The Night Stalker_ A Novel Of Suspense Part 3

"Let her go," I said.

Hicks pulled Angelica out of her chair, and held the scissors against her throat. My dog had latched onto his pants, and was tearing the fabric.

"Get your dog off me," Hicks said.

I yelled to Buster, and he let Hicks go. He came back to my side with a piece of pants in his mouth.

"You a cop?" Hicks asked.

I shook my head.

"Her daddy?"

My grandfather was a Seminole Indian, and my skin was dark enough to make me look Hispanic. I nodded.

"Okay, Daddy, here's the deal," Hicks said. "I want you to put your gun on the floor, and kick it over to me. If you don't, I'll slit her throat."

"Only if you promise to release her," I said.

Hicks dipped his chin. I took that as a yes, and I laid my Colt onto the concrete floor, and kicked it to him. Hicks knelt down and picked up my gun.

"How many bullets this thing got?" he asked.

"Seven," I replied.

"What kind?"

"Three-eighties."

"That should get us out of here," he said.

Hicks let Angelica go. For a moment, the little girl acted confused, and did not know what to do. I spoke to her in Spanish, and told her everything was going to be all right. She ran over to me, and I held her against my legs.

"You got a car?" Hicks asked.

"Yes," I said.

"We're going to take a ride. I've got a duffel bag over there. I want you to put your daughter in it, and carry her to your car. I'll follow you."

"Okay," I said.

"Pull any tricks and I'll shoot both of you."

"No tricks," I promised.

"You learn fast."

I saw movement in the window behind Hicks's head. Edwards the security guard was aiming his pistol through the gla.s.s at Hicks's back. He waved for me to get down. I grabbed Angelica and hit the floor.

The gunshot sounded like a cannon going off inside the enclosed s.p.a.ce. Hicks lurched forward. A b.l.o.o.d.y hole the size of my fist appeared in the center of his chest. He touched it with his fingers, and stared at his own blood.

"s.h.i.t," he said.

Everyone dies differently. Hicks went down slowly, like he was sinking into the earth. We made eye contact, and I saw something resembling remorse cross his face. I only moved when I was sure he was dead, and that we were out of danger.

I carried Angelica outside into the blinding sunshine. She was crying, and I kissed the top of her head. This was the reward for the work I did, and it never got old.

h.e.l.ler ran across the field toward me. One of her shoes flew off, then the other. That didn't slow her down. I pa.s.sed Angelica to her, and she clutched the child to her bosom like she was her own.

"It's over," I said.

I went back inside the shed. Buster had parked himself next to Hicks, and was snapping at the flies buzzing around him. The security guard stood next to my dog, his face wet with fear.

"Is he dead?" the security guard asked.

I said yes, and pointed at the smoking pistol in his hand.

"I hope you have a license for that thing," I said.

CHAPTER FIVE.

I stayed in Ocala long enough to give my statement to the police. Then I got onto 1-75, headed south to the Florida Turnpike, and went home. stayed in Ocala long enough to give my statement to the police. Then I got onto 1-75, headed south to the Florida Turnpike, and went home.

I lived in Dania, a sleepy town south of Fort Lauderdale known for its dusty consignment shops that sold the world's best junk. It was pitch dark by the time I reached its deserted streets.

I drove east down Dania Beach Boulevard, then hung a left onto an unmarked road known only to locals. A minute later I pulled into Tugboat Louie's crowded parking lot. Loud music blared out of the speakers on the side of the building, and I tapped out the rhythm to the Rolling Stones' "Can't You Hear Me Knocking?" on my steering wheel.

Louie's was my idea of heaven. It had a good-time bar, dockside dining on a wide ca.n.a.l, and a small marina. It was also where I kept my office. I wanted to see if anyone had written an e-mail back about Sampson Grimes, and I went inside.

Louie's owner-a hardworking Indian named k.u.mar-sat on a stool by the front door. k.u.mar came to work each day wearing black slacks, a white Egyptian cotton shirt, and an oversized black bow tie. Years ago I'd done him a favor, which he seemed intent on forever repaying.

"Jack, Jack, how are you?" k.u.mar asked.

"I'm fine. How about you?"

"Wonderful, fantastic, I can't complain. How is your dog?"

"He's chewing 'em up."

"Glad to hear it. Listen, there is a man here waiting to see you. I have to a.s.sume he's a policeman because he won't drink any liquor, just coffee. He's very unfriendly and keeps looking suspiciously around the room. He's making everyone very uncomfortable."

"Did he give you his name?"

"No."

I glanced into the bar. It was jumping the way only a Fort Lauderdale bar can: the music was deafening, the booze was flowing, and women were dancing in the aisles and on tabletops while letting their inhibitions fly out the door. I spotted Detective Ron Cheeks sitting in the back, wearing a dark suit and shades, the proverbial t.u.r.d in the punch bowl. I caught his eye, and waved. Within moments, Cheeks was on top of me.

"You and I need to talk," Cheeks said.

"Sure," I said. "Can I buy you a burger?"

"In private."

"It must be important," I said.

"Life-altering," he said.

I unhooked a chain to the stairwell, and we marched upstairs. Cheeks was your typical belligerent white male. Mid-forties, divorced, his head anch.o.r.ed on a dinner roll of a neck, his droopy handlebar mustache giving his face a permanent frown. He had taken over the Missing Persons unit after I'd left the sheriff's department. I didn't resent him for that, just the fact that he rarely gave me any jobs.

The second floor housed two offices: mine and k.u.mar's. My office was long and narrow, and contained a desk with a computer, two folding chairs, and a spectacular view of the ca.n.a.l. As I entered, Buster trotted to the corner and curled into a ball.

"You should get rid of that dog," Cheeks said.

"What's wrong with my dog?"

"He bites people."

"Only bad people."

"He's the anti-La.s.sie." Cheeks dropped into a chair and undid the knot in his necktie. He was wheezing from the climb, and took a moment to catch his breath. "If you were smart, you'd have him put to sleep."

"You need to get in shape," I said.

"Round is a shape."

I leaned against my desk, and waited him out.

"I got your e-mail about Sampson Grimes," Cheeks said. "I want to see what Abb gave you at the prison."

I handed Cheeks the kidnapper's photograph and ransom note. The detective removed his shades and gave them a cursory glance. His eyes were watery, ringed from lack of sleep. He stuffed both items into his jacket pocket.

"I know who kidnapped Sampson Grimes," he said.

"You do?" I asked.

"It was the kid's father, Jed Grimes. Unfortunately, I can't prove it."

"How can you be certain?"

Cheeks held up his outstretched hand, touching each of his fingers as he spoke. "Jed Grimes was the last person to see Sampson. Jed failed a polygraph test. Jed's fighting with the kid's mother over custody rights. Jed has a long history with the police. Is that enough circ.u.mstantial evidence for you?"

"Not really," I said. In most cases, that would have been enough to convince me. Only this situation was different. Abb Grimes had received a ransom note in which the kidnapper was threatening to kill the boy. It was far too important a lead to be swept under the rug.

"Look, Jack, I'm going to stop beating around the bush. I want you to drop this case. The last thing I need right now is you running around town, stirring up the pot. Jed Grimes is guilty. It's just going to take me awhile to prove it."

I bit my tongue in anger. I didn't care about Jed, just the boy.

"What about Sampson?" I asked.

"What about him?"

"He's been gone three days. We need to find him."

"We'll find him eventually."

"You're sure about that?"

"I'd bet my reputation on it."

I nearly laughed in his face. Years ago, Cheeks had fallen asleep on his desk, and woken up with the word Homicide Homicide printed backward on his forehead, the words picked up off an internal report. He'd walked around for hours without knowing it. He didn't have a reputation, at least not one worth betting on. printed backward on his forehead, the words picked up off an internal report. He'd walked around for hours without knowing it. He didn't have a reputation, at least not one worth betting on.

"I'm not dropping the case," I said.

"You're making a mistake."

I shrugged.

Cheeks retied the knot in his tie. "Okay, then I'm going to set some ground rules. One, no leaks to the press. Anything you learn, I hear about first. Two, no withholding information. If you find something out and don't tell me, I'll kill you. Three, no talking to suspects or visiting the crime scene without my permission. Four, no grandstanding. If you locate the kid, I don't want you rescuing him. That's my responsibility. You can stay in the shadows and collect your money. Understand?"

"Loud and clear."

Cheeks stood up, and put his shades back on. We'd been friends once, or so I'd thought. The man standing in front of me now was not my friend.

"You and I go back a long way, so I'm going to give you some advice," Cheeks said. "Drop this case, or it will be your last."

I had been threatened before, but never by a cop. The words carried a lot more menace coming out of Cheeks's mouth than I would have liked.

"Sure I can't buy you a burger?" I asked.

"I'll ruin you," he said.

"They're really good. I'll even throw in a beer."

"You're not funny, Jack."

"How about some dessert? The chocolate cake is to die for."

Cheeks went to the door and jerked it open.

"Think it over," he said.

"I'll definitely do that," I said.