“I need some water. My throat is killing me.”
Jessie filled a plastic cup from a jug sitting on the nightstand. I took it away from her and sucked it down.
“You were in pain, so the doctor gave you a sedative,” she said. “He said the only reason your skull wasn’t broken is because you have a thick head.”
I found the strength to laugh.
“Have you talked to your mother?” I asked.
“I called Mom’s cell, but she didn’t pick up. Then I tried her at the hospital, and the receptionist told me there was a huge pile-up on the interstate, and all the nurses and doctors were working the emergency room.”
“So your mother doesn’t know.”
“No, Daddy.”
My wife had left me and moved away to Tampa after I’d gotten kicked off the force. I’d tried every trick in the book to get her to come back. So far, none of them had worked. I needed to tell her what had happened, not Jessie.
“Let me call your mother,” I said.
“Are you sure?”
“Positive.”
“There are two detectives in the hall who want to talk to you.” Jessie fished their business cards out of the pocket of her jeans and read their names aloud. “Detectives Boone and Weaver. Sounds like a comedy team.”
“First tell me what’s going on,” I said.
“You mean about Sara?”
“Yes.”
My daughter rested her elbows on the arm of my bed. A tear fell from her eye, and ran down the side of her face. “Sara’s gone. The police are conducting a manhunt across south Florida. I was watching it on TV earlier. They’ve closed down all the highways and are looking for the kidnappers’ minivan with helicopters.”
“I need to see this.”
Jessie switched on the TV that hung over my bed. Sara Long’s abduction was the lead story on the local news channel. While a smiling newscaster explained what had happened, photographs of a bikini-clad Sara from a college edition of Sports Illustrated flashed across the screen. The segment ended, and Jessie killed the picture.
“Who else saw Sara’s abductors at the motel?” I asked.
“The desk clerk saw them drive away, but didn’t see their faces. That’s why the detectives want to talk to you. They’re hoping you saw what the men looked like. Did you see them, Daddy?”
Jessie’s voice was filled with pleading. Although I loved my daughter more than anything in the world, telling her what had happened would only compromise the police investigation, and I wasn’t about to do that.
“They were bad men,” I said.
Jessie waited for me to continue. When I didn’t, she let out a sigh.
“Should I get the detectives now?” she asked.
“That would be a good idea.”
Detectives Boone and Weaver actually did look like a comedy team. Larry Boone was as round as a beach ball and prematurely balding, while Rob Weaver was built like a toothpick and had a thick mane of black hair. I wasn’t sure which was the straight man and which was the comic, but that would become apparent once they started grilling me. Both were homicide detectives, and were on loan to help with the investigation. They sat with their knees pressed against my bed and opened spiral notebooks in their laps.
“Start from the beginning, and tell us what happened,” Boone said.
I explained how I’d chased Mouse at Jessie’s basketball game, and ended with me describing the giant who’d tried to crush my skull. Boone and Weaver traded glances and put their pens down.
“How big was this guy?” Boone asked.
“Scary big,” I said.
“Be specific.”
“Six-ten, three hundred pounds. And strong. He picked me up with one arm and carried me across the parking lot while holding Sara. I punched him in the face, and it didn’t faze him.”
“You make him sound like Superman,” Weaver said.
“I’ve never encountered someone that strong.”
Both detectives loosened the knots in their ties. The gesture was not lost on me. They didn’t believe me.
“I know it sounds crazy, but that’s what happened,” I said.
“How much did you have to drink at the game?” Boone asked.
“A couple of beers.”
“Just a couple?”
“I drank a Budweiser during the first half, got a refill during half-time, and didn’t finish it. I wasn’t drunk, if that’s what you’re implying.”
Boone looked down at his notebook and read from it. “The cashier at the concession stand said you purchased a half dozen sixteen-ounce Bud drafts during halftime. That’s a lot of beer.”
“I bought those for the other dads,” I explained. “We were sitting together in the stands, and I offered to get the beer.”
“What other dads?”
“The fathers of the girls on the team. We sit together during the games and root for our daughters. I’m guessing you didn’t bother talking to them.”
Boone shook his head and flipped his notebook closed. He had rings beneath his eyes and his clothes stank of cigarettes. His body language told me that he didn’t want to hear any more of what I had to say. I folded my hands and waited him out.
“Here’s the skinny, Jack,” Boone said. “We have a suspect named Tyrone Biggs cooling his heels down at the county lockup. Biggs is Sara Long’s ex-boyfriend. He also plays basketball at Florida State, and is a really big dude. My partner and I think you saw him in the parking lot at the Day’s Inn.”
I followed college basketball, and knew Tyrone Biggs. He was the Florida State center, and was headed for a pro career in the NBA if his knees held up. He was big, but he wasn’t the monster I’d seen stealing Sara Long out of her motel room.
“It wasn’t Tyrone Biggs,” I said.
“The evidence says it was,” Boone said.
“What evidence is that?”
“Sara Long’s abductor didn’t break into her motel room. She opened the door, and let him in. Chances are, she wouldn’t let in the guy you just described.”
“Did the room have a peephole in the door?”
“Yes. We talked to Sara’s teammates, and they said that she’s extremely cautious, and wouldn’t have opened her door without first looking outside.”
“You’re sure she let him in?”
“Positive.”
That didn’t make sense, but it still didn’t change what I’d seen.
“Are you holding Biggs based solely on that?” I asked.
“There’s more,” Weaver said. “Sara and Biggs recently split up, and Sara considered having a restraining order placed on him. It seems Biggs called her and threatened her if she wouldn’t get back together with him. Sara decided not to pursue it because she didn’t want to hurt his chances of playing pro ball.”
“It wasn’t Tyrone Biggs,” I repeated.
Boone rested his elbows on the rail of my bed and looked me squarely in the eye. I had more to say, but shut my mouth instead.
“All we’re asking is that you drive over to the lockup with us, and take a look at this guy,” Boone said. “Maybe it will clear your head.”
“My head is fine,” I said.
“Come on, Jack. Play ball with us. This guy Biggs is a real jerk.”
