"We did work for it." He smiled and took a long look at Muriel’s large breasts. Her lime green tank top didn't leave much to the imagination.
"Honey, when Mick starts giving out freebies you'll be second in line, right after me." She gave him a great smile and arched her back a little. The effect was to push her cleavage even further out. It would have looked amazing in a 3D movie. She turned and wandered down to the other end of the bar. We both watched her cutoff denims and bronzed legs make the journey. Ron turned to me. He realized he was still holding his beer aloft.
"The view is worth every penny. Here’s cheers.” We clinked glasses and took a long, cool drink.
"So you still think he's headed for Gainesville?" said Ron.
"That's what my gut is saying."
"Should we be heading there?"
"Tempting," I said. "But it's still a hunch. If it was all I had, I'd go with it. But we know who the guy is now. So Danielle might be able to track him down. There were other places circled on the map. He might be headed to one of them. He didn't leave an itinerary."
We were on our third beer and the patio was filling up with regulars. Ron's golf ladies came in and one of them gave him a little wave of the fingers. We saluted back with our glasses. Danielle walked in from the parking lot, still in full uniform. She looked tired. She let out a sigh.
"Long day?" I said.
She smiled weakly. "We got something."
I slid off my stool and gave it to her. I would have offered her my beer, but she was in uniform and there were rules and she was a stickler for those sort of rules. I didn't debate it. Impressions count for a lot in her line of work. Mine too, sometimes.
"We asked Ferguson's bank to run any new accounts. He opened a new credit card just after he was fired."
"His wife didn't mention it," I said.
"She didn't know. He signed up for electronic statements only. At the RealPro email address."
"Not too clever."
"I don't think we're dealing with a master criminal here."
“Just a sad, angry man," said Ron.
"So what does the new card tell us?" I said.
Danielle ran her hands through her hair. "A fair bit. The day before the Orlando Washington break in, Ferguson used the card to get a cash advance at an ATM in the Fairgrounds in the city of Orlando.”
"Do we know what was on at the Fairgrounds."
Danielle nodded. "A gun show."
"Spectacular."
"So we can guess where he got the Colt he used on Orlando," she said.
"Isn't there a waiting period at gun shows, too?"
"Only if you buy from a registered dealer. Sales from one private citizen to another don't require it."
"A lot of private citizens sell guns at the shows?"
“No,” said Danielle. "It's mostly dealers, and most follow the rules because it's their livelihood. But some private sellers hang around and sell their own weapons at the entrance to the fairgrounds. For cash. I'm betting that's where Ferguson got his Colt."
I was going to mention that Ferguson was only alleged to have committed the crimes. But she was tired, and it was pedantic until we got to court and I thought he was as guilty as all hell.
"Doesn't anyone police the show?" Said Ron.
"Sure," said Danielle. "The local sheriff usually. But these guys aren't running around with loaded weapons or making trouble. They’re just selling an unwanted shotgun or revolver. No law against it, so the guys on duty don't make trouble where there isn't any." We sipped our beers and Danielle looked into the dark bar room.
"Any other activity?"
"He stayed in Tampa after he hit Orlando Washington. Nothing on the credit card, so he paid cash somewhere that wasn't fussed with ID, or he slept in his car. Either way he rented a car the following morning at Tampa International. Toyota Corolla, Tennessee plates."
"We could've driven right by him," I said.
“Hell, he could've stayed in the same motel. We just wandered up off the beach. I don't recall them asking for ID."
"True. But I've got an honest face."
She smiled. "After that nothing. Yet. We got a subpoena so the bank has an alert on the card. He uses it, someone in card services gets a flag and calls me."
"So we wait and see which shoe drops," I said. She nodded slowly.
"In that case, I think you need a drink," said Ron.
"I'm still in uniform," she said.
“You come in the patrol car or yours?" I said.
“Mine.”
"Then what you need is a shower, one of my extra special massages, a glass of wine, and a good sleep."
"That sounds like heaven.”
"I'll take you. We'll get your car in the morning. I'll just tell Mick." I leaned across the bar. Mick was down the other end, chatting to a regular in a John Deere cap.
"Hey, Mick, we're just leaving a car in the lot overnight, okay."
"No overnight parking, Miami. This look like the long-term lot at Palm Beach International?"
"Even for Sheriff's Deputy Castle?"
"Five-day maximum, Miami. Then I'll have to have it cleaned." He turned back to John Deere.
Danielle slipped off her bar stool. "Sorry to love you and leave you, Ronnie," she said.
"Don't worry about me. I’m a big boy.” He surveyed the patio crowd with a smile. “I can look after myself."
Chapter Forty-Six
I HANDED DANIELLE a glass of Marlborough Sauvignon Blanc while she was in the shower. When she came out she was wrapped in two towels, one around her body, one around her head. Her glass was empty. Her cheeks were flushed and her eyelids were heavy. I poured her another glass and massaged her shoulders on the patio. She fell asleep mid-massage. I'd felt like that a few times, almost drifting off during a great massage, so I took it as a sign of my prowess as a masseur.
I lifted her up and carried her inside. Muscle might weigh more than fat, but it is infinitely easier to carry to bed. I lay her down, unwrapped the towels, looked at her sleeping beauty for a moment, then pulled the sheet over her. I did the nightly rounds like a jailer, flicking locks and checking windows and dousing the lights. Then I walked back to the bedroom and stripped and got into bed. I was asleep before I would've hit the letter E in the alphabet song.
I must've slept deep because when I woke I felt good enough to run through a wall. A phone was ringing. Danielle jumped out of bed naked and ran into the living room. I thought about wandering out and watching her chat on the phone in her birthday suit, but I was happy enough with the image it played in my mind so I stayed put. A couple of minutes later Danielle came back in and sat on the bed.
"That was the bank. He used his credit card."
"Where?"
"Last night. At a gas station off I-75."
"Which one's I-75?"
"I-75 outside of Ocala."
"Hit me again."
"Are you awake?"
I was looking at a beautiful woman sitting naked on my bed. It didn't get more awake.
"Getting there," I said.
"I-75 runs from Fort Lauderdale across to the Gulf coast, then up north to the Canadian border."
"Through Tampa."
"Right. And?"
I sat up. "Gainesville."
"Good boy, I knew you could do it." She had her cellphone in her hand. She started dialing a number off a piece of paper. "Here's the thing. He spent twelve hundred at the gas station."
"Lot of gas."
"Yeah. I'm calling the gas station, find out what Ferguson bought.” She finished dialing and put the phone to her ear.
"We gotta get moving," she said to me. "You jump in the shower."
"I'm good to go, I don't need a shower."
“Yes, you do."
"You saying I smell?"
"Baby, you're giving off all kinds of manliness, and it makes me hot. But not everyone will agree." She stood and directed her attention to the phone. Her voice dropped an octave.
; "Hello. This is Sheriff's Deputy Danielle Castle," she said, walking out of the room.
I sniffed my armpits, got nothing, but showered anyway. When I came out to the living room Danielle was dressed in jeans and a white t-shirt. She handed me a mug of coffee.
"What's the deal,” I said, sipping.
"They're not just a gas station."
"Of course not."
"Next door they run a fireworks outlet."
"Fireworks?"
"Aha." She sipped her coffee.
"That seems like a lot of fireworks to me."
"Aha."
"Aren't fireworks illegal in Florida?"
"Only the ones that leave the ground, explode or shoot projectiles."
"That would leave what?"
"Sparklers."
"He bought twelve hundred bucks worth of sparklers?"
She shook her head. "There are exceptions."
"Of course."
"If you own a railroad or fish hatchery and are using the fireworks for safety or to scare away birds."
"Seriously."
"It's in the Florida statutes."
"How would you prove that you own a fish hatchery?"
"Buyer just signs a waiver saying they are buying pursuant to the relevant statutes."
"And Ferguson signed a waiver."
"Aha."
"So he could recreate the 4th of July."
"On a small scale."
"Why?"
"That's the question," she said.
I drained my coffee. "We gotta get to Gainesville."
Chapter Forty-Seven
THE TIRES ON my Mustang spent more time in the air than on blacktop as we sped north on the Florida Turnpike and I-75. I wished we had Danielle’s patrol car and its flashing lights, or at least a vanilla Ford Taurus over my red Mustang. But we were untroubled by the highway patrol the whole way. We arrived as the breakfast places were starting to heat up. There was a palpable energy in the streets of Gainesville. It was odd for a Saturday morning in a college town, and odd because the energy resulted from an event that was taking place seventy miles away in Jacksonville.
But it wasn't just any Saturday in Gainesville. It was a Gator football Saturday, and it wasn't just any event. It was the game. University of Florida Gators vs University of Georgia Bulldogs. In this part of the world it was bigger than the Super Bowl.
“These people looked dressed for war," said Danielle, as we wove through the streets towards the college campus.
"They're bitter enemies," I said.
"Why?"
“The states are neighbors. What do you expect?" I smiled.
Danielle shrugged.
“The two colleges clash every year and have done more or less for a century. The rivalry is fierce and at times bitter. The schools can't even agree on when the first game was played, or how many games there’ve been. It was originally a home and home fixture, but the game is now played annually on so-called neutral turf, at the NFL stadium in Jacksonville."
“That doesn't seem fair to Georgia.”
"It's not. But holding the game in Jacksonville rather than at the campus stadia makes the two universities fifty percent more money. So Reggie Bush might have lost his Heisman for taking payments as a student-athlete, but the colleges know where their cookies are baked."
We hit the outskirts of the sprawling University of Florida campus and parked the car. The campus took up a fair chunk of the city of Gainesville's real estate. It took us fifteen minutes to locate and then get to the athletic complex. There were people everywhere. Students I assumed, but some looked like they had voted for Nixon.
"Now remember, the athletic director isn't here, and the assistant isn't my biggest fan."
"What's his problem exactly? Didn't he beat you out?"
"He did. But it's not about that. He got drafted his senior year by New Orleans. Spent a year with the Saints, but never got a start. His record as backup was 1-4.”
"You have that committed to memory?"
I smiled. "I do. But that's not the good bit."
"Oh there's a good bit?”
"He got traded by the Saints at the end of the year. To New England."
"Your old stomping ground."
"More or less. So he tracks me down. I was in my senior year by then. He calls me up to tell me he's been bought by the Patriots. That he's going to show them how it's done, since I was obviously typical of the quality of quarterback in New England."
"What did you do?"
"What could I do? Nothing. I couldn't believe he'd called me out-of-the-blue to taunt me about the team I supported as a kid."
"Very grown up."
"Very. So I said whatever, enjoy the Boston winters and I hung up."
We arrived at the building we wanted.
"So what happened?"
"Turns out he goes to Foxboro for five days to do medicals, training drills, that sort of thing. Dot the I's before the Pat's commit to him. But the coaching staff have all been in New York for the draft, and they had thrown their sixth round pick at a quarterback. One hundred and ninety-ninth pick overall. And they umm-and-aah, but eventually they tell Rollie that they're going with this other guy as backup."
"Who was the other guy?"
"Tom Brady."
"Him I've heard of."
"Yeah. League MVP, Super Bowl MVP, Super Bowl winner. He's got all the silverware."
"And a hot wife."
"She ain’t you, but she's alright."
Danielle smirked. She knew it was a line, but she liked it anyway.
"So what happened to Rollie?"
"Pat's cut him loose. No one else wanted him, so that was that."
"And he came here?"
"Tennessee coaching staff at first, but that didn't work out. People management was never his strong suit. So he went back to New Orleans, got his MBA at Tulane, and applied for a position in the athletic department here at Florida."
"Doesn't seem like such a bad deal."
"It's not. You know how many guys would've killed for a snap in the pros? He won a game. But for him, it wasn't enough. He actually thinks the Pat's made the wrong choice. That with him instead of Brady they would have won more titles."
"A touch conceited.”
"With a capital C, and a capital all the other letters. But here's the kicker. He blames me."
"You? Why?"
"Because I was a Pat's fan as a kid. Still am, I guess. But he thinks I was like Coach Belichick's right hand man. Working against him."
She smiled. "But you weren’t, were you?"
"I haven't even been to Foxboro Stadium since high school."
"This Rollie sounds a little too much like Sandy Ferguson. Are all ex-jocks like that?"
“You’d be surprised," I said. "There are a lot of guys out there can't get past the glory days. Some just manage it better than others."
She shook her head. "I weep for the species."
"And I thank you for it. You want to take this?" I said, pointing at the building we were in front of. A glowing blue sign read Campus Police.
"I got it."
We walked in to a small waiting area, linoleum floor and low backed, uncomfortable-looking chairs. A desk topped by glass that went all the way to the ceiling. Like a bank. Except the part of the teller was being played by a hard-looking guy in a police uniform. And he was packing a sidearm, which tellers didn’t tend to do.
"Help you?" he said. The safety glass made him sound like he was yelling from the bottom of a well.
Danielle put her badge against the window. "Deputy Castle, Palm Beach Sheriff's Office. Can I speak to whomever is in charge?"
The guy looked long and hard at the badge, then at Danielle. He was more impressed by the latter but worked hard not to show it. He got off his seat slow, like he had hemorrhoids, and waddled back across the open office area. It was empty. He stepped into an office we couldn't see and disappeared. He was away for about two minutes by my count. Way too long to ask an
d answer a request from a fellow law enforcement officer. The desk guy came back out and took his sweet time walking back to us. He hauled himself back up onto his perch before he said anything.
"Lieutenant will see you."
He hit a button and the door beside us gave a grinding electronic buzz, so we pushed our way through. The desk guy didn't offer directions so we walked to the office he had been in. There was an old man sitting inside. He was in uniform and had a thick gray mustache that made him look like a walrus.
Danielle stepped forward. The Walrus blinked. No doubt the desk guy had told the Walrus who she was, but he was going to make her do it again, anyway.
"Lieutenant, my name is Danielle Castle of the Palm Beach Sheriff's Office." She showed him the badge.
He looked at it without really looking. "You're a long way from home, Deputy."
“Yes, sir. We’re on a case, a series of home invasion burglaries."
"You don't say."
“Yes, sir. And we have reason to believe the next burglary may take place here."
"In a police station?" The guy was a real card.
"On the University campus."
The Walrus rubbed his mustache. I guess the plus side of having to look so ridiculous all the time was it gave him something to do with his hands.
"Home invasions," he said.
“Yes, sir."
"Don't got too many homes on a college campus."
"No sir, but we think the suspect might be escalating."
"Escalating? He done anything but houses before?"
"No, sir."
"So I'll put an extra patrol on the dormitories."
"We don't think he's interested in the dorms, sir."
“Well now, missy, you're getting all confused."
"She's not confused, pal, you're just not hearing right," I said.
"I don't recall asking you a question, boy."
"And I don't recall the section in the Constitution that says I have to give a damn.”
He shifted in his large seat, but his face didn't change. The walrus mustache hid any emotions he might've had. "You on my campus, boy. You best remember that."
"And your job is to protect the campus. You best remember that."
"You don't tell me what my job is."
"Who does? The Athletic Department?"
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