“He was white, kinda short and thin, in his late forties. He was wearing dirty Bermuda shorts, a faded blue T-shirt, and a baseball cap. During the break, I tried to snap a photo of him with my cell phone, but he took off running.”
“You might have scared him away.”
“He’ll be back, Daddy.”
“You think so?”
“I’d bet money on it.”
Intuition was the messenger of fear. Jessie’s gut was telling her that this guy was a threat. It was time to stop questioning and start helping.
“I’ll look for him at the game tonight,” I said.
“Thank you, Daddy.”
– – I drove east, to the beach, and pulled into the parking lot of the Sunset Bar and Grill, a ramshackle building that sat with one half in the sand and the other half over the ocean. I lived in a rented room above the bar with a spectacular view of the water. One day a hurricane would come and blow it all away, but for now, I called it home.
I showered and put on my best clothes, then headed downstairs. Behind the bar was a shaven-headed, heavily tattooed ex-convict named Sonny. I’d leaned on Sonny after my life had fallen apart, and he’d never let me down. He gave me a plate of table scraps, which I placed on the floor for my dog.
“How did you get all those Band-Aids on your arms?” Sonny asked.
“Wrestling with an alligator,” I replied.
“Yeah, and I’m Peter Pan.”
“You’ve put on weight.”
“Up yours.”
“I need to go out later. Can you babysit Buster for me?”
“Hot date?”
“My daughter’s basketball game.”
“The place won’t be the same without you.”
“I bet you say that to all the boys.”
At six o’clock I left the Sunset and drove to the Bank Atlantic Center on the west side of the county. Built ten years ago with taxpayer money, the Center is a concrete and glass arena that hosts rock concerts and sporting events. Inside, I bought a cold beer and a couple of hot dogs, and sat in the stands with a group of fathers whose daughters were also on the team. It was the second round of an NCAA regional tournament, the Lady Seminoles of Florida State vs. the Lady Cougars of Ole Miss, and the game was expected to be close. I started yelling at the opening tip-off. By the half, I was so hoarse I could hardly speak.
The game was just as advertised, and hotly contested. I’d been watching women’s hoops since my daughter had started playing in high school, and knew the names of every player on both teams. With two minutes left in the game, Sara Long, the Lady Seminole’s leading scorer, sunk a three-pointer that put her team firmly ahead. I rose from my seat along with the rest of the fathers and cheered.
That’s when I spotted the stalker.
He stood with a group of photographers beneath a basket. Small and thin, he wore green shorts, a ratty T- shirt, and a Marlin’s baseball cap pulled down low. His sole interest was the Lady Seminoles, and his video camera never stopped filming.
I hustled down the aisle toward the floor. Every security guard in the Center was a retired cop, and there wasn’t one who didn’t know me. I was going to ask one of the guards to pull this creep off the floor and check his credentials. Chances were, they were fake, which would be grounds for having him arrested.
I hopped over the restraining gate, and started moving around the court toward the basket. The game was winding down, the eyes of everyone in the stands on the players. When I was a few feet away from the stalker, I stopped. A plastic reporters’ pass hung around his neck, the ID portion turned around. I didn’t think that was a coincidence.
“Hey buddy, don’t I know you?” I asked.
It was a line I’d used often as a cop. It tended to scare the crap out of bad guys.
The stalker lowered his camera. His chin was covered in gray stubble, and his teeth hadn’t seen a dentist in years.
“I don’t think so,” the stalker said.
I grabbed the ID, and flipped it over. It was blank.
“Where’s your press pass?” I asked.
“I must have left it in my car.”
I pointed at the exit. “Let’s go.”
“You a cop?”
“Used to be.”
His shoulders sagged. Body language could tell you a lot about a person’s intentions. This guy was guilty as charged.
A roar shook the arena, and I looked at the court. Jessie had stolen the ball out of an opponent’s hands. She dribbled effortlessly down the court, planted her feet and took a shot, the ball arcing perfectly through the basket.
“That a girl,” I shouted.
Something hard hit me in the chest. Losing my balance, I fell backward, and hit the floor on my backside. It took a moment for me to get my wits. The stalker’s video camera lay beside me. Looking up, I saw him sprinting toward the exit.
I jumped to my feet. In my experience, only guys who were wanted by the police ever ran away.
I’d hooked a live one.
CHAPTER 6
The temperature dropped ten degrees as I ran into the parking lot. It was a perfect night, with a soft breeze blowing off the ocean and a pale full moon. I lived in paradise, although it often got spoiled by guys like this.
The stalker had vanished. I climbed onto the bumper of a pickup truck, and tried to find him. When that didn’t work, I shut my eyes, hoping to hear where he’d gone. The hiss of traffic on the Sawgrass Expressway sounded like steam escaping out of a pipe, and drowned out all sound.
I hopped off the pickup and trotted up and down the aisles. I was guessing my stalker had jumped into a car and was hiding from me. A maroon Ford minivan with fast-food wrappers lying by the driver’s door caught my eye. Something told me that the scumbag with the video camera had dropped them there. As I approached the vehicle, my cell phone rang. Caller ID said JESSIE.
“Hey honey,” I said.
“Where are you?” my daughter asked.
“I had to run outside. Did you win?”
“We beat them by eight points. One of the fathers said you were chasing somebody. Did you find the stalker I told you about?”
“Yes, but he gave me the slip. Let me call you right back.”
“We’re heading back to the motel. Call me if you find him, will you?”
“You bet.”
I closed my phone and slipped it into my pocket. Then I approached the minivan, and stuck my face to the tinted windshield. I couldn’t see inside, and I went around to the back and tried to look through the back window. It was covered in duct tape. I considered peeling the tape back, then decided I was overstepping whatever rights I had as a pissed-off father. I dialed the sheriff’s department on my cell phone and heard an operator pick up.
“This is Jack Carpenter. Who’s this?”
“Hey Jack, it’s Gloria,” the operator said. “How you been? I heard you were working solo these days.”
