light. He also felt confident they had identified the killer of the Tau Upsilon fraternity brothers. With luck this case could be over soon and he could concentrate on Gator.
Lynn took another quick look down the hallway toward the nurses’ station, then slipped into the room. It seemed bright with the curtains drawn back and it took her a moment to notice the bed was empty. There were flowers in one corner and two plotted plants. The card on the flowers had Alan’s name on the outside. Had they taken him for some tests? Then she had a sick feeling in her stomach. Had he recovered enough to be moved to another room? Could he talk? She was certain he’d seen her face just before the car struck him outside his bank. She’d met him more than once, the last time being Josh’s funeral. He knew who she was and could identify her.
Lynn had no other choice but to ask where he was and risk someone else being able to identify her.
The young sergeant with the Daytona Police Department had grabbed another patrolman and a motorcycle cop who usually handled traffic out at the flea market. There was no way he was going to let a chance like this slip away on a quiet Saturday morning. It wasn’t bike week. It’d been a quiet Thanksgiving and he needed some action. No matter what happened, he could always claim he was just helping the Jacksonville Sheriff’s Office. His chief was big on helping other police agencies.
He spotted the big blue Suburban parked in the rear of the front parking lot as he pulled off Beville Road. He casually drove through the lot, past the Suburban, to make sure it had the right license plate. That’s when he noticed someone sitting in the driver seat. Holy shit. Not only had he found the car, he’d found the guy too.
The sergeant quickly called up the other two officers and told them over the radio how he wanted them to close in. He told them to buckle up because it looked like they could be heroes today.
Leon Kines noticed the cop cruise past. His past employment had taught him to pick up on any law enforcement officer in the area. This guy could be on normal patrol. He’d gone through every aisle in the lot. But it could be just a ploy to lull Leon into a false sense of security. He had a Taurus nine millimeter in the waistband of his jeans. It was left over from his days in the business. He’d stashed it along with some cash in a safety deposit box. It wasn’t registered and there was no way it would ever be traced back to him.
He didn’t like the idea of having to shoot it out with the cop. He also didn’t like the idea of a cop catching him with a pistol. Both the state and federal government frowned on convicted felons carrying firearms. Even if he was doing it mainly to impress the daughter of his former boss.
He didn’t want to turn around and be obvious, but just looking in his rearview mirror he couldn’t see the cop anymore. Maybe it was just a random patrol. His backup plan was to toss the pistol into the low hedge bordering the parking lot. The key was he had to see the cop coming again to have time to dump the gun.
Leon noticed a second cruiser. This one was a Dodge Charger. It was on the street across a small field directly in front of Leon. The cop wasn’t looking his way, but it made him nervous all the same. He started to sweat. Dealing with the cops was not generally part of the marijuana business. If he had wanted this kind of stress he would’ve gone into the more profitable cocaine business. He had very little experience dealing with the cops. Other than being arrested by a Customs Inspection team that stopped his go-fast boat with three thousand pounds of pot, his only interaction with law enforcement had been as a snitch since he got out of prison. There was a guy at the ATF he could trust. That was whom he’d passed on the trumped-up information about Dale to.
He had no business holding a handgun. He didn’t care if the two cops had no interest in him or not, the gun was going in the bushes. Leon pulled it from his waistband and carefully wiped it down with his loose T-shirt. He used two fingers to hold it by the edge of the grip and opened the door to the Suburban. Just as he was stepping onto the asphalt surface of the parking lot he heard someone shout, “Police! Don’t move.”
Lynn thought the young doctor looked tired. He was Indian and wore stylish metal frame glasses and his name tag said Dr. Hamamllama. She didn’t want to risk pronouncing his name. She cleared her throat until he looked up. Then she said, “Excuse me. Could you tell me where the patient in 201 is?”
The doctor’s eyes darted to each side; then he said, “Are you related to Mr. Cole?”
“I’m his cousin. I came right here from the airport and haven’t talked to anyone.” She had been thinking of the ruse for several minutes.
The doctor nodded and said, “I see.”
She could tell he had a slight accent. It was elegant and formal.
The doctor said, “I’m sorry to inform you that Mr. Cole passed away during the night from his injuries.”
Lynn felt a burst of energy and joy surge through her, but she knew not to express it. She gripped the edge of the nurses’ counter and said, “Oh my God, I just missed him.” She thought the doctor might say some words of comfort, but he remained silent. Lynn looked up at the doctor and said, “Did he ever regain consciousness?”
“Not fully.”
She wasn’t sure what that meant. “Was he able to speak at all? Did he have any last words?”
The young doctor shook his head. “No, I’m sorry. He never spoke.”
Lynn couldn’t believe her good fortune. She managed to fake a sob, wave to the doctor, then march off to the elevators.
It was over. Now all she had to deal with was Leon.
Stallings swerved to miss a car that didn’t acknowledge the small interior blue light flashing on the dashboard of his Impala. There were so many things running through his head it was hard to concentrate just on driving. Would they be able to link this guy, Leon Kines, to any of the deaths besides Zach Halston? Would he talk? Had he done it at the request of Josh Hickam’s father? It wasn’t unlike most of the cases he’d worked, but this one had come together much faster.
Patty, as usual, had kept her head and done all the practical tasks. She called Sergeant Zuni and advised her where they were and the lead they were following. Then she called Tony Mazzetti, who was predictably bent out of shape at the prospect of being left out of another major arrest. Stallings would have to remind him how he protested wasting detectives on interviewing owners of Suburbans. Mazzetti had all but accused Stallings of dreaming up the entire Suburban scenario. Mazzetti couldn’t deny that Zach Halston was dead as a result of a hit- and-run in St. Augustine, but he’d argued that Stallings could have seen any car, not necessarily the one that hit Zach. Stallings hated to admit it, but the look on Mazzetti’s face would be very satisfying if this all worked out.
The Daytona Police sergeant’s plan had worked beautifully. He’d sent the patrolman in a marked unit down the main road to attract the suspect’s attention. The sergeant and the motorman traffic cop had walked through the lot, then crept down below car level until they were almost on top of the Suburban. It looked like the suspect’s attention was still through the windshield. The sergeant pulled his issued Glock and motioned for the motorcycle cop to stay low behind the Cadillac parked next to the Suburban.
The sergeant was surprised when the door of the Suburban opened unexpectedly. Holy shit, the guy had a pistol in his hand. Out of instinct he shouted, “Police, don’t move.” In an instant he let his eyes scan behind the suspect to make sure there were no pedestrians or cars on the access road or in the field. The suspect turned, looking as shocked as the cops, but he still had the pistol.
The sergeant knew he didn’t have time to give another command and let his training take over. At this range he only focused on the front sight of the pistol, tried to breathe naturally and squeezed the trigger of his forty- caliber. He fired twice at the man’s chest. Center mass. He’d had to explain to too many people, at too many parties, that shooting the gun out of someone’s hand was just a Hollywood invention.
On the other side of the Cadillac the motorcycle cop also fired. But he kept pulling the trigger. It sounded like an automatic weapon even though he was firing the same model Glock. It seemed like it went on forever with the sound hammering his eardrums. Finally there was silence.
The sergeant stepped from behind the trunk of the Cadillac. The suspect was flat on his back and made one wheezing sound as he went limp. He’d been hit at least five times in the chest. The sergeant did a quick look to see where all of the motorman’s extra rounds had gone. There were at least three holes in the open door of the Suburban.
The other patrolman in the marked Dodge Charger had jumped the curb and was racing across the open field
