Stiff Arm Steal

by A. J. Stewart

  "Hey, you there." It was the security guy. Finally locked down and completely on top of things.

  "Call it in," I said. "There's been a burglary."

  "I said don't move." He took out his sidearm. He looked like he'd had some training, but not enough not to do something stupid.

  “No you didn't, genius. You never asked us not to move. Just call it in."

  "Don't tell me what to do."

  Danielle slowly lifted her badge. "Sheriff's Office," she said. "Call it in."

  He hesitated. The training had only gone so far.

  "Do it!” she yelled. "Or you'll be the guy that lost the University's Heismans."

  He didn't seem to need further prompting. He grabbed a phone from the reception counter and dialed. Then he waited by the front door. He didn't take his eyes off us.

  "Were you here when the fireworks went off?" I asked.

  "No talking," he said.

  "Okay. You're right. You should definitely let the guy get away."

  “Yes, I was here. What of it?"

  "What did you do?"

  "We heard the bang, I rushed out, saw the fireball. Thought it was terrorists. So I followed lockdown procedure."

  "Which is?"

  "To lock the place down." He looked at me like I was the dumbest hayseed ever to cross his path.

  "Were there people here?"

  "Not many. Most were off watching the game."

  "You don't show it?" said Danielle, gesturing to the array off high definition televisions.

  "No, ma'am. We don't want boisterous fans damaging the exhibits."

  "So what did the people do?" I said.

  "They all ran out. I told them I was locking 'em in or locking 'em out. They chose out."

  "All of them?"

  "You see anyone else here?"

  "Anyone go out with a big bag or anything? Backpack?"

  "Nope."

  "There a back way out?"

  "Only through the football complex."

  After that we waited. The first to arrive was the Walrus. He waddled through the door, took one look it Danielle and I, and shook his head.

  "Diamond Village," he said.

  I shrugged.

  "Doesn't look good for you,” he said.

  Second to arrive was Rollie Spenser. I figured if Beccy Williams, State Attorney Edwards and Detective Ronzoni arrived I'd have the full house. Rollie banged at the door, but the security guard didn't let him in. This didn't improve his mood. He banged harder. The Walrus looked up and barked at the security guard to let him in.

  "I want that man arrested," he yelled as he stormed in.

  "You need to call the police," I said.

  "The police are here," Rollie said. He looked at the Walrus. "Arrest him."

  "You need to call the real police," I said.

  "The University of Florida Police are real police," he spat.

  "The Department is a real police department, but this guy is a joke."

  "You trying to annoy me?" said the Walrus. "This is my turf."

  "And the University's Heisman trophies got stolen off your turf and on your watch."

  "You did that."

  "And while the perp gets away, you are sitting on your donut-induced backside doing what you do best. Nothing."

  "Where are the trophies, Jones?" said Rollie.

  I smiled. "And we tried to warn you. A fellow law enforcement officer told you it was going to happen and you blew her off. I'm sure the University President will be thrilled to hear that. Boosters too."

  Chapter Fifty

  ANOTHER BANG ON the door and another cop came in. This one wore a different badge on his shoulder. He had thick arms and was as black as coal.

  "What the hell you doing here?" said the Walrus.

  He smiled. "Someone called police?" He had perfect white teeth.

  "I am the police,” snarled the Walrus.

  "Yeah," laughed the cop.

  "Who called you? This is a university matter," said Rollie.

  "I did," said Danielle. She put her hand out to the officer.

  "Deputy Castle, West Palm Beach." The officer took her hand. He enveloped it like a ball in a catcher’s mitt.

  "Harding. Tell me."

  Danielle updated Officer Harding on the highlights. Up to the fireworks.

  "And you think it's your guy?"

  "He even bought fireworks. We tracked a new credit card."

  "One hell of a diversion. Could've killed a lot of people," said Harding.

  "I think that was an accident," I said.

  "And you are?"

  “A criminal,” said Rollie.

  "Hush," said Harding.

  I liked him. He seemed like a pro. And he spoke quietly. But then he had a face that said do not make me raise my voice.

  "Hush? Excuse me, do you know who I am?" said Rollie. He was going purple again.

  "Yes."

  "I am the Assistant Athletic Director of this University."

  "I said I know."

  "So?"

  "So that might impress the hell out of him," he said, nodding at the Walrus, "but I don't work for this University. So I don't give a damn who you think you are."

  "This is Gator business. You are obviously not one of us."

  Harding turned his broad frame to face Rollie. "I am a Gator to my core. I played for this school. So you question my loyalties again, you gonna make me real upset."

  He turned back towards me. His face was the wrong side of forty, but his body looked like it could take the field in Jacksonville tonight. He glanced back to Rollie. "And don't think I don't know where you played football, Hurricane."

  He said hurricane like it was a social disease. I decided to keep the fact that I was also a former Hurricane to myself.

  "So you were telling me who you are?"

  "Jones. I'm a PI. Helping the PBSO on the case." I glanced at Danielle.

  Harding followed my eyes. "I'll bet you are. So where's the perp?"

  "The security guy says no one left out front after the bang," I said. "So the back door?"

  "That'll be the football complex, but that leads out into the stadium," said Harding. "And from there, anywhere."

  "That's why it's been such a joy sitting around chatting with these fine folks."

  “Well, if you got some intel sources, drain them," said Harding. "Deputy, please give my colleague here," he looked at the Walrus, "as best a description as you have and he'll put out a BOLO. I'd best check the gym."

  "This is still University property," said Rollie. "Any search should be conducted by University Police."

  "Since you are not from around here, I'll assume you don't know that the college police and the Gainesville PD have a cooperation agreement. Which means if asked, officers from one department can effectively work as if they are members of the other department."

  Rollie didn't back down. He might have small hands, but being hog stupid made him a tough QB. And a dumb person.

  Harding looked at the Walrus. "And we are cooperating right now, aren't we?"

  "Yep," said the Walrus. The man knew which side his pastries were buttered.

  Harding took the security kid to search the football complex. Danielle called the PBSO to see if there had been any more credit card purchases. I didn't really know what to do.

  So I typed in a text message.

  3 Heisman stolen at Florida U. Perp escaped. Got Intel? Fess up now!

  I went through my contacts and fired off text messages across the board. I wasn't much of a texter. I hoped Lizzy had gotten some kind of rate that meant I wasn't buying a beer for each message I sent.

  Harding reappeared from the gym. "Nothing. Guy's a ghost. You got anything?"

  Danielle shook her head. So did I.

  Then my phone rang.

  Chapter Fifty-One

  IT WAS DETECTIVE Ronzoni.

  "You really are the worst private eye in the history of the world."

  "So you better not go
into private practice, and steal my mantle," I said, walking away from our little congregation.

  "You seriously tracked the guy to Gainesville and let him slip through your fingers?"

  "What can I do for you, Fusilli?"

  "Ronzoni. And it's what I can do for you."

  "I already own a paperweight."

  "I got your text." I could hear him smiling down the line.

  "I figured this call wasn't just 'cause you were missing me."

  "You wanna know where your man is?"

  I felt a frown coming on. It wasn't a joke. Ronzoni had no kind of sense of humor. I heard him suck some water from a bottle.

  "You there, Miami?"

  "What do you know?"

  "I know where your guy is holed up. But I can't imagine he'll be there all night."

  "What do you want, Ronzoni?"

  "I want you to catch this bad, bad man."

  I was revising the humor thing. "What else do you want?"

  "I want the credit."

  "The credit?"

  "Yeah. I can't get up to Gainesville now. But I figure I don't need to. I got you there. I tell you where he is, you get him, and you make sure I get the credit. You like my plan?"

  "Ronzoni, you find the guy, I'll get you a goddamned parade."

  "Don't need a parade, Jones."

  "Okay. You got it. What do you know?"

  “Do we have a deal?”

  "I swear on a naked picture of your mother."

  "He's in a hotel near the interstate."

  He gave me the details, down to the room number.

  "How you know this, Ronzoni?"

  "I called the motel. He checked in under his real name."

  "You know what I mean. The guy didn't use his credit card. We're watching it."

  "He called home earlier today."

  "Home? You mean his wife?"

  “Yo.”

  "How do you know that he called?"

  "I got a wiretap on it."

  "You got a warrant for that?"

  "I will do, if need be."

  "Their house is in Wellington. Little outside your jurisdiction, isn't it?"

  "So sue me."

  I smiled. "There might be hope for you yet, Vermicelli."

  "Ronzoni. And don't go getting all misty eyed. Just don't let the guy get away again."

  "Yes, boss."

  "And remember who gets the credit."

  "You'll get a commendation for this, Batman."

  "Good. And Jones. You armed?"

  "Yeah."

  "Castle with you?"

  "Yes."

  "She armed?”

  "Yes. What's your point?"

  "When the guy called his missus, earlier. He called to say goodbye. Know what I mean?"

  "Yeah. Now get off my phone so I can get this guy." I clicked off and turned back to a little group. They were all looking at me.

  "What the hell was that?" said Harding.

  I looked at Danielle. "Palm Beach PD."

  She raised an eyebrow.

  "We know where the perp is staying."

  “Where?” said Harding.

  "Motel near I-75."

  "Right. You’re coming with me," he said. He turned to Danielle. "You too, Deputy."

  He told the security guy to hold the fort. Then he looked at the Walrus. "You get back over to your campus and see if you can be of some use for a change."

  Then he looked at Rollie. "And you. I don't know what the hell you can do."

  Rollie stood there with his big mouth open. He looked like a Venus flytrap.

  "There's a lot of glass on the floor," I said. "Find a broom and sweep it up. Thatta boy."

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  I SAT IN the back of Harding’s Dodge Charger. There was the standard steel mesh screen that made it hard to see out the front. I preferred the Crown Vic. There was more room in the back. I figured the cops could care less about the relative legroom in the back. Danielle was up front with Harding. He used the radio as he drove and called for backup.

  "You carrying?" he asked Danielle.

  "Yes."

  "What about you, hotshot?" he asked, glancing in the rearview.

  "Yes," I said.

  "Legal?"

  "One hundred percent."

  "What about the perp?"

  "He has a Colt .45, we know of," Danielle said.

  "Six shooter? I'll take my Glock 40 over a six shooter," he said.

  "Only takes one," I said.

  "Right enough. But you say he hit Orlando Washington with it?”

  "That's right," said Danielle.

  "So it may not even fire."

  "Oh, it fires," I said.

  "That's always my assumption," he said, "but how do you know?"

  "It's how he got into the trophy cases. One bullet into the safety glass of each case. You'll find the slugs in the base of each one."

  "You’re an observant fellow.”

  "That's why they pay me the big bucks."

  "That right?” he said, looking at Danielle.

  She rolled her eyes.

  We sped past a mall and a strip of chain restaurants. I could see the freeway cloverleafs approaching through the side window. The interstate was guarded by a phalanx of tall, brightly lit signs for a variety of hotels and motels. It looked like a thousand other freeway interchanges across the country. Only this one was home to more Heisman trophies than Manhattan.

  "This is how it goes down. We wait for backup. Then we go in, that's Gainesville PD. Deputy, you follow." He looked in the rear vision mirror. "You hotshot, bring up the rear. You are here out of courtesy, nothing more. Clear?"

  "Crystal."

  “And you don't draw your weapon unless you absolutely have to. Clear?"

  "And preferably not even then," I said.

  I saw him nod in the mirror.

  He pulled off onto a side road just before the interstate. The street was home to the line of motel signs. Harding drove past the motel we wanted and pulled into the one next door.

  From the outside they looked identical. Old, poorly kept and cheap. Two floors in a U shape around a central parking lot or maybe a pool. The kinds of places that took cash and weren't too fussed about ID. The motel we wanted was decked out in green trim and matching sign. The one we waited in was blue. Within two minutes another GPD cruiser bounced into the lot. This one was a Crown Vic Interceptor. We got out. Harding gave the two other cops the lay of the land. We moved off like a little train. The two motels were separated by a small hedge. Harding led the train over it. I walked eight extra paces onto the sidewalk and went around. Danielle followed Harding. Perhaps it was a professional thing.

  We got to the motel reception and waited outside while Harding went inside to get a key. I liked the way he thought. Breaking a motel door down took a battering ram and a whole lot of unnecessary effort. He came back out with the keycard in his hand.

  "Second floor," he said. He looked a little disappointed. With good reason. Second floor was harder than ground floor. Less chance to do recon. Harding pulled his Glock. His two colleagues followed suit. Danielle unclipped her weapon and took it out. I left mine in its holster. Harding looked at me and nodded.

  We passed by the rental car with the Tennessee plates. Wormed our way up the stairs and along the balcony. All the rooms looked across an open patch of cracked pavement. We shuffled passed an alcove that housed a red vending machine and an ice dispenser. The ice groaned. When we got to the room, Harding and one cop crossed past the window and the door. The drapes were pulled. The other cop and Danielle pressed against the piece of wall between the window and the door. The only place for me to stand was right in front of the window, which I didn't fancy at all. I hung back. Harding checked all the faces then slipped the key card in and out of the lock swiftly. It was a well-practiced move. Maybe he'd sold software after college and spent a lot of time in business hotels. I always had to try two or three times with the card before I got the green light.r />
  Harding pulled up the latch hard and pushed the door open. He put his weight right into it. He had assumed the lock would be on it, the little chain in a round notch. But it wasn't. He drove the door back into the wall. The first cop charged in yelling police. The second followed from the other side of the door. He was yelling police, too. Harding came back off the wall and followed the other two. He wasn’t shouting. Danielle pointed her gun down and flipped around and into the room. I waited for the shouting to stop. There were no gunshots. Two calls of clear. I realized that Ferguson had gone.

  I stepped past the window and around the door and into the room. Two twin beds and four people didn't leave a lot of space in the room. The two cops, Harding and Danielle were looking at each other. Then they looked at me and parted and I realized I was wrong about Ferguson leaving.

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  HARDING STEPPED ASIDE and I saw the table. It was a low built in, positioned between an old wardrobe and a small sink. It had a battered white chair beneath it. It wasn't the kind of desk where one wrote a book. It was more a flat space to throw your keys and wallet and receipts, and all the other crap you collect in your pockets when you are traveling the interstate. Sandy Ferguson hadn't used it for writing a book or tossing his travel debris. He had created a shrine. It was like a miniature version of his shed. But much more impressive.

  Six Heisman trophies were lined up on the desk. Together they looked less like statues of a football player and more like large versions of plastic toy soldiers. A battalion of men, nothing more than their hands to defend themselves. Thrusting their arms out, not so much in anger as defiance. Above the line of Heisman trophies, Ferguson had stuck an enlarged photograph to the wall. I didn't need to analyze it to know it was Ferguson as the college hero. It was a posed shot, in full uniform, cocked on his right foot. His arm was extended back, ball in hand. Ready to nail a pass. But he wore no helmet and his hair was freshly combed. He looked young and alive. Everything his wife said he had been, and nothing she was anymore. Nor him, I suspected. One of the beds had a cowboy hat sitting on it. The cops went through the drawers and the wardrobe. Looked under the bed and in the bathroom. It was a fast search. Not too many places to hide anything in an industrial strength interstate motel. I watched them work from the doorway.