Best Defense

by Randy Rawls

  I shifted to the kitchen, hoping to find someone with a big breakfast and a willingness to share. Nope, only a pot of hot coffee. I filled a cup and sat down to sip and plan my day.

  _____

  Ninety minutes later, I pulled into Bob’s parking lot, got out, and entered through the back entrance. Walking in, I saw Bob leave the men’s dorm as Dot came from the women’s.

  “Hey, guys,” I said. “Do we have enough people?”

  “No problem,” Bob said. “As soon as you called, I put out the word. So far, we have Dot, Ralph, Viaduct, and Blister. There’ll probably be others checking in as the day goes by. How many do you need?”

  I looked at Dot who wore her homeless attire. In today’s outfit, she’d have a hard time getting into Walmart, much less being a Greeter.

  She glared at me. “Before you start, don’t think you’re skipping me, dearie. I’ll be with you every step of the way.”

  “But I need you to keep an eye on a drop site. You—”

  “Dearie, anybody can do that. Somebody’s got to cover your back. That’s me. You tell ’er, Bob.”

  Bob shrugged. “She is good in the pinch.”

  “Yeah, I know,” I said. “But there are four drops. I need at least one at every location and would prefer to have someone at each place you can get in and out. That’s a minimum of eight. Think we can come up with that many invisible people? I don’t want anyone hurt, so they have to know how to disappear.”

  Dot cackled. “Only the live ones know how to disappear. The ones that didn’t learn ain’t with us no more.”

  “I’ll take care of it,” Bob said.

  The back door opened, and Street walked in. “Heard y’all need some hep. Ain’t much goin’ on out there so figgered I’d see what’s up.”

  I wanted to hug him, but decided to save my nasal passages. Street lived up to his homeless tag. He smelled like he’d slept in a dumpster. No, I didn’t ask.

  “Git in there and take a shower,” Dot said. “We got work to do and that stink ain’t gonna cut it. Go, now.”

  Street shrugged and headed into the men’s dorm. The rest of us went into the bar where a pot of coffee begged for our attention.

  twenty-eight

  No complications to my plan. I’d post one, preferably two, of my homeless friends at each drop. They’d watch through the night. If the kidnappers showed, my friends would get a license plate number and car description—if they could without endangering themselves. Anything more than that was candy. Once the kidnappers left the area, they would call me with whatever information they had gained.

  Simple plan, but I believed simplicity was called for. When the kidnappers claimed their prize, we’d have our best chance to track them. Not apprehend them or get in their way, but track them. That let out anyone in a position of authority. They’d stand out like a camel in a sheep pen. The homeless knew how to not be seen, and that was the secret ingredient. Night after night, they disappeared in plain view. I had faith they could do it once more, and Ashley would benefit.

  I laid out my route from north to south so Murder on the Beach Mystery Bookstore was my first stop. It was on Northeast 2nd Avenue in Delray Beach, about three blocks north of West Atlantic Avenue, the main drag through the city center. Dot, Street, and Viaduct were with me. I figured Street for the bookstore and Viaduct for the bandstand at Mizner Park. Back at Bob’s place, each had evinced a familiarity with the area. Dot, of course, would stay with me. If Bob came up with other volunteers, I’d get them to their destinations somehow. Maybe my newfound friend, Maddy, would drive them. If she wanted South Florida reality, my homeless friends were it.

  At the intersection of Lake Ida Road and Swinton Avenue, a few blocks north and west of the store, I stopped and let Street, Viaduct, and Dot out. If the kidnappers were watching the alley behind the store, I didn’t want my accomplices compromised. Viaduct, Dot, and I agreed to meet in an hour. Street would stay and cover the site.

  Murder on the Beach Mystery Bookstore was located in a small strip mall containing an Italian restaurant, a U.S. Post Office, the usual Chinese restaurant, a couple of medical offices, and several other small shops. As with most strip malls, some units were vacant. I drove around back and through the alley. It was a narrow, one-lane blacktop without much to distinguish it. As described in the kidnappers’ note, a dumpster sat near the rear door of the bookstore. It was far enough from the wall for a large box to fit and be invisible unless you were looking for it. Across the alley was an apartment complex with balconies. I assumed the occupants did not pay extra for the view.

  As a drop site, it had negatives and a single positive. The positive was its isolation in the middle of the city. I doubted there was much traffic through the alley after the stores closed. In fact, there was probably little activity when the stores were open. The biggest negative was there were only one way in and one way out. Plus, theoretically, the police could commandeer one of the apartments and watch the alley. But the kidnappers had negated surveillance with their ploy of keeping Ashley for a week after the payment. So overall, it looked pretty good for their purpose.

  After learning all I could about the alley, I parked out front and strolled along the sidewalk. The most interesting place was the bookstore, displaying books in the windows along with several posters showing book covers and author pictures. A sign on the door announced a signing by Deborah Sharp, an author whom I’d read. She wrote a humorous series featuring Mama getting into scrapes and her daughter, Mace, rescuing her. Lots of chuckles. In some ways, Ms. Sharp’s stories made me mindful of my mother, making me feel bad I wasn’t more supportive.

  The store was open so I went in. An attractive woman stood behind the counter. I stopped inside the door and looked around at a small room with every available inch packed with bookshelves and books.

  “Can I help you find something?” she asked.

  “Nice place,” I said. “I love the name. Does it have a story?”

  “Not really. It’s the only bookstore in Florida specializing in mysteries. And every mystery has at least one murder. Thus, I put murder in the title.”

  “On the beach?” I said. “Not exactly.”

  “True, but my first store was in Miami Beach, and that one was on the beach. So, when I moved to Delray, I kept the title. Besides, it’s Delray Beach, right?”

  “Touché.” I stuck out my hand. “I’m Beth.”

  “Joanne.”

  I handed her a business card.

  She looked at it. “Beth Bowman, Private Investigator. For real? I have a ton of books in here about you.”

  I grinned. “I’m sure those PIs lead far more exciting lives than I do. My cases are on the humdrum side. Nothing to write a book about. But I am working today, trying to locate a husband for his wife. He has memory issues and may simply be lost. His wife says he loves to read, mostly mysteries. Have you seen anyone strange around here in the last few days?”

  Joanne smiled. “I told you this is a mystery bookstore. You’ve described half my customers.”

  “Touché again. Maybe I should reword my question.”

  “No, I understand.” She appeared to think about it. “There was a guy the other day. He was out back near the dumpster when I took out some trash. I thought he might be looking for boxes, so I offered him some. When you receive book shipments almost every day, the boxes pile up. I keep some and donate most of the others to anyone who wants them. Anyway, the man backed up, ‘No, no, I have to leave.’ Then he quickly walked away.”

  Bingo, I wanted to scream. That had to be my guy. “Can you describe him?”

  “Oh, my,” Joanne said. “Let me see. He was tall, well over six feet—maybe six-three, six-four. He had a paunch, but didn’t appear much overweight. No facial hair. Nothing really definite except his height. Sorry, that’s as good as I can do.”

  I thought
back to my attacker at the soccer field when he turned me to look at his face. His hand on the nape of my neck had forced my head up. Yes, he was tall, quite tall. “Thanks, but I don’t think that’s my lost husband. My guy is short and skinny. Anyone else?”

  “No. We don’t get a lot of extraneous traffic through here. Most of the people I see are regulars.”

  I thanked her, then checked the shelf labeled New Releases. There was an autographed P.J. Parrish I hadn’t read, so I bought it, thanked Joanne, and went to my car. Once inside, I reviewed what I had learned—not much. Nothing I didn’t expect. The man Joanne saw could have been one of the kidnappers scoping out the area, most likely the same guy who attacked me. It was the first time I felt like I had found a trace. Didn’t get me any closer to Ashley, but made me feel a little better.

  I took out my notebook and made notes about what I’d learned. On a scale of one to ten, I gave the alley a six.

  After retrieving Dot and Viaduct, we discussed our impressions of the alley as a ransom drop location.

  Viaduct said, “If I was in a pinch, I might stay there, but I’d be up and off early. Not the kind of place I’d feel safe.”

  “I agree,” Dot said. “One of the things I learned since I been on the street is always look for the way out. Now, in this case, it’s not just out of the alley, but out of the area. Wouldn’t they want some place they wouldn’t get bogged down in traffic? I mean, most any way you go, you got little city streets with lots of red lights and such.”

  “Good point. They could get bottled up pretty easy in downtown Delray Beach. Maybe I better lower my grade to a five.”

  “That’s high enough for me,” Dot said.

  Viaduct nodded.

  I crossed to Federal Highway and headed south toward Mizner Park in Boca Raton. Mistake. Although it was only a few miles, there were what seemed like ten-thousand traffic lights, one on almost every corner, giving strength to Dot’s words about using the bookstore alley. Of course, heading in the opposite direction to catch I-95 with its bumper-to-bumper traffic probably wouldn’t have been any faster.

  North of Mizner Park, I pulled into a strip mall and let Dot and Viaduct out. Dot and I agreed to meet at the same place in one hour, as we had in Delray Beach. Then I continued my trip south.

  I found a spot in the parking garage and hoofed it back to the amphitheater, then worked my way to its rear. The dumpster was as described in the ransom note. NE Mizner Boulevard bordered it on one side and Federal Highway on another. Ingress and egress offered no problems for the kidnappers—unless the police were ready to pounce on any car that pulled into the driveway. The small turnaround where the dumpster sat had only one way in and the same way out. Again, I assumed the kidnappers thought holding Ashley for seven days after the pickup would keep the police at bay. I gave the location a five on my scale.

  I met Dot at our rendezvous, and we headed toward Bob’s. Viaduct had disappeared into the scenery—just another homeless victim with no face.

  “So?” I said.

  “Same as the other one. Maybe even worse. No good way to escape.”

  Once again, we agreed. I wondered if I should be worried about that. I mean, I was, by definition, the professional. If I only saw the same things as Dot, maybe I wasn’t so professional after all.

  My plan was to pick up Ralph and Blister and take them to their assignments. I had no reason to examine the soccer field. I’d had quite enough of it. Also, I figured the kidnappers wouldn’t go near the place after Dabba’s ambush, in spite of its quick access to the Sawgrass Expressway. Again, Dot and I agreed.

  I needed to check the West Atlantic site, though. Perhaps it would have obvious advantages for the kidnappers, one demanding they use it.

  At Bob’s, three surprises occurred. First, several others had answered Bob’s call. With a smile I couldn’t suppress, I called Maddy Hammonds and asked her to deliver them to their observation points. She agreed, and I could hardly wait to get her impressions later.

  The second surprise was that Blister had already taken off for the soccer field. Bob explained that Blister had been my observer on my two trips there, so he knew exactly where it was. He was embarrassed he hadn’t been close enough to help when the attacker jumped me. By the time he closed the distance, the thug was in hot retreat, so he faded back into the darkness. Bob further explained that Blister had been assaulted a couple of times by punks out for a night of fun. After dark, he hid—and hid well. I told Bob I understood and would let Blister know the next time I saw him.

  The third surprise was a bit of the good-bad variety. Dabba walked in the back door, her large bag in her hand. “Glad I caught you here. When we gonna git them bastards got my Linda?”

  The good—she saved me from a worse beating. The bad—I didn’t want her anywhere near me or the kidnappers. She was a loose marble that could roll in any direction, and I couldn’t afford any diversions.

  “You did your part last night,” I said. “I’ll take it from here.”

  Her giggle carried an edge of insanity. “No way, honey. I almost got ’em on that field. Next time, he’s mine.”

  I glanced at Bob, and he gave me one of those you’re on your own looks. He was right. Dabba was my problem.

  “Okay,” I said. “You can stick with Dot and me. But, please, don’t jump out and do anything unless I tell you to. Remember, Ashley’s life is at stake here.”

  “Oh, I remember, Beth,” she said, her eyes taking on a dreamy look. “I been trying to find her a long time. I ain’t about to let them escape agin.”

  twenty-nine

  The site on West Atlantic was tailor-made. It had to be the place. It was about two-three hundred yards west of its intersection with Route 441. As stated in the note, there was an entrance to the post office on the left. On the right was a pull-off area that opened into tall brush. Behind that was a weedy field. Perfect for concealing a box.

  I drove past and continued another half-mile or so to the end of the road where there was an entrance to West Delray Regional Park. I turned into the park and let Ralph out. As he started to walk away, I stopped him. “Ralph, be careful. My gut says this could be the site. Call me if you get in trouble, and I’ll come running.”

  He shot me a smile. “Don’t worry about me. I’m the Invisible Man. I’m only seen when I want to be.”

  I turned around, then headed toward the proposed drop site, my head swinging as I checked both sides of the narrow road. High brush and trees lined the roadside. There were a couple of buildings and a commercial enterprise or two, but the growth pretty much hid them. It was a perfect location. So many hiding places that anyone could be watching—watching even as I drove through—and no one would ever know. Hiding a car would be more difficult, so that meant any surveillant had to be on foot.

  At the designated pull-off, I stopped and got out. Dot and Dabba followed me as we stomped around the area. The most obvious disadvantage was there was only one way in and one way out—West Atlantic Avenue. But, as I’d noted all along the route, there were many places a person could hide if he didn’t mind mosquitoes, snakes, and assorted other swamp critters.

  Perhaps the biggest advantage was its proximity to Route 441, a major north-south multilane highway, as well as the closeness of the Florida Turnpike. The kidnapper could grab the box and be making a high-speed getaway in less than five minutes. I gave it an eight on my list of the four ransom sites.

  “This is one isolated place,” Dabba said. “I don’t think we gonna find Linda here.”

  “I don’t either,” I said. “I just hope Ralph will be okay. This is not like working your way around Boca.”

  “He’ll do fine, dearie,” Dot said. “He likes the Everglades. Ralph’s got a lot of smarts he don’t let on to. He ain’t near as dumb as he acts.”

  I looked at her, thinking that goes for you, too, dearie. No, I didn�
��t ask her to explain her remark about the Everglades. I was afraid she would, and I’d know less than I knew before.

  We climbed into the car, and I started toward Route 441. Up the road a hundred yards or so, a yellow mobile food truck was parked and open for business. The lettering on the side said it specialized in Mexican food.

  “Want to try it?” I asked, stopping on the opposite side of the road.

  “Why not?” Dot said. “I’m sure I et worse.”

  “Ain’t got no money,” Dabba said. “Waiting for Linda’s kidnapper to come back to that field didn’t give me no time to work.”

  I figured work to her was panhandling, but I owed her for saving my cookies at the soccer field the night before. “Lunch, or whatever it is, is on me,” I said. “Let’s see what they have. I haven’t had authentic Tex-Mex since I left Dallas.”

  A surprise awaited me. A man and a woman worked in the vehicle, and cooked the orders as they came in. This was not an ordinary roach coach, it was a Mexican restaurant on wheels. We waited in line behind several people speaking Spanish and looking like they spent their time in manual labor. An aroma of sweat and freshly mowed grass emanated from them. When we got to the window, I ordered beef tacos with green salsa and sodas all around. The second surprise came with the first bite. They were tasty and the salsa lived up to Texas standards—fiery.

  We sat in the shade of the car, ate our tacos, and drank our drinks. By the time we finished, it was almost two o’clock. We had the rest of the day to kill, and I was out of places to check. I called Maddy and asked if she’d heard from the police about the cigarette pack.

  “Nothing yet,” she said. “I talked to them at one. They said they were working on it. I’ll call them again, then go pick up your friends and take them where they need to be. As soon as I squeeze something out of the cops, I’ll let you know.”