his cell phone, and made a reservation at the Holiday Inn Express in nearby Oldsmar. Forty-five minutes later, he checked into his room, and placed a bag of takeout on the bed, then used the hotel Wi-Fi to get on the internet on his Team Adam laptop. He munched on flatbread while doing his search.
His first stop was the Florida Department of Corrections Offender Network website. Florida’s prisons housed more than one hundred thousand inmates, and the FDC Offender Network was the easiest way to keep tabs on them. He typed in his brother’s full name and ID number, which was Logan’s birth date, shortened to six numbers. He clicked the “Submit” button, then leaned back in his chair to wait.
He tried to remember the last time he’d seen Logan. It was right before he’d gone into the military, twenty-two years ago. He’d borrowed his father’s car and left at three in the morning so he could be there when the prison opened. Logan had been housed in Raiford with murderers and rapists, and the armed guards and oppressive razor wire fencing had scared the hell out of him.
He’d waited in the visitors’ room for his brother. When Logan finally shuffled in, he’d been handcuffed and wearing leg shackles. His cocky attitude was gone, replaced by a withering sneer. Instead of saying hello, he’d grunted.
The reunion had gone downhill from there. Logan didn’t show any interest in his enlistment, nor did he acknowledge the money their parents sent to his account at the prison canteen each month so he could purchase snacks and cigarettes. All Logan had wanted to talk about was the trial, and why Jon hadn’t testified in his defense.
Thinking about the conversation made him uncomfortable. Logan had wanted him to lie, to say that he was at home with Jon watching TV during the robbery. But that wasn’t true. Logan had come into the house and demanded that Jon get his father’s handgun from the gun box. Then Logan had gone off with his friends and driven the getaway car for the heist. That was what Jon had told the police, and he wasn’t going to change his story on the witness stand.
The visit had ended on a bad note. Logan had called him a fucking rat, and shuffled out of the room. It was all he could do not to cry.
Logan’s file appeared on his laptop. It included his brother’s headshot and details of incarceration, including date of parole, and the name of his parole officer, which he scribbled on a notepad. Prison had robbed Logan of his looks, and most of his hair. But the withering sneer was still there. Like the world owed him a favor.
Next stop on the site was the Supervised Population Information Search, also called SPIS. SPIS kept tabs on every inmate released on parole, of which there were many. He entered his brother’s name, DC number, and the terms of the parole, which was probation felony supervision. Then he hit “Enter.”
The information was slow to load. He finished the flatbread and washed it down with iced tea. Some things never changed. Logan had driven the car in the botched convenience store robbery that had gotten him sent to prison, and now he was driving for the guy who’d murdered Elsie Tanner and kidnapped her granddaughter. Hadn’t twenty-five years in the joint taught him anything?
The information appeared. Logan’s parole officer was named Ricky Dixon, and he worked out of the Tampa office. He was making progress, and he closed his laptop, weighing his next step. He couldn’t just call Dixon and ask him where Logan was living. He needed to be circumspect so as not to raise suspicion.
He’d kept in contact with dozens of law enforcement officers after retiring. Mike Andon with the Florida Department of Law Enforcement’s missing persons division in Central Florida was a friend, and he gave him a call.
“Hey, Jon. It’s been too long. How you been?” Andon answered.
“Keeping busy. How about you?” Lancaster replied.
“Just finished an undercover job. A Tampa real estate agent got tied to a cold case murder. I spent a week pretending to be a cleaning man, so I could go through his garbage. I found a soda can with his saliva, and we matched it to the old DNA.”
“Did you bust him?”
“That happens bright and early tomorrow morning. Just so we can ruin his day. And all the days following. So what can I do for you?”
“I need you to call a parole officer named Ricky Dixon, and get the address for a parolee. Dixon works out of the parole office on North Florida Avenue in Tampa. I need you to leave my name out of this.”
“Why’s that?”
“Because the parolee is my brother, Logan Lancaster. Logan got paroled two months ago from Raiford. I need to talk with him.”
“Is your brother in hot water?”
“Logan was spotted on a surveillance video at the Citrus Park Mall with a suspect in the murder of a lady named Elsie Tanner, and the kidnapping of her granddaughter. You probably saw it in the news.”
“Your brother was involved in that? That’s heavy, Jon.”
“I know. Just so we’re clear, I plan to turn Logan over to the sheriff after I talk with him. If Logan goes back to prison, so be it.”
“No love lost, huh?”
“Logan got paroled two months ago, and never called me. We’re not close.”
“What story do I tell Ricky Dixon?”
He gave it some thought. He didn’t want Andon to get any blowback. Logan was an accomplice to murder and kidnapping, and might not go willingly to see the sheriff. If Ricky Dixon heard about it, he might think Andon had played him.
“Tell Dixon that an agent with Team Adam contacted you, and said that Logan might have information about a kidnapping, and that you need Logan’s address so the agent can talk to him,” he said. “All of those statements are true. Just leave me out of it.”
“How soon do you need this?”
“Tonight.”
The line went silent. It was late, and Andon was probably ready to hit the sack after they hung up.
“I’ll make it worth your while,” he added. “A Hollywood studio is making a movie about me. I’ll get you a part as an extra. What do you say?”
“You can really get me a part in a movie?” Andon asked, sounding starstruck.
“You bet I can.”
“Can it be a speaking part? I just want a line or two.”
“The studio sent me a shooting script the other day. There’s a part for an undercover cop with a few lines. You’ll be a natural.”
“My kids are going to go nuts when I tell them,” Andon said excitedly. “Let me track Ricky Dixon down and get your brother’s address. Call you right back.”
He bought a diet soda from a vending machine in an alcove outside his room. He was a producer on the movie being made about his life, and planned to leverage it to the hilt. Back in his room, he was channel surfing when Andon called back.
“You work fast,” he said.
“Ricky Dixon is a lady, and she was more than happy to help,” Andon said. “Your brother is staying at the Jayhawk Motel on Nebraska Avenue. It’s not far from Dixon’s office. She said a lot of parolees stay there when they first get out.”
“Thanks, Mike.”
“Just so you know, that’s a scummy part of town. Half the homicides in Tampa took place there last year.”
“Sounds like my kind of place. I appreciate the warning.”
“When does the movie start shooting?”
“This summer. I’ll email you all the details.”
“Can’t wait.”
He went to his car while googling the Jayhawk Motel on his cell phone. The reviews were less than stellar. “Dirty rooms crackheads and whores.” “Don’t waste your money.” “Wish I could give them no stars.” He decided to take Andon’s warning to heart, and popped his trunk. In the space for the spare tire was a plastic box lined with carpet that contained a tactical shotgun and several special handguns.
The latest addition was a GLOCK 17 9mm handgun. It was made of synthetic materials and nearly indestructible, and the seventeen-round magazine was also a plus. He got into his car, and slipped the GLOCK beneath his seat.
As he started the engine, he realized his hand was shaking. Logan had been a messed-up teenager, and he could only imagine his current state of mind. He asked Google for directions to the Jayhawk, and learned the trip would take thirty minutes.
An automated voice directed him to the expressway. Staring at the highway, he imagined seeing his brother again. They’d been best buddies as kids, and perhaps the euphoric recall would erase the ill feelings from later on.
He was kidding himself. Logan hated him for the betrayal, and Lancaster hated his brother for destroying their family. It wasn’t going to be pleasant, and he didn’t think it was unreasonable that they might end up wrestling on the floor.
So help me God, he thought.
Nebraska Avenue had more slime than the beach at low tide, the street teeming with dealers and streetwalkers. The strip clubs were housed in windowless buildings that could have been bomb shelters, while the pawnshops were open all night.
Following Google’s instructions, Lancaster turned into the parking lot for a joint called All Night Long. The Jayhawk Motel was nowhere to be found, and he realized he was lost.
A lady of negotiable affections sauntered over to his car, and he lowered his window.
“Hey, sugar.”
“Good evening. I could use some help,” he said.
“You came to the right place. What’s your name?”
“Jon.”
“How novel. I’m Chantelle. Nice to meet you.”
“I’m looking for the Jayhawk. My GPS said it was around here.”
“The Jayhawk’s not far. Want me to hop in? I can show you the way.”
“No thanks, officer. I just need directions.”
Her playful manner evaporated. He’d worked stings as a cop, so he knew that she was wired, and that a surveillance camera was recording them from a van in the lot, the video to later be used in court after she busted him for attempted solicitation.
“I’m not a cop,” she said stiffly.
“Oh yes, you are. Your smile gave you away.”
She shook her head and played dumb.
“You have all your teeth,” he said.
“Is that supposed to be a joke?”
“No, ma’am, it’s an observation. You’re also not strung out on drugs. I was a detective, and ran in my share of streetwalkers. They were all high on something.”
“Well, aren’t you a fund of useful information. Anything else?”
“Your necklace.”
“What about it?”
“It looks real. Most streetwalkers don’t wear jewelry. If they do, it’s fake.”
“I’ll remember that. The Jayhawk is on the next block, same side of the street.”
“Much obliged. Can I make one more comment?”
“Save it,” she said, and walked away.
As promised, the Jayhawk was on the very next block. The marquee advertised XXX FILMS, CABLE TV, DAILY & WEEKLY RATES. He counted eight vehicles in the lot, but didn’t spot the sedan Logan had been driving at the Citrus Park Mall. Removing the GLOCK from beneath his seat, he slid it into his pants pocket and got out of his car.
The night manager buzzed him into the office. He had a blond ponytail and bloodshot eyes. Lancaster flashed his old detective’s badge, which the sheriff’s department had given him in a shadowbox when he’d retired. “I’m looking for a guy named Logan Lancaster. His parole officer told me he was staying in your motel.”
“I talked to Logan a half hour ago,” the night manager said. “Came into the office needing a pack of matches. He’s in room sixteen.”
“Which car is his?”
“Doesn’t have a car, at least not one that I’m aware of.”
“Logan has a friend, a guy with a mustache and sideburns. Is he here as well?”
“I don’t know about any friend.”
“You smell like weed. Did you sell Logan some dope?”
The night manager looked like he might cry. “Yeah.”
“What’s your name?”
“Richard. My friends call me Skip.”
“How much did you sell him, Skip?”
“A couple of joints. You’re not going to bust me, are you?”
A couple of joints would get Skip the equivalent of a parking ticket. But the laws were harsh for repeat offenders, and he guessed that Skip had gotten busted before, and would go down hard for a second arrest.
“Not if you cooperate,” he said.
“What do you want me to do?”
“Get Logan to open the door to his room without looking suspicious.”
“How the hell am I going to do that?”
“You’ll tell him he got a delivery. Do the doors to your rooms have peepholes?”
“Yeah, they have peepholes.”
“Good. I need an envelope. And a pen.”
Skip produced a manila envelope and a magic marker, which he put on the counter. Lancaster wrote his brother’s name in big, bold letters in the center of the envelope. Below his brother’s name he wrote Jayhawk Motel, and below that, the motel’s address. In the upper left-hand corner he wrote the name of his brother’s parole officer, Ricky Dixon, also in big, bold letters. Finished, he handed the envelope to Skip.
“Here’s the plan. We’re going to pay a visit to Logan’s room, and you’re going to knock on the door, and then you’re going to identify yourself,” he said. “When Logan comes to the door, hold the envelope up to the peephole, and tell him a courier delivered it to your office. Can you remember that?”
“I’ll remember. What happens then?”
“When Logan opens the door, I’ll take over.”
“This sounds tricky.”
“Don’t worry, I’ve got your back. Let’s go.”
The parking lot was unlit, and their muffled footsteps were drowned out by the traffic on Nebraska. Logan’s room was at the end of the row, and the curtain was drawn across the window. Skip stood in front of the door and spent a moment getting his courage up. Lancaster stood with his back to the wall by the door, out of the peephole’s range. He drew his gun, then motioned with his other hand for Skip to knock.
Skip rapped on the door. “Hey, Logan, it’s Skip. A guy came by with a delivery, asked me to give it to you.”
The door cracked open. Lancaster pressed his back to the wall.
“What the fuck are you talking about?” his brother asked.
Skip played it cool, and held the envelope up. “It’s for you.”
“Fuck. It’s from my parole officer. What does that stupid bitch want?”
“I don’t know, man.”
“Did a cop deliver it?”
“Some kid on a motorbike,” he said.
“Fuck. All right, give it to me. You got any more doobie?”
“Yeah, back in the office.”
“Can I buy another joint off you? It’s the only way I can sleep.”
“Sure. No problem.”
The door opened wide, and Logan stuck his hand out. Lancaster peeled himself off the wall and stepped between the two men, aiming the gun at Logan’s forehead as he did. Logan’s eyes went wide, and he raised his arms without having to be told.
“Back up,” Lancaster said.
He followed Logan into the room and shut the door with his heel. Logan wore nothing but a pair of Jockeys, his body hairless. From the waist up, he was built like a gladiator, with bulging biceps and monster shoulders. Below the waist, he looked like a poster boy for a rare disease, his legs thin and underdeveloped. Guys in prison who lifted weights rarely exercised their leg muscles, focusing instead on what they saw in the mirror, and he thought back to Black Bart, who had a similar physique.
“Remember me?” he asked.
“No. Should I?” Logan replied.
Something inside of him snapped. Their parents had died on the same night, in the same hospital, victims of a head-on crash. He’d been with both of them as they’d passed. Each had expressed sorrow for what had happened to their oldest son, as if blaming themselves for the litany of bad things he’d done. They’d both died worrying about Logan, and that worry had been passed on to him. Whenever he thought of his brother, be it his brother’s birthday, or on Christmas, or some other important date, the thought was filled with pain, and left him feeling depressed. He often wondered if his brother had thought about him on those dates. Probably not.
“It’s Jon,” he said. “Your brother.”
The words sparked a flicker of recognition. Logan lowered his arms and grinned. The marijuana he’d been smoking took over, and he let out a cruel laugh.
“Well, look at you. The little fat boy, all grown up.”
They’d been together five minutes, and his brother was already insulting him. Some things never changed. He tossed the GLOCK into his left hand and made a fist.
“Take your best shot,” his brother said with a sneer.
Moments later, he lay motionless on the floor.
Lancaster checked the room. He would have bet good money that Logan had a gun, but he didn’t find one. But he did find something strange instead. On the night table was a glossy brochure for a brand-new real estate development in Sarasota. His brother had circled one of the model houses with a pen — the house had a $300,000 price tag.
Logan lay on his back on the floor and stared at the ceiling. His eyes were swimming in his head, and he rubbed his jaw. He acted more surprised than hurt.
“Where the hell did you learn to punch like that?”
“In the navy.”
“Man, you should have warned me.”
“Shut up.”
His brother’s cell phone lay on the unmade bed. A call was in progress, and he realized that Logan had been talking to someone when Skip had knocked.
“Hello?” he said into the phone.
Silence. He looked at the number on the screen. It had an 813 area code, which was for the Tampa Bay area.
“Hello?” he said again.
The person on the other end hung up. He slipped the phone into his pocket and glanced down at his brother. There was blood in Logan’s mouth, the sight of which made him wince. He grabbed the room’s only chair and sat in it.
“You and I need to talk,” he said.
Logan pulled himself off the floor and sat on the edge of the bed. They spent an uncomfortable moment appraising each other.
“Did you start lifting weights or something?” his brother asked.
“Why does that matter?”
“Because you were always a wimp. We fought when we were growing up, and you never won.” Logan laughed at the memory. “When you came to the prison and said you were joining the navy, I figured you’d wash out for sure. Did you?”
“I became a SEAL. It toughened me up.”
“You were a SEAL. Fuck. I’m impressed. How long were you in?”
“Five years. When I got out, I became a cop. That lasted fifteen years. I got sick of the bullshit, and retired. Now I’m a private investigator.”
“Can’t say it surprises me. Pop thought you might get into law enforcement after what happened to you at the mall. That was a close one, wasn’t it?”
“It was. You saved the day.”
Logan grinned. It made his face hurt, but he did it anyway. “We probably never would have seen you again. I think about that day a lot. Best thing I ever did.”
“You were a hero.”
“Just looking out for my baby brother.” Logan paused. The stroll down memory lane had ended, and his eyes grew unfriendly. “So what the hell do you want? Or do you just like sneaking around, punching people in the face?”
“I want to talk to you about a teenage girl named Skye.”
“Never heard of her.”
“Her grandmother was murdered on her farm in Keystone, and Skye was abducted. I want you to tell me where the girl is.”
“Like I said, I’ve never heard of her.”
“About an hour before she was murdered, the grandmother went to the mall to do some shopping. There’s a videotape of her inside a health and nutrition store, buying supplements. While she was at the register, a guy wearing a black cowboy hat showed up, and started tailing her. The cops are calling him Black Bart.
“Black Bart followed the grandmother for a while. When the grandmother went to the parking lot to get her car, Black Bart followed her. He stayed by the mall entrance. A black sedan pulled up, and the driver got out to let Black Bart take the wheel. It was just long enough for the driver’s face to get caught by the mall’s security camera.”
Logan cursed under his breath.
“Did you finger me to the cops?” his brother asked.
“No, I didn’t.”
“Thanks, man.”
“I have a reason. I want to know where Skye is being held. If you help me, I’ll work my magic, and get the police to cut you a deal.”
“If you didn’t finger me to the cops, then how will they know who I am?”
“Your face is in the video.”
“So what?”
Logan had been in the slammer for a long time, and didn’t know the first thing about the many technological breakthroughs that had been made in solving crimes.
“The police have computers with facial recognition applications,” he said. “These computers are capable of identifying a person through a digital image or video frame. The software measures different parts of a person’s face, like their chin and their nose, and compares those measurements to known criminal databases.”
“The cops can really do that?”
“You bet. You don’t look much different than when you were sent away, so it should be an easy match. It’s only a matter of time.”
“What are we talking about? A few days?”
“Try a few hours. Since the crime took place in Florida, the police will start with the Florida databases, and match the surveillance video image to your mug shot. This is not going to end well. I can help you, but you’re going to have to help me first.”
Logan groaned and fell back on the bed. “I need a drink. You thirsty?”
“Now that you mention it, I am. What have you got?”
“Colt 45.”
“Some things never change.”
“What do you mean?”
“That was always your drink. You went around the house singing that stupid slogan, ‘Works every time,’ until Mom got pissed, and yelled at you.”
Logan looked at him and laughed. Pushing himself off the bed, he went to the small fridge tucked in the room’s corner, removed a bottle of Colt 45 malt liquor, took a swallow, and passed the bottle. Lancaster took a sip to be sociable and nearly spit it out.
“That’s awful. How can you drink that stuff?”
“It’s an acquired taste.” Logan returned to the bed. “First of all, I don’t know where the girl is, or if she’s even still alive. She wasn’t the target.”
“You went there for the grandmother.”
“Yeah, only she fought back, so Dexter killed her with a miniature baseball bat called a tire thumper he keeps in his car. We grabbed the girl and threw her in the trunk. Dexter dropped me off here, and left. I don’t know where they went.”
“What’s Dexter’s last name?”
“Hudson.”
“Is that who you were talking to on the phone?”
“Yeah. He called to check up on me.”
“How did you meet him?”
“In the joint. He recruited me to be part of his gang.”
Florida’s prisons were overrun with violent gangs. Many were well funded, with money coming from the outside that allowed their leaders to wield influence inside the prison. Was one of these gangs responsible for the abductions taking place around Florida? It felt like a stretch. Gangs made their money selling drugs and seldom strayed from that endeavor. Kidnapping did not pay the bills unless the victim was a celebrity or rich. As far as he knew, none of the Florida victims were famous or had wealth.
“What was your gang’s name?” he asked.
“The Phantoms,” his brother replied.
The name was vaguely familiar. “They’re out of Central America.”
“That’s right. Started in Colombia and spread to Honduras and Nicaragua. They’re just getting their toe in the States.”
His brother stared longingly at the bottle of beer. Lancaster passed it to him, and watched its contents disappear in one long swallow.
“Is Dexter the Phantoms’ leader?” he asked.
“No, but he could be. Dexter’s smart, used to be with the Outlaws motorcycle gang. When he went to prison, he joined the Phantoms, and ran their smuggling operation.”
“The Phantoms were smuggling stuff out of the prison?”
“No, we were smuggling shit into the prison. Mostly drugs and cell phones, but also laptop computers and hot boxes so we could get internet service.”
“You must have had inside help.”
“That we did. Dexter would bribe a guard to bring in a carton of cigarettes. Then he’d ask the guard to bring in more stuff. If the guard balked, he’d threaten to expose him, which would lead to the guard getting arrested. He turned a lot of guards that way.”
“I’ve been inside Raiford, and security was tight. How could a guard smuggle in a laptop computer, and not get caught?”
“Dexter had an employee in the kitchen on his payroll. The laptops were hidden in a fifty-pound sack of potatoes, and the employee hid the sack in the storeroom. When you’re feeding fourteen hundred guys a day, it’s easy to slip stuff in.”
Logan smothered a belch. The beer had loosened his tongue, and Lancaster decided it was time to find out where Skye was being held. He was going to eventually take Logan to the police, but chances were Logan would get a lawyer, and stop talking.
“Twelve women have disappeared in Florida, including the teenager you and Dexter snatched,” he said. “Were you and Dexter involved in those abductions as well?”
“I sure as hell wasn’t,” Logan said.
“How about your friend?”
Logan’s jailhouse instincts kicked in, and he fell silent. Lancaster thought he understood; this piece of information was Logan’s bargaining chip, and his brother was not going to share it with him, fearing Lancaster might tip off the police and ruin whatever leverage he might have.
“If Dexter wasn’t the gang’s leader, who was?” he asked.
“Cano.”
“Was that his first or last name?”
“I never asked. Cano’s a shaman. He put spells on the guards so they wouldn’t bother us. One time, I saw him wave his hands in front of a guard’s face, and tell the guard to get the fuck out of our cellblock, and the guard walked out. It was crazy.”
“It must have been a trick.”
“No trick. Cano’s the real deal. He had a crystal ball that he used to find people. Cano could track down anyone in the world using that thing.”
“You believed that crap?”
“It wasn’t crap. An inmate paid Cano five thousand bucks to track down some guy who’d stolen all his money. Cano found the guy, no problem.”
“How did you find Elsie Tanner and Skye?”
“I just told you, Cano’s a shaman.”
Cano wasn’t a shaman, he was a con man, and Logan had been conned. He decided to change the subject.
“You said that Cano had laptops and hot boxes smuggled into the prison. Where did he keep this stuff?”
“In our cellblock. Cano used to say that prisons work both ways. The walls keep guys inside, and they also keep people on the outside from looking in.”
“Was Cano running a criminal enterprise inside Raiford?”
“That’s right, little bro. Look, I’ve said all I’m going to say. Now I’ve got something to ask you. Are you going to help me, or not?”
“Yes, I’m going to help you.”
Lancaster’s plan was simple. He would tell the sheriff that Logan had sought him out, and offered to help run down Dexter and locate the missing women. This would put Logan in a favorable light, and let his attorney negotiate a better deal after Logan helped the police. Logan would go back to prison, but not for the rest of his life.
“You’re going to lie for me,” his brother said.
“That’s right, I’m going to lie.”
“Too bad you didn’t do that twenty-five years ago.”
The words stung, and he momentarily looked away.
“Put your clothes on. We need to get out of here,” he said.
His brother got dressed. He wore ragged jeans and a denim shirt missing a button. His shoes were worn out, and he wore no socks. He didn’t own a watch. It was a sad statement for someone who’d been on the planet for as long as he had.
They started to leave. Taking the real estate brochure off the night table, he waved it in his brother’s face.
“What’s this about?” he asked.
“I was going to buy a house,” his brother said.
“With what money?”
“Dexter was going to give it to me.”
He wanted to ask his brother how that worked, but didn’t want to stay there any longer than he had to. He slipped the GLOCK back into his pocket, and they went outside to the parking lot. He unlocked his car, and Logan started to get in.
“We need to tell the manager you’re checking out,” he said.
“Fuck him,” Logan said. “He set me up.”
“We still need to tell him.”
“What are you, a fucking Boy Scout?”
“Shut up, would you?”
The entrance to the motel office was on the side of the building that faced the parking lot. As they got close, a large man emerged from the shadows, and blocked their path. He was dressed in black and cradled a sawed-off shotgun. It was Dexter.
“This is what happens to rats,” Dexter said.
Then he pulled the trigger.
Logan shoved him hard.
Growing up, it had been one of his brother’s favorite tricks. They’d be standing on the playground and Logan would give him a playful shove, sending him a few inches off the ground. Then his brother would laugh like hell.
This shove was harder, and he landed on the pavement, where he rolled over until he was lying on his back, looking upside down at their attacker. Without hesitating, he drew the GLOCK from his pants pocket and returned fire.
His awkward position ruined his aim, and none of his shots hit their target. Dexter wasn’t interested in shooting it out, and he ran to the street, where a black sedan idled at the curb. Dexter tossed the shotgun through the open back window, then jumped in.
The sedan peeled out. By now, Lancaster was on his feet, and he ran into the middle of Nebraska Avenue and got off two more rounds. The sedan’s back window imploded, and the vehicle took a corner on two wheels and vanished into the night. He could hear screaming and saw people on the corner running for dear life.
Back in the parking lot, he found Logan sitting on the pavement with his back against a car. The lower half of his body was blood soaked, his breathing tortured.
Lancaster crouched down, and Logan managed a weak smile.
“You saved my ass,” Lancaster said. Then added, “Again.”
“Guess I’m good at something,” his brother whispered.
Skip came out of the office holding his cell phone.
“An ambulance is on its way,” the manager said.
“Go out in the street, and hail it down,” he said.
Skip lowered the phone but didn’t move.
“You heard me,” he barked.
Skip went and stood on the sidewalk to wait for the ambulance. Lancaster didn’t want him to overhear their conversation, and he lowered his voice.
“How bad did he get you?”
“Bad enough,” his brother said.
Logan shut his eyes and started to fade away.
“Don’t you dare die on me,” he said.
His brother’s eyelids lifted. His eyes were swimming in his head, and he appeared stuck between the here and the hereafter. He took a deep breath and spoke, the words barely a whisper. “A priest once tried to convert me in the joint. He said that Christ saved a robber who was being crucified with him. I guess it’s never too late, huh?”
“You’ve got to keep fighting,” he said.
“It’s over, Jonny. I’m done.”
“Come on. You can do it.”
Lancaster took his brother’s bloody hand and squeezed it. Logan closed his eyes, and his head flopped to one side.
“The ambulance is here,” Skip called from the street.
The EMS team took over. The lead was a feisty woman with short-cropped hair. She looked into his face and instantly knew.
“Was he your friend?” she asked.
“My brother,” he said.
“I’m sorry for your loss. At least you were here to comfort him.”
“I tried.”
He wanted to cry, and retreated into the office. There was a folding chair beside the TV, and he dropped into it, burying his head in his hands. A strange feeling overcame him. Logan was the last relative he had, and now his brother was gone. He was alone in the world, and the feeling made him immeasurably sad.
Skip fixed him a cup of coffee from a pot that had been brewed hours ago. He sipped the hot liquid, thinking back to the cell phone he’d found on the bed in Logan’s room. Logan had been talking to Dexter when he’d come into the room, and he guessed Dexter had heard enough of their conversation to decide to take Logan out of the picture.
“I saw you shoot at that car through the window,” Skip said. “Did you get those sonsabitches?”
“I’m pretty sure I nailed the driver,” he said.
“They’ll get theirs. The bad ones always do.”
He finished his drink. Logan had told him a lot of crazy stuff, and he needed to write it all down, and share it with the police. He was still no closer to finding Skye, and realized that her rescue would have to wait while he dealt with Logan’s murder.
He got his courage up, and went outside. EMTs had covered his brother’s body with a white sheet. It made Logan look like a ghost, and he shuddered.
A police cruiser was parked sideways in the entrance, its bubble light flashing. A pair of uniformed cops were busy roping off the area with yellow police tape. The officers wore rubber gloves, so as not to contaminate the crime scene.
Skip came outside, and identified himself to the cops. One of the officers pulled Skip aside to get a statement. There was no rushing the process, and Lancaster leaned against a parked car while he waited his turn.
His thoughts drifted back to his childhood. Logan had been screwing up for as long as he could remember, but their parents had always given him a pass. He guessed it had something to do with Logan rescuing him at the mall. Logan had saved the day, and every bad thing he’d done after that had been ignored.
The officer finished with Skip and approached him. His name tag said Montalvo, and he was a Latin guy of about thirty. Montalvo asked to see his ID. As he produced his driver’s license, Montalvo spied the detective’s badge attached to his wallet.
“Are you a cop?” Montalvo asked.
“Retired. I’m doing a private job,” he said.
“For who?”
He handed him a Team Adam card. “I was working a case in which Logan was involved, so I came to talk to him.”
“The motel manager said the deceased was your brother.”
“That’s right. I hadn’t seen him in twenty-five years. He was recently paroled.”
“What was the job you were working?”
“I was trying to find a teenage girl that was abducted in Keystone four days ago. Her grandmother, Elsie Tanner, was murdered.”
“Your brother was involved in that?”
“Afraid so. I was going to turn him in, but he got shot.”
Montalvo scribbled furiously into his notepad. It was every uniformed officer’s dream to one day become a detective. That promotion often hinged on how the officer handled a high-profile case. If the officer did an exemplary job, the top brass would notice, and he’d get rewarded. Logan’s murder was such a case for Montalvo.
“Any idea who shot him?” Montalvo asked.
“The shooter’s name is Dexter Hudson,” he said. “My brother and Dexter were in prison together. Dexter knew my brother was going to rat him out, so he shot him.”
“Rat him out over what?”
“Dexter murdered Elsie Tanner.”
“Did your brother tell you that?”
“Yes, he did.”
Montalvo flipped a sheet on the notepad and kept writing. “Could you identify Dexter Hudson if you saw him again?”
“Yes.”
“Describe him.”
“About six feet tall, two hundred fifty pounds, a Fu Manchu mustache and sideburns. He has a muscular upper body but thin legs.”
“Sounds like you got a good look at him.”
“There’s a surveillance video from the Citrus Park Mall that shows him following Elsie Tanner. Deputy Stahl at the District III sheriff’s office has a copy.”
“You know Deputy Stahl?”
“I introduced myself to him earlier tonight.”
Montalvo flipped the notepad shut. “I know how difficult losing a brother is. I lost my own brother last year from an overdose. If you can find it in you, I’d like you to come down to the station house, and give us a full statement. It will really help our investigation.”
Lancaster was impressed. Montalvo had revealed a piece of himself in order to gain trust. This told him that Montalvo wasn’t just after a promotion, but had connected on a deeper level, and would leave no stone unturned finding his brother’s killer.
“I’d be happy to help you,” he said.
“Great,” Montalvo said. “Would you mind waiting inside the motel office until we’re done here?”
“Sure thing.”
Two dark SUVs pulled up to the curb, and their doors opened. Four men and two women climbed out and stood on the sidewalk beneath the harsh streetlight. Each wore a navy windbreaker with the initials FBI stenciled above the pocket. The cavalry had arrived.
“For the love of Christ,” Montalvo said under his breath.
“Something wrong?” he asked.
“You don’t want to know.”
“I thought the FBI were the good guys.”
“Not this crew. I’ll be right back.”
Montalvo grabbed his partner and went over to talk to the FBI agents. It was not a pleasant conversation, and the agents rudely shone flashlights into the police officers’ faces, and ordered them to stand down. The officers meekly obeyed.
He scanned the agents’ faces and found Beth Daniels. Her hair was tucked under a ball cap, and her eyes bore a fury that came from a dedication to her work unlike any he’d ever seen. During their first date, she’d told him that most men didn’t find this side of her attractive. He’d realized later that she liked that.
Daniels moved to Logan’s body and crouched down. Holding a flashlight in one hand, she lifted the sheet and folded it back. With the same hand, she pulled back the collar on Logan’s shirt, revealing a crude tattoo on his neck. It was the kind of tattoo guys in prison got because they had nothing better to do. It said 666, the same numbers spray-painted on the victim’s driveway in Lakeland.
Daniels removed a digital camera from her windbreaker, and took several shots of the tattoo. She put the camera away and replaced the sheet. She rose to her full height and took a long look around the parking lot. A creepy-looking person had drifted in off the street. He looked like trouble, and refused to leave when Daniels told him to.
“You must be hard of hearing,” Daniels said.
The creep outweighed Daniels by fifty pounds and was a half foot taller. But that didn’t stop Daniels from twisting his arm behind his back, and marching him away from the crime scene. She gave him a shove, and sent him tumbling down the sidewalk.
“Don’t come back,” she warned him.
She took another look around. She still hadn’t noticed him.
Lancaster felt anger boil up inside of him. She’d never returned his messages or answered his texts. He’d been jilted by women before, and had gotten over it. But this time had really stung. Perhaps it was because Daniels had told him how much she enjoyed being with him. Most law enforcement officers had a hard time letting their guard down. But it had been easy when they’d been together. It had felt real.
A hand touched his shoulder. It was one of the other FBI agents.
“Did you see what happened?” the agent asked.
He nodded.
“Go inside the office. We’ll get a statement from you soon,” the agent said.
He glanced at Montalvo and his partner, who now stood beside the cruiser. Montalvo could not hide his disgust and shook his head.
“Fuck you,” Lancaster said.
The agent recoiled. “What did you say to me?”
“I said, fuck you, asshole. That goes for your whole team. You’re a bunch of god damn dickheads. Show the cops some respect, and you might get some in return.”
A flashlight’s beam hit Lancaster’s face. Daniels was pointing it at him.
“Jon? What the hell are you doing here?” she asked.
He glanced at Logan’s body, then back at her.
“He’s my brother,” he explained.
Daniels pulled him into the motel office and slammed the door. She went to the window facing the street and struggled to lower the blinds. They came down crooked, and she let out a stream of obscenities that would have made a sailor blush.
He faintly sniffed the sweet smell of pot. A half-rolled joint and a bag of weed that he hadn’t noticed before lay on the counter, and he guessed Skip had been getting ready to light up a number when he’d heard the shotgun blast and stopped what he was doing to come outside. Back when he was a cop, he’d turned a blind eye to small quantities of dope when he’d run across it, believing that it was foolish to arrest people for a product that came out of the ground.
He scooped the joint and the bag off the counter and tossed them into a trash bin. Daniels was still messing with the blinds, and he went to assist her.
“Sit down. I’ve got it covered,” she said.
“You could have fooled me,” he said.
“Don’t be a wiseass, Jon. I’m not in the mood.”
He moved the folding chair into the middle of the room and parked himself on it. Daniels muscled the blinds down and turned to face him. Her cheeks were a pinkish salmon color, a clear sign that she was flustered.
“I didn’t know Logan was your brother,” she said. “I’m sorry for your loss.”
“How long have you been chasing him?”
“Your brother’s been on our radar for several days. I need you to explain what you’re doing here. I don’t want to hold you any longer than I have to.”
“Is that what you’re doing? Holding me?”
“Yes. The FBI believes Logan was an accomplice to a murder and a kidnapping. Since he was your brother, you might have known what he was doing. That’s enough for me to hold you. If I don’t like your answers, I can arrest you.”
“Would you do that?”
“If I thought you were involved, yes.”
“But I wasn’t involved. Come on, you know me better than that.”
“I’ll be the judge of your involvement.”
He shook his head in disbelief. He liked Beth and would have trusted her with his life. He obviously hadn’t left the same impression on her.
“Now, tell me what you’re doing here, and don’t leave anything out,” she said. Her words felt like a slap to the face. He removed a pack of nicotine gum from his pocket and popped a piece into his mouth. He’d smoked when he’d been a cop but eventually quit. When he was tired or feeling down, the cravings reared their ugly head, and he had to fight them off.
“Answer my question,” she said.
“You need to talk to Deputy Stahl with the District III sheriff’s office in Citrus Park,” he said. “Stahl can explain everything. I also gave a statement to Officer Montalvo a short while ago. You should talk to him too.”
“You’re not going to tell me?”
He worked the gum hard. “Go talk to the police. They know everything.”
“I want to hear your version of things.”
“Afraid not.”
She crossed her arms in front of her chest. “And why is that?”
“I don’t have the strength to deal with you.”
It was her turn to be hurt, and her lower lip trembled.
“Keep it up, and I’ll run you in,” she said.
“On what charge? Obstructing justice?” He shook his head. “I’ve been totally transparent with the police. They know everything I know. Talk to them. Good night.”
He hopped off the chair and moved toward the door. It was a ploy, designed to push her buttons and get her hackles up. She took the bait and grabbed his arm.
“Where do you think you’re going?” she snapped.
“I’m going to go find a bar and have a stiff drink. Logan wasn’t much of a brother, but he was the last relative I had. Care to join me?”
Her face softened, and the Beth he knew rose to the surface. She released his arm and made a pleading gesture with her hands. “The sheriff isn’t a fan of mine. If I ask Stahl for information, he’ll stonewall me.”
“You know, I think I heard that,” he said.
“What did Stahl tell you?”
“Stahl said you leaked a story to the newspaper that made the sheriff’s department look bad. Stahl said that you were convinced a psychopath had murdered a kid, when in fact the killer was a teenager named Lenny DeVito. Stahl said that when the DNA test implicated DeVito, you didn’t own up to your mistake.”
“Stahl said that about me?”
She was getting worked up into a lather, and he simply nodded.
“Let me tell you what really happened. It’s the FBI’s policy to review every child murder in the country. The victim in this case was named Ryan Witt, and his death was particularly brutal. An agent in our Tampa office examined the evidence and was bothered by how violently Witt died.”
“Stahl said the boy was strangled.”
“Witt was strangled. There were two broken vertebrae in his neck, and his skull was fractured. I got the file, and after reviewing the evidence, I determined Witt’s killer was a psychopath. So I told the sheriff to run the DNA test on Lenny DeVito first.”
“But the DNA test proved DeVito was guilty. You were wrong.”
“I wasn’t wrong! May I finish?”
She looked fighting mad, and again he nodded.
“Before the DNA link was made, the evidence against DeVito was weak. A judge granted DeVito bail, and he went to stay with his parents. When the FBI made the arrest, they went on DeVito’s personal computer, and found evidence that he was planning to shoot up his high school and kill his classmates. In his bedroom closet was a homemade bomb and a tear gas canister. He also had a key to his father’s gun cabinet, which contained an assault rifle. We got him just in time.”
“Stahl never mentioned any of that.”
“I’m sure he didn’t. DeVito pleaded guilty, and it got buried in the court records. I wanted to share what we’d found with the newspaper, but my boss nixed the idea. He didn’t want me further damaging the FBI’s relationship with the sheriff’s department.”
“That’s some story. I’m sorry I doubted you.”
“Apology accepted. Now, are you going to help me or not?”
A knock on the door interrupted their conversation. Daniels jerked the door open to find one of her agents standing outside. “What do you want?”
“We just got a statement from the manager. He said Logan Lancaster has had several guests in the past few days,” the agent said. “We want to search his room, but need a key to open the door. The manager said the key ring was behind the counter.”
“Hold on.”
Daniels went behind the counter and found a key ring hanging on a nail. She gave it to the agent and said, “I’ll be right out,” and closed the door in his face. To Lancaster she said, “When did your brother get out of prison?”
“He was paroled two months ago,” he said.
“How long was he in for?”
“He served twenty-five years.”
“So we can assume that his guests were guys he knew in prison,” she said.
It was a logical assumption, and he nodded.
“Was your brother in a gang?” she asked.
“Yes. They’re called the Phantoms. My brother made them sound like a cult.”
“How so?”
“The leader is named Cano. My brother told me that Cano could cast spells on people and perform all sorts of other crazy stuff.”
“Do you think your brother was brainwashed?”
The question gave him pause. Logan hadn’t been very intelligent, and he’d been easily conned by people who were smarter than him.
“Probably,” he said.
She nodded approvingly. He’d opened a door for her, and helped move the investigation forward.
“Thank you, Jon,” she said.
“Anytime, Beth.”
“I need to supervise the search of your brother’s room. Will you stay until I’m done? I need you to tell me everything you remember from your conversation. It just might help me solve this.”
Daniels could have just as easily ordered him to stay put. But she’d chosen to use a teaspoon of honey, and get back on an even footing.
“I’ll stay,” he said. “Go do your search.”
She gave his arm a squeeze and left the office. He needed some air and followed her outside. Three members of her team stood in the parking lot wearing rubber gloves and holding plastic evidence bags. Daniels snapped on a pair of gloves and marched her team to his brother’s room. There was a protocol to gathering evidence, the rules hard and fast, and she did it as well as anyone.
His brother’s lifeless body still lay on the ground. A photographer from the sheriff’s department had removed the sheet and was snapping photographs. The course to become a crime scene photographer took three days, the students schooled on how to control a photographic exposure in order to capture the high-quality, evidence-grade photographs required in law enforcement. What the course didn’t teach was that the dead needed to be treated with dignity, no matter who they were.
Kneeling beside his brother’s body, he wiped away the insects. Rising, he stepped aside, and heard the photographer mutter her thanks under her breath.
She snapped shots from multiple angles. The camera wasn’t functioning properly, and she replaced the sheet, then retreated to one of the cruisers. Beneath the car’s harsh interior light, she opened her camera, and tried to identify the problem.
The sheet flapped in the breeze. Logan was trying to spook him. He’d done that plenty when they were kids, jumping out from behind corners and scaring the crap out of him. It was always followed by a playful shove, and an invitation to come play with the older kids. He was still alive because Logan had come to his rescue, just like long ago. Everyone had an angel sitting on their shoulder, and Logan had been his.
His head started to spin. He alternated between wanting to scream and wanting to break down in tears. It had been a long time since he’d felt this bad.
He needed a stiff drink. Several, actually. To hell with what he’d told Beth. It would be a while before she and her team were done collecting evidence, and he couldn’t hang around that long. Whatever she needed to ask him could wait.
With his phone, he found a bar called the Double Decker in Ybor City that stayed open late. His car was blocked by the police cruisers, and he decided to Uber it.
He waited by the curb for his ride. The hookers, drug pushers, and other nocturnal creatures had returned to their street corners and were back to doing business, acting like nothing had happened. Someone had died tonight, but the sad truth was, people died all the time, and it didn’t change anything.
The Uber app said the driver was a minute away. He glanced over his shoulder for a final look. The photographer had gotten her camera working; she’d pulled away the sheet covering Logan’s body, and was again taking pictures.
He started to choke up. The misery of being with the dead was the helpless feeling their presence invoked. You wanted to help them, only it was too late.
Logan had asked about Jesus before he’d died, wanting to know if he could still be saved. Had his brother gone to church while in prison? His final act suggested that he had. Logan was still angry at him for what had happened twenty-five years ago, yet he had not allowed his anger to cloud his judgment.
His ride pulled up to the curb, and he stole another look before getting in.
“I owe you,” he said.