“Fuck the mayor,” I said.
The other detectives burst into laughter. Burrell was in no mood for games, and shot them a murderous look. The sound quickly died.
“So what exactly are you suggesting I do?” Burrell asked.
“Call Deborah Bodden at Fox News, and tell her what you’ve found,” I said. “Tell her that a pair of serial abductors have been abducting young women in Florida for the past eighteen years, and the detectives in your unit uncovered them.”
The other detectives broke into smiles. They were going to be heroes when this was all over. Burrell wasn’t sold, and continued to press me.
“What about Sky’s sex tape?” she said.
“What about it?”
“The tape proves that we arrested the wrong guy. I’m still screwed.”
“You’re spinning it wrong.”
“What do you mean?”
“If Sky had handed over the tape to the police two days ago, you never would have arrested Tyrone Biggs. Right?”
Burrell considered what I was saying, then nodded.
“Sky withheld evidence that crippled your investigation,” I went on. “Because of her, you made a false arrest. Let Biggs go, and throw Sky in the county lockup.”
“You’re saying I should make Sky the bad guy.”
“Sky is the bad guy. She deserves whatever she gets.”
“That doesn’t seem right somehow.”
“You want to take the fall, be my guest.”
Burrell gave me a funny look. I could tell that she didn’t like what I was saying. Burrell was one of those cops who wanted to do her job well, and for people to like her. I had never had that problem.
Burrell shook her head. “I don’t know, Jack.”
“Just do it. You’ll thank me later.”
“You think so?”
“Yes, Candy, I do.”
Burrell started to reply, then looked down at her side. Buster stood by her leg, wanting to be petted. Burrell scratched the top of his head.
“What do you think, boy?” she asked my dog.
Buster wagged his tail enthusiastically. It brought a smile to Burrell’s face, and I realized that it had been awhile since I’d seen her do that.
“I guess it’s worth a shot,” Burrell said.
CHAPTER 30
Burrell quickly took charge. The first thing she did was to make me write down everything I knew about the five abductions on a legal pad. I was carrying a lot of information in my head, and the details ended up covering several pages.
Burrell then read everything back to me. Several times she stopped to question something I’d written or to clarify a point. It was an exhausting process, but there was no other way to bring her up to speed.
A half hour later, we were done. Burrell rose from her chair at the table in the War Room, and so did I.
“One last thing,” Burrell said. “You said the FBI determined that the abductors are driving a late-model Jeep Cherokee based on the tire tracks you picked up. Can I give that information to the media?”
“You mean without pissing off the FBI?” I said.
“Yes. They don’t always share with us.”
I probably should have called Linderman and gotten his permission, only I’d found the tracks, and could have just as easily made the vehicle without his help.
“Go ahead,” I said.
Burrell called Deborah Bodden at Fox on her cell. While she was on the phone, I went to the copy machine, and made copies of the missing women’s files, along with a copy of my own notes. I handed the originals back to Burrell as she hung up.
“A Fox News team is on their way over,” Burrell said.
“That was fast.”
“I told Bodden I was giving her an exclusive.”
“Anything else I can do?”
“I hate to ask you this Jack, but you need to leave before they get here.”
The request did not offend me. My work for the police was strictly under the table. The last thing Burrell needed was for me to be seen by the media.
“Good luck,” I said.
Buster and I took the stairs to the first floor. I stuck my head into the reception area to make sure no reporters were there. The reception area was deserted, and I stole outside and jogged across the parking lot to my car. The sun hung directly overhead, the midday heat like an oven. A brightly painted Fox News van entered the lot and drove directly past me. I kept my head down and my hand in front of my face.
Reaching my Legend, I glanced over my shoulder. The Fox van had braked next to the front entrance. Deborah Bodden and her cameraman hopped out and ran into the building, their bodies a blur.
I jumped into my car and fired up the engine. Back when I was a cop, TV news reporters had taped their interviews and edited them before putting them on air. But times had changed. Most TV reporters now broadcast their interviews live in order not to be scooped by iReporters, who sent out their stories instantly on the Internet. I was guessing that Bodden would broadcast her interview with Burrell live.
I burned rubber leaving the lot, and drove down Andrews Avenue looking for a bar with a TV.
Broward County had so many bars that people called it Fort Liquordale. The bar I picked was called The Pour House, and was located within a dingy shopping center filled with empty storefronts. The place had no windows, just a small sign with its name.
I bellied up to the bar and ordered a soda. A giant-screen TV showed a mixed martial arts bout while the jukebox played Bob Seger’s “Against the Wind.” A crew of aging, pot-bellied bikers sat at a corner table, drowning themselves in beer.
The bartender was a small, hardened woman with fresh stitches on her chin. I saw her eyeing Buster.
“You got bad eyes?” she asked.
She thought Buster was a Seeing Eye dog. “Yeah,” I lied.
“I don’t have no problems with dogs. Two bucks for the soda.”
I slapped a five-dollar bill on the bar and told her to keep the change. She stuffed the tip down the front of her blouse.
“It’s safer than putting it in a bank,” she explained.
She put my drink down in front of me. I asked her if she would change the TV to FOX. She agreed, and surfed the channels and found FOX. The words Special News Report were running across the bottom on the screen. I took out my cell phone and called Linderman at work. He picked up right away.
“Turn your TV to FOX,” I said.
“What’s going on?” Linderman asked.
“The Broward cops are about to blow this case wide open. It’s coming on the TV right now.”
“I’m turning on the set in my office,” he said.
I ended the call. The interview had started, and a life-size Candy Burrell appeared on the giant screen. Her hair was tied into a bun, and she wore a dark shade of lipstick. One of the bikers gave a wolf whistle.
Deborah Bodden stood beside Burrell and began to ask questions. The TV’s volume was muted, and the text ran across the bottom of the screen. I had been interviewed enough times to know when a reporter was on my
