“That’s right. Who’s on duty tonight?”
Gloria passed along the names of the cops working the night shift. One was a detective named Bob Smith who’d worked for me in Missing Persons, and who knew how to get things done. I asked to speak to him, and Gloria patched me through.
“This is Detective Smith,” he answered.
“Jack Carpenter here.”
“Hey, pal, what’s up?”
“I need for you to run a license through the system.”
“I can do that.”
I started to read the license off the minivan. My eyes weren’t what they used to be, and I stepped forward to get a clearer look. As I did, there was a loud ripping sound, and I lifted my eyes to see an enormous arm spring through the duct-taped window, and grab the front of my shirt.
“Hey!” I shouted.
I went straight up in the air, my feet no longer touching the ground. I am a big guy-six foot one, a hundred ninety pounds soaking wet-and the giant arm shook me like a rag doll. I had never felt so helpless.
The minivan started up and backed out of the spot. I was afraid the driver would back up into another car and crush me to death. I drew my Colt and aimed at the back door. I didn’t like shooting at someone I couldn’t see, but there was no other choice. Before I could get off a shot, the giant arm tossed me through the air.
I landed on my back, my skull snapping against the pavement. The Colt and cell phone left my hands, and I heard them skip away. The sickening taste of blood filled my mouth. The minivan braked in front of me, its gears shifting. I rolled to my left just as it backed up, and watched the tires missing my head by inches.
The minivan’s rear door slid back, and I heard someone get out. A dirty work boot appeared by my face. It was the biggest foot I’d ever seen.
The boot came down square on my head, pinning me to the ground. Struggling to free myself, I envisioned my brains being ground out of my skull.
“Get back in the van,” someone said.
I recognized the voice. It was the stalker I’d been chasing.
“Nuh-uh,” the owner of the giant foot grunted.
“People are coming!”
“I want to kill him.”
“There’s no time.”
“There’s always time to kill.”
“Do as I say, before someone sees us.”
“But I want…”
“Get in the fucking van!”
The foot left my head. It was like the weight of the world had been lifted from me. I tried to rise, but a fist crashed down on my skull.
“Hey buddy, are you okay?”
Opening my eyes, I saw a pear-shaped man wearing the traditional maroon colors of Florida State standing over me. He had a rolled-up program in his hand, and wore a concerned look on his face.
“I think so,” I said.
“Had too much to drink, huh?”
“Guess so.”
“Would you mind moving? I need to get into my car.”
I was lying next to the driver’s door of the guy’s car. I rolled out of the way and heard him get into his vehicle and drive off.
I slowly got to my feet. The parking lot was nearly empty. I looked at my watch and realized I’d been out cold for nearly ten minutes.
I worked my jaw back and forth and tilted my head from side to side. Nothing felt broken, and I was thankful that I was still alive. I tried to remember the minivan’s license plate, but the letters and numbers had gotten jumbled in my brain.
I searched for my Colt and my cell phone. I found my phone first. It had been stepped on, and the face was cracked. It refused to power up.
My handgun took longer to locate. It had followed Murphy’s Law and landed beneath one of the few remaining vehicles in the lot. I crawled on my belly like a snake to retrieve it.
My aging Acura Legend was parked on the other side of the lot. Reaching the street, I traveled several blocks until I found a service station with a pay phone. Pulling in, I called Bob Smith back.
“I was starting to worry about you,” Smith said.
“I got mugged while we were talking. Someone inside the minivan jumped me.”
“You hurt?”
“Just my pride.”
“Give me the license again.”
“I whacked my head, and can’t remember it. I don’t think it will do any good anyway. Something tells me the minivan was stolen.”
“What was the make?”
“Maroon Ford, about ten years old.”
I listened to Smith’s fingers bang on a keyboard.
“You’re right,” Smith said. “A 1998 maroon Ford minivan belonging to a house painter named Terry Williams was stolen from his driveway in Lauderdale Lakes last night. Williams told the uniform who responded to the call that he was surprised the vehicle was taken, because it didn’t have any seats.”
“Why didn’t it have seats?”
“Williams said he used the vehicle to transport his painting equipment, and he took the seats out.”
A pair of guys stalking a women’s basketball game had purposely stolen a minivan with the seats ripped out. It sounded like a perfect vehicle for a kidnapping.
“That’s not good,” I said. “I need you to send a cruiser to the Day’s Inn on State Road 84. The Florida State women’s basketball team is staying there, and I think these guys have their eye on one of the players.”
“Will do. Are you heading there now?”
“Yep. Tell the cruiser to meet me behind the motel. That’s where the players stay.”
“Got it.”
I ended the call and jumped into my car. The average response time for a police cruiser in Fort Lauderdale was eight and a half minutes. I knew from experience that a lot of bad stuff could happen in that amount of time. I punched the gas pulling out of the service station and started running red lights.
CHAPTER 7
The Day’s Inn on State Road 84 was a time warp. Hot pink stucco and a flashing neon vacancy sign, it had been there for as long as I could remember. The Lady Seminoles usually rented a row of rooms in the back, away from the highway.
I drove behind the motel, tasting the salty ocean breeze. Coming around the corner, a pair of shiny animal eyes flashed back at me from the swamp behind the motel.
The team bus was parked in back. I parked behind it and got out.
Peels of laughter and loud dance music floated through the air. My daughter’s team was celebrating their hard-earned win over Ole Miss. Everything looked fine, but looks could be deceiving. I decided to find Jessie and make sure she was okay.
I started to cross the lot, and stopped in my tracks. A vehicle was parked in the grass between the team bus and the swamp. It looked like a Ford Minivan, and I approached for a closer look.
It was a Ford Minivan, the rear window covered in duct tape. It was the same vehicle from the Bank Atlantic
