The Night Stalker_ A Novel Of Suspense Part 13

"Don't forget Buster," I said.

She glanced at my dog, then tossed her empty bottle into the campfire. "You and I need to be clear about something. You think an outsider did this. I don't, and neither does the FBI. One thing Cheeks got right: Jed Grimes is responsible, and I'm going to arrest him."

I tossed my bottle next to hers. "When did the FBI get involved?"

"This morning. I called a special agent in Quantico that I know. He reviewed the evidence, and thinks Jed is guilty as sin. So do I."

I had worked with the FBI many times. They had an approach that I didn't agree with. They would come up with a theory, then try to shoehorn all the evidence to make that theory work. It was great, except for the times when they got it wrong.

"What evidence are you talking about?" I asked.

"Jed failed a polygraph that was taken after Sampson was abducted. He also has a history with the police, and has been hauled in fifty times. One of those times was for arson when he was a teenager. He tried to torch the garage behind his mother's house, which was the same garage where the police found the underpants of his father's victims."

"What happened?"

"There was a trial in juvenile court. Jed claimed that curiosity seekers were going into the backyard and photographing the garage, so he decided to burn it down. The judge felt sorry for him, and gave him probation."

"How old was he?"

"Fifteen."

I gazed across the clearing at the tree where the dead vagrant had been tied. His killing had been committed by someone practiced in deception and cold-blooded murder. It was an unusual mix of skills that were usually honed over time. Jed, who was the same age as my daughter, didn't seem old enough.

"I want to talk to Jed before you arrest him," I said. "I've known his ex-wife since she was a kid, and I also met with his father yesterday."

"You think he'll open up to you?" Burrell asked.

"He might."

"All right. But I want you to wear a wire."

I had worn wires before, and had discovered that they often telegraphed themselves through body language and other subliminal signs. I also didn't like the idea of having cops lurking nearby in a van.

"No wire," I said.

Burrell shot me a disapproving look. "What if Jed confesses to you, and we don't record it? What then, Jack?"

"We get him to confess again," I said.

"I need to hear what he says to you."

"I'll tell you what he says, word for word."

"Why are you being so stubborn?"

"I need Jed to trust me. I can't do that if I'm sweating through my underwear because there's a mike taped to my stomach and a bunch of cops sitting outside."

Burrell considered what I was saying. Then she called Jed's mother on her cell phone, and arranged for me to meet with Jed at his mother's house in thirty minutes. She ended the call and gave me his mother's address.

"I hope you're right about this," she said.

There are times when it's good to own a mean dog. Walking back to my car, I was accosted by Chip Wells and his camera crew, who wanted to interview me for the evening news. Buster was on a leash, and my dog lunged at them so viciously that Wells and his crew ran for cover.

The interior of my car felt like an oven. I rolled my windows down, then took my cell phone off the dash, and punched in my daughter's cell number. I knew Jessie's cla.s.s schedule by heart, and she was on break right now.

"Hey, Daddy," she answered.

"Is this the best women's college basketball player in the country?" I asked.

"Did you see the game?"

"I sure did. You were a star."

"I was voted most valuable player, and got interviewed on cable TV after the game. Believe it or not, he asked me out on a date."

"Who did?"

"The announcer who interviewed me."

My daughter's games were shown on a local cable station, the announcer a blow-dried ex-jock who never stopped talking.

"I'll kill him," I said.

"Daddy, please!"

"I need to talk to you about something."

"Sure."

"I saw an old friend of yours last night."

"Really? Who was that?"

"Heather Rinker."

"G.o.d, I haven't spoken to Heather in months. How's she doing?"

"Not so good. Her son was abducted, and I've been hired by the family to find him. What can you tell me about Heather's ex-husband, Jed Grimes?"

"Oh, G.o.d."

"Is he a bad guy?"

"No, he's just messed up. Jed and Heather were sweethearts in junior high. When they were sixteen Jed got Heather pregnant, then refused to help raise her little boy, so Heather quit school to work at Blockbuster. She finally got her life together, then Jed reappeared and filed for joint custody and won. I spoke with Heather over the holidays, and she told me Jed was actually trying to be a good father."

"Have you ever met him?"

"I met him at a party once. He couldn't stop talking about his father's crimes. He was sort of obsessed. I think it had something to do with the old neighborhood."

"The old neighborhood?"

"Jed's mother never moved."

"Maybe she couldn't afford to."

"I know, but she didn't change the house, either. Inside, it's exactly the same as it was when her husband was arrested. Same furniture, same paint, same everything."

"Do you think it warped Jed?"

"Yes. I've got to go. I've got a math test in an hour that I haven't studied for."

I started my car. I was getting a clearer picture of Jed, while beginning to understand why he was the main suspect. He sounded like a disturbed young man, but I still didn't think he was guilty.

"Good luck," I said. "Oh, and Jessie?"

"Yes, Daddy?"

"I was serious what I said about that announcer. He's nearly my age."

"Good-bye, Daddy."

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN.

Jed's mother's name was LeAnn Grimes. I'd seen her on the news and still remembered her story. She came from a family of citrus farmers, and was a small woman with a pretty face and nervous hands. She'd sat dutifully behind Abb during his trial, and when the guilty verdict was read, had sobbed uncontrollably.

She lived on Magnolia Lane in west Davie. The house was made of cinder blocks and was rather small, with dark shades covering the windows, and several "No Trespa.s.sing" signs displayed prominently on the lawn. I parked across the street. A group of six tourists stood on the sidewalk snapping pictures. They had accents that I couldn't place, and had come in a van. They were dressed alike, and wore black pants and black T-shirts that featured the infamous picture of Abb Grimes holding his last victim in his arms. I couldn't understand what they were saying, except they mentioned the Night Stalker over and over, their voices hushed and reverential. Abb had gone to prison over a dozen years ago, yet it was obvious his infamy lived on.

I waited until the tourists were gone before knocking on LeAnn Grimes's front door. It cracked open, and a white-haired woman with sunken eyes stared at me. It was LeAnn. The years had taken their toll, and robbed her face of its natural beauty.

"Don't tell me you want your picture taken," LeAnn said.

"I'm Jack Carpenter," I said. "Your husband hired me to find your grandson. I'm here to speak with Jed."

She looked me up and down. "What's with the mutt?"

"He's my partner."

LeAnn opened the front door and ushered me inside. Her movements were slow, as if an invisible weight rested on her shoulders. She led me to the living room, which was dark save for the TV playing in the corner, and dropped onto a couch that had seen better days. I stood in front of the couch, Buster by my side.

"Is Jed here?" I asked.

"He's taking a shower. Do you have any news about my grandson?"

"Not yet," I said.

She shut her eyes and placed her hands in her lap. She looked like she was going into a trance, and a long moment pa.s.sed. I let my eyes wander the room. Most of the furniture was tagged for sale, and I glanced at a lamp on a table. The price was $2,000. It seemed an outrageous amount, and I checked the tags on several other items. They were also in the stratosphere.

"See anything you like?" LeAnn asked, her eyes now open.

"A little expensive for my taste," I replied.

"The tagged items were my husband's things," she explained. "Jed plans to auction them on eBay after the execution. I think I hear him now."

Jed Grimes entered the living room a few moments later. Boyish and handsome, he stood about six feet and was blessed with a lean, muscular body. He didn't look old enough to be shaving, much less have a three-year-old son. Seeing me, his eyes narrowed, and I felt him sizing me up.

"This is Jack Carpenter, the man your father hired to find Sampson," his mother said. "That's his dog."

Jed nodded woodenly at me.

"Glad to meet you," I said.

"I heard you were a cop," Jed said.

"I was. Not anymore."

"You bring any cops with you?"

I pointed at Buster. "He's one. That's his disguise."

LeAnn let out a throaty laugh. It brought Jed's guard down, and I crossed the living room and stuck out my hand. He smiled thinly and shook it.

"We need to talk about Sampson," I said.

"Let's go outside," he said. "My mom's favorite program is on."

Jed led me outside to the garage. Buster caught a scent as we entered, and vanished into the back. Square and high-ceilinged, the rafters were adorned with stolen street signs and old license plates. Thumbtacked to the walls were a collection of old Playboy Playboy calendars, including a centerfold of Anna Nicole Smith from 1993. The workbench, which took up the back wall, was filled with rusty tools. A thin layer of dust had settled over the floor, and lifted mysteriously each time we moved. calendars, including a centerfold of Anna Nicole Smith from 1993. The workbench, which took up the back wall, was filled with rusty tools. A thin layer of dust had settled over the floor, and lifted mysteriously each time we moved.

In the center of the garage sat a vintage Harley-Davidson motorcycle with chrome so shiny that I could see my reflection in it. It was the only thing in the place that was clean and looked well-maintained. Jed leaned against the seat, and faced me.

"You going to sell the bike?" I asked.

"My father wanted me to keep it," Jed replied. "He's going to die soon. Did he tell you that?"

"Yes. Did your father tell you to sell the stuff in the house?"

"Yeah. Called it his life insurance policy."

Jed's voice was flat, but there was pain in it. I stepped in front of the bike, and looked him in the eye. Most people hate when I do this, but Jed didn't flinch.