wrong?”
I shook my head. I hadn’t seen Vorbe come through the front doors, and guessed he’d come through the back, and walked around the side of the building. Had Vorbe seen me sitting in my car through one of the store’s surveillance cameras, and decided to check up on me? Something told me that he had.
“If you will excuse me, I must get back to work,” Vorbe said.
“Have a nice night,” I said.
“You, too,” he said.
I watched him limp inside. A person’s walk can be as telling as his voice. His was animated, and had a bounce to it, despite his infirmity. My gut told me he was going to make a run for it. I leashed Buster and followed him inside.
The store was dead. The checkout lines were empty, and several cashiers were chatting. Through the aisles, I caught a glimpse of Vorbe heading for the back of the store. He was still moving fast. I hurried after him.
I saw Vorbe push open a swinging door next to the meat section. I was ten steps behind him, and as I reached the door, a big man wearing a bloodied apron blocked me from going any further. A plastic name tag identified him as the store’s meat manager.
“Dogs aren’t allowed in the store,” the meat manager said.
Vorbe was running away. I said the first thing that came to mind.
“I’m legally blind.”
“And I’m Mother Teresa. Get the dog out of here.”
I kept moving forward. The meat manager spread his arms like a linebacker. There was no room around him, and I nudged Buster with my foot. My dog showed his teeth, and the meat manager sprang back.
“You’re asking for trouble,” the meat manager said.
“Go back to your station,” I said.
“Who the hell do you think-”
“Just do as I say.”
The meat manager got out of my way, and I hit the swinging door with my shoulder. Vorbe’s office was in the rear of the store, and I spied a light shining through the open door. I went to the office, and stuck my head in. Vorbe sat at his desk, wiping his sweaty face with a hanky. He looked at me in alarm.
“Can I help you?” Vorbe asked.
I entered, and sat down across from him. “You lied to me.”
Vorbe started to protest. I held up my hand like I was directing traffic.
“You told me a store employee saw Jed Grimes hanging around the Dumpsters the morning Piper Stone was murdered,” I said. “But you told Detective Cobb that you saw Jed. Why did you change your story?”
Vorbe gave me a scolding look. “I think you misheard me.”
“My ears are fine. You changed your story because you were afraid Detective Cobb would want to speak to that employee, and confirm what you’d said. Only there was no employee to speak to.”
Vorbe shook his head from side to side. The gesture was condescending, and reminded me of a parent scolding a child.
“Sir, you are simply wrong,” he said.
“I am?”
“Yes.”
“You didn’t tell me one story, and Detective Cobb another?”
“Absolutely not,” he said.
“So I misheard you.”
“Yes.”
“Here’s what I think. You’re hiding something. Let’s take a trip to police headquarters, and take a polygraph test. Then we’ll see who’s telling the truth.”
Vorbe drummed his fingers on his desk. “I would like you to leave now.”
“Did you kill Piper Stone?”
“Of course not.”
“How about the rest of the women we found in the Pompano Beach landfill? Something tells me they all got there through your Dumpsters.”
A bead of sweat ran down his nose and hit his desk. Busted.
“I think you did,” I said.
Vorbe rose from his chair without the use of his cane. In one easy motion, he lifted his desk clean off the floor, and tossed it onto me. It was heavy, and I struggled to push it away. Tangled in my legs, Buster yelped in pain.
Vorbe pressed the desk against my body. The expression on his face had gone from polite to murderous in the blink of an eye. I tried to draw my Colt, but couldn’t get my fingers free enough to reach into my pants pocket. The meat manager appeared in the open doorway.
“Hey, boss. Is this guy giving you trouble?”
“Yes, Joe,” Vorbe said. “Did you bring your gun?”
“Left it home today.”
“That is too bad. Hold the desk while I call the police.”
“You bet,” the meat manager said.
The meat manager took Vorbe’s place. In horror I watched Vorbe draw a curved knife from his pocket, and grab the meat manager’s head with his free arm. Pulling him close, Vorbe slit the meat manager’s throat the way a farmer slits a chicken’s throat, quick and clean and ruthlessly efficient. The meat manager emitted a choking sound, and I watched blood from his wound join the blood on his apron.
Vorbe let the meat manager drop to the floor, then placed his hands on the desk. The evil lurking below the surface was now visible.
I was next.
With every ounce of strength in my body, I pushed the desk a few inches, and drew my Colt. I pressed the barrel to the desk and squeezed the trigger. The gun barked, and the bullet passed through the wood, and flew past Vorbe’s head.
Before I could fire again, Vorbe ran out of the office.
CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE
I pushed the desk away, freeing myself and my dog. Running to the open door, I looked across the back of the supermarket. The rear door was wide open, and I could hear Vorbe’s footsteps as he ran away.
“Help me,” the meat manager gasped.
I slipped my gun into my pocket and crouched down beside him. His eyes were glued to the ceiling, his life slipping away. He clasped my hand.
“Why?” he asked.
It was a question I’d asked myself a hundred times as a cop. Why did people kill? What purpose did it serve, except to destroy lives and wreck families? I didn’t know the answer, and probably never would.
I called 911 on my cell. An automated operator put me on hold. While I waited for an operator to pick up, the meat manager closed his eyes. As he drew his last breath, I said a prayer, and watched him die.
I rose to my feet with my cell phone pressed to my ear. Buster was standing by the closet, pawing at the door. I pulled the door open and looked inside. The closet was empty. Something about it didn’t feel right. The interior looked cramped.
I pressed my hand against the back wall, and it came down. Behind the closet was a hidden area about five feet tall, and a few feet deep. Hanging from the wall was a pair of handcuffs attached to a metal chain. Beneath the handcuffs, an air tank.
I had found Vorbe’s holding area.
“Broward County Sheriff’s Department,” a police operator said.
