particularly positive to say about the FBI. Stallings chalked it up to the fact that most of the DEA and ATF agents had been street cops at one time in their career. They understood how dangerous and difficult the job could be. They hadn’t lost touch with what was important about law enforcement. And certainly one of the things that wasn’t important to this DEA agent was how nicely he dressed when talking to the local cops. Stallings appreciated that kind of attitude.
Stallings sat directly across from the silent DEA agent. No one at the table spoke. Stallings had a slight smile because he knew he could win at this game.
Finally the DEA agent said, “Can I ask why you visited the residence in Hyde Park today?”
Stallings gave Patty a quick glance that told her not to answer. He intended to have a little fun in the IA offices for a change. He tapped his forehead and said, “We did a lot of interviews in the last week. Maybe if you told me what the house looked like I’d have an idea of where you were talking about.”
The DEA agent was not amused. But he didn’t have to cut his eyes over to Ronald Bell for assistance. This was a tough guy who dealt with tough people. He said, “Okay, then I guess I won’t be able to help you on your investigation with everything I know about the Hickams.” He scooted his chair back and stood.
Stallings raised his hands in surrender and smiled. “Okay, okay. You win.” He waited for the stern agent to take a seat again.
“We’re in the middle of a possible serial killer investigation and part of it involves looking at deaths previously ruled accidental. The Hickams’ son, Josh, died a couple of years ago from alcohol poisoning. We were doing follow- up on that.”
The DEA agent nodded slowly and said, “I remember when the son died. Tragic.”
Stallings could tell by the way the man said it, he didn’t mean it. One of the problems with working narcotics was you developed a battle-like attitude toward the dealers. There was no middle ground where some people were right and some people were wrong. It was just good guys and bad guys. Stallings could tell the DEA agent thought Mr. Hickam was a bad guy.
The DEA agent said, “The whole Hickam family are big-time marijuana smugglers. Bill Hickam and his brother are responsible for almost thirty percent of the marijuana that enters the United States along the south-east seaboard. We’ve had cameras up on the house for months as we put together a major RICO case. You can imagine our surprise when an unmarked JSO car rolled into the family’s driveway.”
Stallings said, “Was the son, Josh, ever involved in the family business?”
“It looks like the father wanted to keep that entire generation out of the family business. I know the boy was suspected of selling some pot on the side while he was at the University of North Florida. I don’t think he ever progressed further than that.”
Just that piece of information, the fact that Josh Hickam could’ve been a minor pot dealer, made Stallings look at the case from an entirely different perspective.
The DEA agent said, “Is there anything that we can help you with?”
Stallings shook his head while he still looked off in space and said, “I’m not sure, but it’s given me some ideas to look into.”
The young doctor looked down at his watch and realized he should’ve eaten dinner by now. That explained his headache. At least today he had a reason to feel lousy. When he’d accepted this job right out of the University of Southern California, he’d had no idea what a shit hole Daytona was. He’d pictured it like Southern California. Now he thought of it as more a waterside Western Appalachian community. Nothing but bikers and rednecks and no chance to study the diseases of the brain he had hoped to. Plenty of trauma from motorcycle accidents and fistfights and the occasional boating accident, but nothing any ordinary doctor couldn’t handle. And the fucking University of Florida. The graduates from UF medical school were like the stormtroopers from
He paused in one room and sat down to write a few notes. Then he looked up at the patient who had been brought in almost a month earlier. When the doctor stood, he noticed the patient’s eyes move toward him. He stepped closer and said, “Can you hear me, Mr. Cole?”
The doctor noticed him nod his head ever so slightly. He’d been able to do some math the last few days. Yesterday, Mr. Cole had cleared his throat and tried to speak for a moment. This was both encouraging and scary. A series of infections had inhibited the accident victim’s recovery. He was still in terrible danger. But his brain function seemed to be improving. That’s what the young doctor felt positive about. At least he was making progress. All the doctor could hope for was to help the few patients he could while he was stuck in this backwater hellhole. In the past months he’d lamented several times that he had never been on spring break here. If he had, he never would’ve accepted this job. He should have known when they were so thrilled to get a USC grad that there wouldn’t be much here for him to do.
He looked down at the patient and said, “Mr. Cole, tomorrow you and I are going to actually speak.” He thought he noticed a slight smile on the man’s face. He hoped the conversation wouldn’t be the man’s last words.
FORTY-THREE
It was still early in the evening and Lynn had a good idea where this young man would be. These fraternity members had proved to be extremely predictable. She was too close to stop now, even if the cops looked like they had an idea of what was happening. She sat alone at a high-top table next to the bar, sipping on a glass of red wine and enjoying the relaxed feeling of knowing she’d be done soon. Lynn had her unused Buck knife in her purse. With all the work she’d put into learning how to use it, she couldn’t leave it unbloody. Even if it looked like the police were starting to put things together and maybe her efforts to conceal herself weren’t as good as she’d thought.
The young man walked out of the restroom and across the nearly empty bar floor and plopped back down in a seat at the table between his two friends. He was shorter than most of the fraternity brothers, with dark hair and the circles under his eyes like a student who worked too hard and slept too little. From her surveillance work, she got the idea that he didn’t party nearly as much as the other brothers. But she’d been told he had been there that night and hadn’t helped her brother when he’d needed it most. Having grown up in a household that was told to be secretive so no one would ever figure out exactly what her father did for a living, Lynn was impressed all these boys could keep their mouths shut for so long. And she had used that to her advantage.
She’d already decided that when she was done here she’d deal with Alan Cole. One short trip to Daytona and everything would be done. She could get on with her life and maybe her parents could too.
But first she intended to plunge the three-inch blade of the Buck knife into Bobby Hollis’s neck.
Stallings still felt uncomfortable taking Patty with him when he intended to step so far outside the JSO investigative guidelines. But she had persisted and pointed out the fact that they were partners and he did trust her completely. Looking back on his sixteen years with the sheriff’s office and all the partners he’d had from road patrol through homicide, Patty was the best. She was head and shoulders above most other partners. He had learned early in his career, when Rita Hester patrolled the streets of Arlington with him, that gender had no bearing on being a good partner. The lieutenant of the D-bureau had backed him up in any situation and never talked about anything they did. That’s why he had a hard time getting anything past her now. Not only did she know all the tricks, she knew how far he was willing to go to solve the case.
His other issue taking Patty on some of these authorized assignments was that he did not want to hurt her chances of promotion. He didn’t want her tainted with the accusation of undue force or lying to a superior officer. Stallings was willing to take on those stigmas if it helped him catch a killer or find a missing child, but he didn’t want Patty’s ruined career on his conscience as well.
Stallings drove through the huge parking lot of the apartment complex that housed the fraternities serving all the universities of the area. Loud music came from a dozen different doors in every building and kids were everywhere on the property, drinking beers or tossing footballs. And this was a weeknight.
Patty said, “He has a Dodge Neon registered to him. I haven’t seen it in the lot.”
