The Night Stalker_ A Novel Of Suspense Part 11

"Can't anyone have a civil conversation with you?"

"Want me to leave?"

"Not until I finish what I have to say."

"Then say it. I have a little boy to find."

Moody's cheeks burned. He drummed his desk while glaring at me. He was accustomed to talking down to people. I wasn't letting him do that.

"I want to find Sampson Grimes, too," Moody said. "Unfortunately, Cheeks didn't bring anyone into the loop regarding the investigation. From what I can gather, you know as much as he does."

"More," I said.

"All right, you know more. I'd like to offer you a deal."

"I'm listening."

"I'm putting another detective in charge of finding Sampson Grimes. I need you to bring that detective up to speed. In exchange, I'll pay you for your time."

"Put me in charge of the investigation."

"That's out of the question. I can't have you running things."

I'd fallen on hard times since leaving the force, yet I'd never regretted the decision. It had allowed me to listen to my conscience. I stood up.

"Have a nice day," I said.

"You're being unreasonable," Moody said.

"Cheeks put you in a tough spot. He botched the investigation, then ignored evidence that it was an abduction. How's that going to look when it hits the news?"

"Jack, sit down."

"It's going to look horrible. Only Cheeks is sick, so he won't get blamed. You'll You'll get blamed. Your only salvation is finding Sampson Grimes. Put me in charge." get blamed. Your only salvation is finding Sampson Grimes. Put me in charge."

"I can't do that. But I will offer you a compromise."

"What's that?"

"Do you remember Candice Burrell?"

"Sure, I trained her."

"I'm putting Burrell in charge of the investigation."

Burrell was one of the smartest detectives on the force. So smart that she'd been pa.s.sed over for countless promotions, while lesser lights had risen to the top. If anyone could clean up Ron Cheeks's mess, it was Candy.

"I'll work with Burrell on one condition," I said.

"Name it."

"I want access to the crime scene and the investigation's case file."

"Done. Now let's talk about your fee."

"I'm already being paid by the Grimes family."

Moody rose from his desk. "I'm glad we've reached this decision."

Sometimes bulls.h.i.t gets in the way of what's important. I removed the photo of Sampson that I'd printed off Lowman's computer, and dropped it on Moody's desk.

"This photo was taken in a Fort Lauderdale hotel," I said. "The interior looks like it's a chain hotel. The guys need to examine it."

Moody's face lit up. "I'll put them right on it. Anything else?"

I started to say no, then remembered Lowman. I wrote his address on a slip of paper, and gave it to Moody. "There's a pervert in the lockup named Lonnie Lowman," I said. "I cut a deal with him, and destroyed a DVD of him confessing to a bunch of crimes. I ran the DVD on his computer, so there's a copy on the hard drive. You need to send someone over to Lowman's house to retrieve it."

Moody stared at the address and nodded.

"I'll put an officer right on it," he said.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN.

Redemption.

It was just a word until you experienced it; then it was like no other feeling in the world. I was working with the Broward cops again, and I was doing it on my terms. It didn't get any sweeter than that.

I was sitting in traffic on 595, listening to Boston's "More Than a Feeling" on the car stereo while smelling the salty ocean breeze through my open window. My wife believed that everything in the world happened for a reason, and I thought about all the good things that had happened to me since my fight with Cheeks in the grove. I decided to call her, and as I punched her number into my cell phone, it began to ring.

Not many people had my cell number. I stared at my cell phone's face. Caller ID said UNKNOWN UNKNOWN.

"Carpenter here," I answered.

"Is this the the Jack Carpenter, the ex-cop who finds missing kids?" a man asked. Jack Carpenter, the ex-cop who finds missing kids?" a man asked.

"You got him. Who's this?"

"Call me Pepe. One of your pals at the police station gave me your number. I've got someone here who wants to speak to you."

"Put him on," I said.

The cars in front of me started to move, and I goosed the accelerator.

"This is Sampson," a tiny voice said.

I lowered the volume on my tape deck. "Sampson Grimes?"

"Yeah," the boy said.

"Are you all right?"

"No!" Sampson began to wail.

I pressed the cell phone to my ear. It was broiling hot, along with everything else inside my car. "Please talk to me," I said.

Sampson continued to cry. I tried to determine what the background noises were, and thought I heard a plane pa.s.sing overhead. Finally, Sampson stopped crying.

"I need to tell you something," the boy said.

"I'm listening," I said.

"Tell Grandpa..."

"Yes?"

"...to stop talking to the FBI."

"You want me to tell your grandfather to stop talking to the FBI?" I repeated.

There was a pause, and I heard a man in the background mumble softly.

"Yeah," Sampson said.

"I want to talk to the man you're with," I said.

A car horn honked in the background, followed by the sound of another airplane. I guessed they were calling from a pay phone near the Hollywood/Fort Lauderdale airport. The airport was isolated, and did not have many retail stores nearby.

"I'm back," Pepe said.

"I want you to release the boy," I said.

"Fat chance, brother."

"You're getting paid to hold the boy by his kidnapper," I said. "Let him go, and I'll pay you more."

Pepe laughed derisively. "I've heard about your deals. No thanks."

Pepe dropped the phone, and I heard it bang against a wall. Then I heard a car pull away, its m.u.f.fler rattling loudly. There was a convenience store on Griffin Road by the airport that had a bank of pay phones outside the store. It was only a minute away. I pulled onto the highway's shoulder and hit the gas. Pepe sounded smart, and I didn't think he'd speed away, arousing suspicion. With any luck, I'd catch him.

I drove with my eyes peeled to the oncoming traffic, looking for a car with a dying m.u.f.fler. At the convenience store on Griffin Road I slowed to stare at the pay phones on the side of the building. One was off the hook.

I raced down Griffin Road toward I-95. I've always been good at putting myself in a criminal's shoes, and antic.i.p.ating how they were going to act. I decided that Pepe had gotten onto I-95, and headed north into Fort Lauderdale.

Traffic on I-95 was the usual mix of blue hairs doing thirty and crazy Cubans trying to break the sound barrier. I got into the left lane, and pushed the Legend up to ninety. Soon I saw a tail of black exhaust ahead of me. I stuck my head out my window, and heard Pepe's car.

I drew my Colt from my pocket, and laid it on my lap. The car was a few hundred yards ahead, a black Chevy Impala with no plates driving in the center lane. In most parts of the state, driving without license plates would get you pulled over. In South Florida, it was a way of life.

I got behind the car and slowed down. Two men occupied the front seat. Lonnie Lowman had said that Sampson was being held by a pair of drug enforcers. I didn't see Sampson, and guessed he was either strapped down in the backseat or stowed in the trunk.

I dialed 911. My call was answered by an automated police operator. I saw the Chevy speed up, and I got back into the left lane. I needed to get a good look at the driver, and pa.s.s his description to the police.

As I got close to the Chevy, the driver jerked his head. Young, Hispanic, and missing several front teeth. His eyes grew wide, and I realized I'd been made.

The driver shouted to his partner. His partner grabbed a handgun off the floor, and climbed into the driver's lap. I wasn't going to get into a shooting match with him, and risk harming Sampson. I hit my brakes, and let the Chevy get ahead of me.

I stayed a hundred yards back. The guy with the gun lowered the pa.s.senger window, and stuck his weapon out. Overweight and in his forties, he was the opposite of his partner. I thought he was going to shoot at me, but that wasn't what he had in mind.

Instead, he aimed at the minivan in the lane next to him. It was filled with kids, the woman driver on her cell phone, oblivious to what was going on.

Then he looked at me.

I instantly understood. If I didn't back off, he was going to shoot the woman and kill her, and probably all the kids as well. I couldn't be responsible for so many innocent people dying, and flashed my brights while slowing my car. He grinned.

The Chevy speeded up, and was soon a memory. I heard a voice on my cell phone.

"Broward County police. Do you have an emergency?"

I told the operator what had happened while getting off the interstate.

I pulled into the convenience store on Griffin Road and went inside. It was a squat, one-story building, the windows plastered with ads for the Florida Lottery. A surveillance camera hung over the door. I asked the manager if it worked.

"Naw."

I inspected the bank of pay phones outside. The middle phone was off the hook. I knelt down, and looked at the plastic handle. Pepe's fingerprints were all over it.

Sirens wailed in the distance. I had asked the police operator to send a cruiser to the convenience store. I went to the sidewalk to meet the cruiser, and heard a car start up. Across the street a souped-up Camaro was parked in the front of a storage facility. Two young white males were inside, shooting me mean looks. I crossed the road at a trot.

"I need to speak to you for a minute," I called to them.

The Camaro backed out with a squeal of rubber. I drew my Colt and pointed it at his windshield.

"Get out," I said.

They got out. Low-slung pants, lots of jewelry and tattoos. I made them for gang members, and had them stand with their hands on the roof and their legs spread wide, and patted them down. Both were carrying heat, and I slipped their pieces into my pants pockets. Then I popped the trunk. It was loaded with stereo equipment.

"You boys work for Circuit City?" I asked.

Neither replied.