in her genes to carry a shield.
“Boone let me question Tyrone Biggs,” I said. “He didn’t abduct Sara Long.”
“How can you be positive? Strange things happen to people’s memories when they get knocked out.”
I had hired and trained Burrell, and it felt strange to hear her question me. Only that was what the job required. You had to question everyone.
“And it was dark,” Burrell added.
“I know what I saw,” I said. “It wasn’t Biggs.”
“Then who was it?”
“I don’t know who he is.”
Lying on the desk was a green Pendaflex file. Burrell picked the file up and handed it to me. I opened it and started to read.
“Those are the records of eleven men of unusual height who’ve committed crimes against women in south Florida in the past five years,” she said. “Maybe one of them is the guy you saw abducting Sara Long.”
Burrell was giving me the benefit of the doubt, which was more than Boone and Weaver had done. I removed the records and spread them across her desk. The mug shots of eleven hardened criminals stared up at me. Five were white, three black, three Hispanic. I studied their faces, then put the records back into the file.
“It’s none of these guys,” I said.
“You’re sure about that?”
“Yes. I know this is going to sound strange, but I’ve seen the guy before.”
Burrell’s mouth dropped open. “You have? When?”
“Eighteen years ago. I was a patrolman, and went to an apartment complex in Fort Lauderdale on a call. A college student named Naomi Dunn was being assaulted by an unknown male. I responded and tried to get into the apartment. The guy opened a door in my face and knocked me down. I saw him leave with Dunn thrown over his shoulder. It was the same person I saw abduct Sara Long.”
“What else do you remember about him?”
“He looked crazy,” I said.
“Did you write this up in your report?”
“I did, but my supervisor made me change it.”
An uneasy silence filled the office. Burrell put her elbows on her desk and gave me a hard look.
“Why did he do that?”
“I was studying to become a detective. My supervisor said that if I wrote in my report that this guy was a crazy giant, people would think I was making excuses, and I might not get promoted. He made me change my report to say that Dunn’s abductor was a big guy who was high on something.”
“Only he wasn’t.”
I felt my face burn, and shook my head.
“You shouldn’t have done that,” Burrell said.
“I made up for it.”
“How so?”
“I had a choice of units when I became a detective. Missing Persons was brand-new, just a cubicle and a desk. I took over, and immediately started looking for Dunn. I’ve never stopped looking.”
“Where did you look?”
“I contacted every police department in the state, and every hospital. When that didn’t pan out, I contacted police departments and hospitals in other states. Nothing turned up.”
The red button on her desk phone lit up. It was the office’s private line, and only a few select people had the number. Burrell answered it.
“Excuse me, Mayor Dawson, but I have someone sitting in my office,” she said. “If you don’t mind, I’m going to put you on hold. I’ll be right back.”
Burrell put the call on hold and nestled the receiver into the cradle. Her eyes had not left my face the whole time.
“Let me see if I get this straight,” she said. “You think Sara Long’s abduction is connected to an eighteen- year-old case, and the culprit is some big guy with mental problems that there are no records of.”
“I know it sounds stupid, but yes.”
“You once told me that criminals don’t operate in vacuums. They live in regular neighborhoods and shop for groceries and do other normal stuff. If this guy has been running around for that long, how come there’s no record of him?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “He works with a partner called Mouse, so maybe Mouse is the visible one, while he stays undercover.”
“A mouse and a giant.”
“That’s right.”
Burrell drummed her desk. The sound gave a nice beat to the blinking light on her phone. I could tell she was growing exasperated with me.
“The mayor wants me to formally arrest Tyrone Biggs,” she said.
“Why is the mayor involved?”
“Because the case has become political. If I don’t make an arrest soon, the city stands to lose the women’s NCAA basketball tournament next month. We’re talking millions of dollars of tourism revenue and lots of TV exposure.”
“But Tyrone Biggs is innocent. Someone else did this.”
“Jack, be reasonable. You got hit in the head, and your mind is playing tricks on you. What other explanation is there?”
I rose from my chair. I had told my story to three detectives, and none had believed me. I needed to find more evidence to prove my case. If I didn’t, Sara Long would end up like Naomi Dunn.
“Who’s got my gun?” I asked.
“I do.”
“Can I have it back? Or do I need to take a sanity test first?”
Burrell removed my Colt from her desk. There was a slight hesitation as she handed it to me. Like she thought I might have gone off my rocker, and could hurt someone with it. I slipped it into the holster in my pocket and went to the door.
“Tell the mayor I said hello,” I said.
CHAPTER 11
I drove to the Bank Atlantic Center where my daughter’s team was practicing. Entering through a service entrance, I walked to the arena without seeing a single cop or security guard. Had I still been running Missing Persons, I would have assigned a pair of cops to every practice until Sara Long was found.
I stood beneath a basket and canvassed the arena. The Lady Seminoles were at the far end of the court, practicing their jump shots. I waved to my daughter and also to her coach, who I owed a dinner. Then I looked in the stands to see if any suspicious characters were hanging around.
Satisfied that Jessie and her teammates were safe, I went to the lobby and tagged a maintenance man mopping the floor. Maintenance men were good sources of information, and had helped me many times during investigations. I handed him my business card, which identified me as a retired detective with the Broward County police.
“My name’s Jack Carpenter,” I said. “I was wondering if you were working the basketball game last night.”
The maintenance man studied my card. He was pushing sixty, with snow-white hair worn in a buzz cut, and bloodshot eyes that said he was no stranger to the bottle. Stitched in red above his shirt pocket was the name Frank.
“Is this about the girl that was abducted?” Frank asked.
