by David Grace
“How did his name come up on your radar?” Virgil asked her.
“Missing girl from Tonopah, seventeen, high school student. Vanished on her way home from cheerleading practice. Someone reported seeing a black SUV cruising the vicinity. That didn’t get us anywhere but then we found a second witness who said it was a foreign make, German – a Mercedes, a Porsche or maybe an Audi. It took us a while to run down all the video cameras for five miles in every direction from where she was last seen but when we went through the files we came up with three possibles, two Mercedes and one Porsche. We cleared the Mercedes but we’ve been having trouble getting any cooperation from the owner of the Porsche, Miles Crocker.”
“Let me guess. He wouldn’t return your calls,” Virgil said.
“Not exactly. His lawyer called us back and flat out refused to let Crocker talk to us.”
“When was this?”
“A little over a year ago. I tried to get my boss to authorize a trip to L.A. I thought maybe we could brace Crocker at work and get something out of him, but my Lieutenant wouldn’t authorize the expense. He said it would be a waste of time. After that our case was pretty much dead in the water.”
“Until now,” Virgil said. “In the last few weeks something changed, didn’t it?”
“Why do you say that?” Torres asked, suspicion clear in her voice.
“What happened?”
There was a long pause then, reluctantly, she answered him.
“A month ago we found her body. Animals had partially dug it up. Some guy with a dog got a flat tire and while he was jacking up his car the dog started running around and sniffed it out. Most of her was still wrapped in plastic sheeting. The doer was too lazy to bury her very deep.” Torres went silent for a few seconds and when she started speaking again Virgil heard a flutter in her voice.
“Anyway, we got fibers that matched to the carpeting used exclusively in the 2012 Porsche Cayenne. Her phone was still in her pocket. The killer had smashed it but the techs were able to determine the date and time it was broken which turned out to be about half an hour after the surveillance camera captured a picture of Crocker’s Porsche. And we got touch DNA from one of her breasts. That was a miracle given the state of the body, but sometimes you get lucky. Once we get a sample of Crocker’s DNA I figure it’s going to match.”
“How much of that evidence does Crocker’s lawyer know about?”
“None of it. We just told him that we needed to interview his client and that if Mr. Crocker wouldn’t appear voluntarily we would get a court order.”
“When was this?”
“Two weeks ago when the forensics on the carpet came back.”
“And he told you ‘No way,’ right?”
“He said that his client would not answer any questions under any circumstances. The D.A.’s getting ready to bring the case to the grand jury. Of course, Crocker will take the Fifth but we’re at least going to make him show up. We got a warrant for his DNA and as soon as he sets foot in Arizona we’re gonna serve it. . . . Look, Marshal, I’ve answered all your questions. Now it’s your turn. What’s your interest in Miles Crocker?”
“I’ll tell you, but first let me ask you one more question. Crocker’s lawyer – is he a guy named Martin Fitch?”
“No, he’s an asshole named Martin Fitch. Your turn. What’s the Marshals’ Service’s interest in Miles Crocker?”
Virgil told her, then put in an emergency call to Bradley Odermatt.
“Crocker’s going to run,” Virgil half-shouted when Odermatt picked up.
“What? How do you know?”
“He killed another girl in Nevada. They’re taking it to the grand jury and they’ve got a pretty good case. The kicker is that Fitch knows they’re closing in. He’s representing Crocker on that one too.”
“Damn! I’m going need to make an Ex Parte motion to revoke Crocker’s bail. How fast can you get over here? You’re going to need to tell all this to Judge Wilkington.”
“I’ll be there in ten minutes, as soon I ask the locals to grab up Crocker before he makes a break for it.”
Quinn hung up but before he could call the LAPD his other line beeped.
“Quinn.”
“Marshal, Bill Harris in the tech center. We just got an alert on your defendant, Miles Steven Crocker. The system’s been pinging his bracelet for ten minutes now but it seems to be off line. It might be nothing. Sometimes it hits a blind spot and we lose the signal, but the protocol is to alert your office just in case he’s found some way to disable the device. You might want to–”
“He’s on the run!” Virgil half-shouted. “Give me his last location, now!”
Chapter Seven
Crocker tapped his windbreaker’s zippered pocket and caressed the comforting packet of hundred-dollar bills. He checked his mirrors, made half a dozen erratic turns and ran several yellow lights, but as far as he could tell no one was following him.
He made a last-second turn onto a street just off Pico and pulled into a driveway sheltered by a tall hedge then twisted around to see if anyone came racing around the corner after him. He waited for a couple of minutes, but other than a frail, silver-haired woman in a twenty-year-old Buick the street remained empty.
Crocker backed out and headed for the alley he’d scouted on 12th Street behind a taqueria, the Discount All-American Market, and something called Mas Mas Roperia. He pulled the Cayenne in between two battered, dark-green dumpsters and clambered into the passenger seat. After a quick look around he began wrapping the anklet in a casing of heavy-duty aluminum foil. He used up the entire 100-foot roll then slid a pair of long-nosed clippers down the gap between the foil and his leg. The plastic band resisted for a moment then parted with a muffled snap.
It took Crocker half a minute to pull his leg from the sleeve, then he balled the foil around the anklet and buried it in one of the dumpsters. He figured that the combination of the foil and the dumpster’s steel walls would kill the signal.
It took him another six minutes to deposit the Cayenne on the fourth floor of a parking garage on South Hope. He called an Uber car from in front of a Mexican restaurant a couple of blocks away on South Flower and had the driver take him to LAX where he grabbed a shuttle to the Enterprise lot. Last night he had used a computer in the library to reserve a car under a fake identity he had created months before his arrest, just in case.
“It’s the red Hyundai,” the girl told him, pointing, then holding out the key.
“A Sonata?”
“It’s an Elantra. We’re all out of Sonatas. We could move you up to a Fusion if you want.”
Crocker glanced at his watch. The Marshals were probably already looking for him.
“Do you have any other colors?” he asked, frowning. Red cars attracted too much attention.
“In the Elantra?” she asked uncertainly and tapped her tablet. “Uhh, no, I’m sorry. I do have a silver Corolla but we’d have–”
“To change the paperwork,” Crocker finished for her. Stupid bitch! he thought and imagined her taped up in the back of his Cayenne. “Just give me the damn keys!” A minute later she watched him chirp the Elantra’s tires as he raced out of the garage, and was glad to see him go.
* * *
Virgil parked the Caddy where the last GPS signal had put Crocker, near an alley on 12th in what was called “The Fashion District,” a random mix of import/export houses, t-shirt bazaars and retail and wholesale dress outlets. A gust of wind blew a scattering of Burger King wrappers and empty water bottles down the alley toward Pico Boulevard. Of Crocker’s black Cayenne there was no trace.
The tracker could be anywhere. Just because Crocker had silenced it near here didn’t mean that he had left it here. By now he could be a few miles from the Mexican border with the anklet in a garbage can anyplace in between.
Virgil hit Speed Dial “2.”
“Brian, where we at?”
“Nada on the usual suspects – airport, bus and train stati
ons, car rentals. The same with his credit and debit cards. He probably had another vehicle stashed someplace,” Brian said. “If I had taken up killing people as my new hobby I would have made that part of my backup plan.”
“We need to get his picture to all the car rental places, just in case he’s not as smart as you are.”
“I’ve already emailed his booking photo to every rental lot in the city.”
“Can you send me the list?” Virgil asked.
“Sure. Hang on.”
A moment later Quinn’s phone beeped.
“Let’s call them and make sure that they print out the picture and post it. I’ll take the first ten locations on your list. You take the second ten. I’ll take the third and so on until we’ve got every rental car clerk in the city staring at Crocker’s photo.”
It took them almost an hour to work their way through the Advantage, Alamo, Avis, Budget and Dollar branches before Virgil made it to Enterprise.
“May I speak to the manager please,” Virgil repeated for the twenty-seventh time.
“Emilio Medina. How can I help you?”
“This is Deputy U.S. Marshal Virgil Quinn. About an hour ago we sent you the picture of a federal fugitive. I would appreciate it if you would show it to all of your employees and ask if they’ve seen him. Also, I’d like you to print out several copies and tape one to each of your computer monitors in case he shows up and tries to rent a car.”
“A fugitive? What’s he wanted for?”
“Kidnapping and raping a young woman.”
“Jesus,” Medina said. “And you think he rented one of our cars?”
“That’s what we’re trying to find out. So, if you could–”
“Hold on,” Medina said and in the background Virgil heard an electronic humm, then Medina’s voice echoing over the line: “Has anybody seen this guy? Did he rent a car from us?” A few seconds later the phone went dead.
“Hello?” Virgil called. “Hello?”
He was just about to hang up and redial when the line clicked and a girl said, “Hello? Marshal. . . ?”
“Virgil Quinn. Who’s this?”
“I saw the man you’re looking for,” she said in a rush. “About two hours ago. But his name wasn’t ‘Crocker.’ It was Steven Randolph. His driver’s license said he was from St. Louis.”
“What’s your name?”
“Christine Wajanowksi.”
“What kind of car did he rent, Christine?”
“A red Hyundai Elantra. The license number is . . . .”
Virgil flipped to a clean page in his notepad and began to write.
“Does that car have a GPS tracker installed?”
“Let me check.” A moment later she came back on the line. “It’s not working. It’s on our maintenance list for next week. Sorry.”
* * *
When he left the Enterprise lot Crocker pushed the Elantra’s seat back so far that his arms could barely reach the wheel but his legs still didn’t fit right. A couple of hours later, with his knee throbbing, he spotted a red neon sign flashing at the frequency of a slow heartbeat, promising “The Best Burgers In Barstow” and he took the next exit.
The Round-Up Room turned out to be a cinder-block cube squatting on a patch of scrub and sand, its name painted in red and black on a weathered plywood board. A single flood washed over its cracked asphalt parking lot. Crocker left the Hyundai in the shadow of a silver RAM 1500 with Nevada plates and limped to the front door.
The lights from the horseshoe bar washed over a dozen scarred tables. Crocker took one halfway between the front door and the beer-stained pool table next to the Gents. A waitress with a mound of curls the color of antique gold wandered over as if she was the victim of some vague bout of curiosity.
“What’ll you have?” she asked, pen poised over her pad.
“Burger and a beer. Do you have Becks?” Crocker half shouted over Randy Travis asking “Would you simply laugh at me and say, I told you so?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Heineken?”
Her curls flapped back and forth. “We’ve got Bud, Miller, Coors Light and Corona.”
“Corona,” Crocker told her, frowning.
“You got it.” She scribbled a note on her pad.
“Fucking shit hole,” Crocker muttered, following her with his eyes, then he jerked around at the sound of the front door opening. Tan khaki shirt and deep green pants, black belt sagging slightly under the weight of a gun and cuffs – the deputy paused just inside the entrance and scanned the room. After a second his eyes settled on Crocker and the cop started toward him.
How could they know about me? Crocker wondered. As the sheriff’s deputy neared the table he rested his palm on the butt of his gun. Crocker forced a smile and let his left hand drift toward the tiny automatic strapped to his ankle.
“Is that your Hyundai out there, sir?” the deputy asked him.
The thought, The fucking red car! shot through Crocker’s head.
“Ahhh, no. No, it’s not mine.”
“Who’s driving the red Hyundai parked out front?” the deputy called out. Everybody just stared at him. The deputy glanced around then turned back to Crocker. “Would you please show me your car keys, sir.”
“Uhh, sure,” Crocker said, pretending to pull them from his left pocket. “Damn! Dropped them.” He gave the deputy a weak smile, then leaned over and slipped his left hand under his cuff. Just as the little Taurus PT-25 filled his palm he sensed a figure moving toward him from his blind side and he spun around.
The waitress screamed when Crocker whipped the muzzle up and she fell backward with a crash of shattering plates. Crocker dove off his chair and swung the barrel back toward the front door, firing a string of shots as fast as he could pull the trigger. The first went wide, three feet to the right of where the deputy had been standing before Crocker pulled his gun. The second was almost on line but high because the deputy had instinctively gone into a crouch. Overcorrecting, the third whistled by the deputy’s head, inches from his right ear. The fourth shot went into the ceiling, Crocker’s aim having been spoiled by the two holes the deputy punched through his chest. Three more shots followed though Crocker didn’t feel any of them since by that time he was already dead.
The deputy stared at the still body for a count of three then hurried forward and kicked the gun away from Crocker’s limp hand.
“Anybody hurt?” he called out, panting, wild eyes searching the room. There was no answer. Gun raised, he stood over the body for a moment longer then slowly bent, placed two fingers against the dead man’s neck, then took a step back and pressed the switch on his mike.
“This is 232. I’ve got shots fired at 1880 on the 66, the Round-Up Room. Send the meat wagon and a supervisor. . . . Clara, you OK?” he asked the waitress who was still sitting on the floor amidst the ruins of Crocker’s hamburger. She stared at him blankly for a moment then burst into tears.
“Jesus, Craig, who the hell was that guy?” the owner, Art Hoffberger asked. “What’d he do, rob a bank or something?”
“Hell, if I know. We got a report of a shoplifting at Bill’s Grocery. Gary said the guy ran out with a big box of diapers and drove off in this direction in a small red car, Corolla, Hyundai, Sentra or whatever. I just wanted to get his ID and take a look in his trunk.”
“He tried to shoot you for a box of diapers? Why the hell would he do that?”
“I don’t know,” the deputy said. “Maybe he was on parole or something.”
“Hell of a thing,” Hoffberger replied, staring at the body, “trying to kill a man for a box of diapers.”
Chapter Eight
“You don’t have to be here,” Odermatt told Virgil for the second time.
“Does the judge know that Fitch lied to him?”
“Technically, he didn’t lie. He said that Crocker had never been charged with any other crimes, and at that moment he hadn’t.”
“And that’s all right?”
“It’s not all right, but it’s not something Wilkington can hold him in contempt for.”
“Jesus–”
“He’s ready for you,” the clerk interrupted them.
“Thanks, Alice. . . . Let me handle this,” Odermatt told Virgil in a whisper.
The clerk ushered them into Judge Wilkington’s chambers then pulled the heavy door closed after her. The window behind Wilkington threw him into silhouette and to Virgil he was barely more than a hunched shape amidst a sea of books and scattered papers.
A few seconds later Wilkington looked up. “What can I do for you, Mr. Odermatt?” he asked.
“I wanted to report back to you on the Crocker case, Your Honor. Yesterday–”
“Where’s Mr. Fitch?” Wilkington asked peering around his chambers as if Fitch might be hiding in one of the corners. “And who is this?” He nodded at Virgil.
“This is Deputy U.S. Marshal Virgil Quinn, Your Honor. As for Mr. Fitch, his presence is not required.”
“Oh? Why is that?”
“Because Mr. Crocker is dead, and therefore he no longer requires counsel.”
“Really,” Wilkington said, then turned to Virgil. “Marshal Quinn, would you care to explain to me what happened to Mr. Crocker?”
“Mr. Crocker also raped and murdered a girl in Nevada, so as soon as you let him out on bail he cut off his ankle monitor and fled. He made it as far as Barstow where he got into a gunfight with a San Bernardino County Sheriff’s Deputy. He lost.”
Wilkington frowned, and after five seconds turned back to the A.U.S.A.
“Do you have the closing forms for me, Mr. Odermatt?”
“They’ll be delivered to your clerk by the end of business today, Your Honor. I just thought you should be advised of what happened as soon as possible.”
“I’m sure you did.” Wilkington gave Odermatt a long, frowning stare. “Was there anything else?”