“Just missed him.”
“Wonderful!” He turned to leave.
“Oh, Serge. You know when Melvin’s coming back? He’s got the keys to the truck and we need it.”
“What do you mean, ‘coming back’? Where did he go?”
“I don’t know. Left with this guy in a car.”
“Guy?”
“Really old dude. Your age.”
“Wouldn’t happen to remember what he was driving?”
“That’s easy. Wicked excellent ride, Delta 88.”
“You guys are supposed to be smart,” said Serge. “None of this raised any flags?”
“Thought he was alumni or something.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because he was looking at the Gators bumper sticker on the pickup before Melvin went over and asked what he was doing.”
“And then what happened?”
“I got more beer.”
LAS OLAS BOULEVARD
The case dossier lay in a lap.
“Agent Mahoney’s Monaco sat in a parallel space along the bistro district. Wine, sidewalk tables, palm trees wrapped year-round in strands of white Christmas lights-just down the street from the demolished Candy Store nightclub, national birthplace of the wet T-shirt contest in the bygone spring break era, making it a church of sorts. Mahoney had rescued his share of cops from that lounge, and now the chips were due. He stared at the folder of paperwork and faded photos resting on his legs.”
Mahoney stopped talking to himself. He couldn’t put his finger on it, but the answer was in there somewhere.
He started back at the beginning again, the whole strange saga of Randall Sheets. Wife’s illness, the flights, Madre-that really took him back to the old days-grand jury testimony, son pulled from kindergarten, Battle Creek-
The agent paused on the page. He took off his fedora and ran a hand through his hair. “Women don’t shoot themselves.” He fished out the autopsy, looking for caliber. “Nine-millimeter? That’s weird…”
His eyes widened. “Oh, no.”
The agent flipped open his cell and dialed.
“Bugsy, I need travel records for a specific date.”
“How long ago?”
“Fifteen years.”
“That’s almost impossible.”
“Plus I need a sealed juvenile record.”
“That
“And I want both in a half hour.”
“You’re crazy. What’s the big rush?”
“Someone’s going to die.”
MIDNIGHT
Rain started again.
A light drizzle, but with ocean gusts that promised a bigger show. Students in sports cars and Jeeps cruised the strip. Decent numbers, but not like the sixties, when it brought A1A to a standstill.
The rain came down harder, scattering people off sidewalks and into bars.
Or bushes.
Andy poked his head up from shrubs along the front of a seafood grill. A quick scan of the surroundings, then another hundred-yard dash south, hugging buildings, staying as far from the street as possible. Another dive into manicured hedges.
A ’73 Challenger rolled down the strip. Serge cranked his windshield wipers from intermittent to full. “How far could they have gotten?”
“Finding one person in this rain is hard enough,” said Coleman. “But two?”
“We have to find them!”
The Challenger blew through a yellow light at Sunrise Boulevard. The Crown Vic behind him ran the red. Agent Ramirez checked his watch and his gun.
Andy wiped rain from his eyes, surveying the street again from behind landscaping.
A Delta 88 crossed a drawbridge at the causeway and made the northern swing onto the strip.
“Maybe he went the other way,” said Coleman.
“You might be right.” Serge made a skidding U-turn where A1A forks at the Oasis Cafe.
Andy waited for the taillights to fade, then jumped out from behind a coconut palm at the Oasis and bolted across the street through honking traffic.
Guillermo drove past a marina just as Andy dove behind a closed ticket shack for fishing charters. But Guillermo wasn’t looking for Andy. He turned to his passenger in the front seat. “Get both hands back on the dash.”
“What are you going to do to me?” asked Melvin.
“Nothing,” said Guillermo. “Just need you to straighten something out for me.”
“Why do we keep driving back and forth?”
“Waiting for a phone call…”
Guillermo reached Oakland Park, passing a southbound Challenger in the intersection.
“I’ll never forgive myself,” said Serge. Another U-turn. And another.
Coleman rode out the centrifugal force against the passenger door. “I have no idea which way we’re going anymore.”
The driver of an ’07 Mustang tried to make the light at Sunrise, then changed his mind. Tires didn’t hold the wet street, and he spun into a lamppost.
“Why are we slowing down?” asked Coleman.
“Must be some kind of accident.” Serge strained to see through sweeping wipers that couldn’t handle the volume. Flares in the road. “Can’t even imagine Floridians driving on snow.”
Police put out the cones, snarling traffic to a single lane.
“Dammit!” Serge punched the steering wheel. “What a time for this!”
They crept along, getting closer to the traffic cop in a rain poncho waving cars by with a lighted baton. Only twenty vehicles back now, which put them five behind a Delta 88, ten behind a Dodge Monaco and fifteen behind a Crown Vic with government plates.
The rain became a sheeting downpour, killing visibility. Hazard lights blinked. A glowing baton waved the Crown Vic by. Ramirez hit the gas and raced a block to the appointed street corner.
The Vic hadn’t come to a complete stop yet when Ramirez saw Andy jump from behind the charter-boat shack and sprint down a knoll. The agent leaned across the front seat, opening the passenger door, and Andy dove in.
Ramirez took off.
A Delta 88 and a Challenger rolled through the intersection.
“Serge, what’s the point…”
“I’m not giving up on Melvin and Andy!”
“I ain’t saying give up, just that all this driving back and forth isn’t working.”
“I know, and time’s running out! It might already be too late. If only there was some way to turn back the clock and give me time to think-” Serge cut himself off and snapped his fingers.
“Is this like what you were talking about before?” asked Coleman. “A thought pops into your head later?”
