he minded answering a few questions.
“Not at all,” he said. “Have a seat.”
I slid into the empty seat of his golf cart. Buster hopped into the back, expecting a ride. It was funny, only Edwards didn’t smile. If we didn’t find Angelica Suarez, he would probably lose his job.
“Yesterday morning, Angelica Suarez’s mother came to school to register her daughter,” I said. “Someone helped her find the principal’s office. I was wondering if you happened to see who helped her.”
Edwards’s eyes glazed over as he plumbed his memory. “Come to mention it, I did. She parked over by the fence. She looked confused, and started talking to a maintenance guy cutting the grass.”
“Did he take her inside?”
“I’m not sure. I got pulled inside for a minute. When I came back out, she was gone, and so was the maintenance man, only his mower was still there.”
“Had he finished cutting the grass?”
“I don’t think so. There was a patch still left.”
“What’s his name?”
“Ray Hicks.”
“Can you describe him for me?”
“Sure. Ray’s my age, pretty tall, but out of shape. Tends to keep to himself. The first time I met him, he made my skin crawl. I called my brother who’s a cop over in Jacksonville, and he had a records check pulled on him. Hicks was clean.”
“But he bothered you?”
“Yeah.”
Intuition was the messenger of fear. Edwards’s intuition had told him that Ray Hicks was a bad character, even if there was no evidence to prove it. I thanked him for his help and went back inside.
The media room was directly off the main entrance, and was filled with computers, DVD players, and other electronic equipment that kids needed to learn how to use so they could teach their parents. I found Heller and three other people, who I assumed were the teacher, the receptionist, and the school doctor, sitting at a rectangular table in the room’s center. I pulled Heller off to the side.
“What can you tell me about a maintenance man named Ray Hicks?” I asked.
“Do you think he’s the one?” Heller asked.
“He’s in the running.”
“Ray works part-time cutting the grass and pruning. He’s never been a problem, although I’ve caught him lurking around the halls a few times. I guess you could say he’s a bit strange.”
“Is there a reason you didn’t mention him before?”
“All the maintenance men are strange.”
“Does he have a place where he stores his things?”
“He has a locker.”
“I’d like to see it.”
Heller took me to the maintenance men’s locker room, which was adjacent to the school cafeteria. Each locker had a piece of masking tape with its occupant’s name printed on it. Hicks’s locker was at the end of the row, and was padlocked.
“Is this locker school property?” I asked.
“Everything on the grounds is school property,” she replied.
“We need to cut away this padlock. Where can I find some clippers?”
Heller led me to the tool room. Sixty seconds later, I cut away the padlock on Hicks’s locker with a pair of steel clippers, and had a look inside. The locker contained a pair of work shoes, a change of clothes, and a can of Old Spice aftershave. Tucked in the back was a three-ring binder. I flipped through its pages, and found myself reading a series of e-mails between Hicks and someone who called himself Teen Angel. The e-mails discussed how to abduct a child from a public place, and included tips on how to gain the child’s trust, and deal with things like temper tantrums and crying fits. I found myself shaking my head. Teen Angel had tutored Hicks over the Internet.
I came to the last e-mail in the binder. It was dated only a few short days ago. Teen Angel had wished Hicks good luck, and given him some parting advice. It read, Remember, TWO HOURS MAX!
I knew what that meant. Two hours was the maximum amount of time that most abductors wanted to keep a child before turning them over to a buyer.
“How long has Angelica been gone?” I asked.
Heller looked at her watch. “One hour and fifty minutes.”
We were running out of time. I tried to put myself in Hicks’s shoes. This was the first time he’d done this. My guess was, he’d taken Angelica to a place where he felt safe.
“Where do the maintenance men hang out?” I asked.
“They have a shed behind the gymnasium,” Heller said.
“Show me.”
Heller led me outside behind the school, and pointed at a prefabricated shed nestled behind the gymnasium.
“For what it’s worth, the police searched the shed earlier,” she said.
Not very well, I nearly said.
“Call the police and tell them to get over here,” I said.
With Buster by my side, I ran to the shed. The dog had tuned into my apprehension, and his hackles stood straight up. The shed had a single window, and I cleaned the glass with my fingers, and peered inside.
A lanky guy wearing a green uniform covered in grass stains stood inside the shed. He had a pair of scissors in his hand, and he was giving a radiant, dark-skinned little girl sitting in a chair a haircut. The girl held a box of Milk Duds, and was squirming uncomfortably. I had found Ray Hicks and Angelica Suarez.
“Sit still,” Hicks said in broken Spanish.
“I don’t want my hair cut,” Angelica replied in Spanish.
“Eat some more candy, and shut up,” he said.
“I don’t want candy,” she said.
Angelica threw down the box of candy, and started to cry. Hicks looked nervously around the shed, then violently clamped his hand over her mouth.
“Shut up!” he said.
Drawing my gun, I found the door to the shed, and kicked it three inches above the knob. It came down, and I rushed inside. Buster flew past me, and went straight for Hicks’s legs.
“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.”
