She looked at the other two. “Take Rufus outta here.”
They hesitated.
“You want some, too?”
With that, they reached down at once and helped their bloodied comrade to his feet, then shuffled toward the door.
She looked at Tasker, his mind mentally agape, and said calmly, “I’m sorry, I better leave before someone calls the cops.”
Tasker stared at the lovely, athletic girl as she gathered up her purse and a friend came to hurry her along.
Tasker stammered, “But wait, when . . .”
She smiled and answered his half-asked question. “Don’t worry, it’s Gladesville. We’ll see each other soon.”
She was out the door before the bartender could investigate the incident.
five
It was midday on Sunday in Gladesville. Even though he’d just read the Palm Beach Post as he had most of his adult life, it didn’t feel like Palm Beach County. He had the small window-mounted air conditioner off and all the windows open. In front of him on the floor were photographs of Rick Dewalt’s body next to a squat cement landing inside the walls of Manatee Correctional, the angle of his head and legs reminding Tasker of a discarded doll, the corpse’s arms secured behind his back with a length of rough tan rope. In addition to the crime scene photos, Tasker had the autopsy photos and the investigative reports written by one R. A. Chin, inspector. The reports were well written and concise, but the investigation had failed to turn up much.
He looked over the scattered paper and then froze as he saw a small gray creature with a funny yellow streak on its hindquarters, as if it had bumped into paint, slowly creep across the floor on the far side of the room. The mouse didn’t look threatening but he didn’t like the idea of another mammal in the house, and he looked around for something in arm’s reach with some heft. The only thing was his paperback Florida State Statutes book. He kept his eyes on the mouse and slowly brought it up, but then just as he winged it, someone banged on his front door. The book hit wide right and the mouse took off like a tiny missile out of sight into the lone bedroom.
Tasker turned to the door to find a short man in his mid-fifties standing outside the screen.
Tasker stood, hoping the man didn’t realize what he had been trying to do.
The man said, “You chase him out of here and I’ll end up with him in my apartment.” He smiled. “I designed a humane trap for the little critters. Nothing fancy. Just a hamster cage that will shut when he comes in for the food. More work than throwing a book at them, but not as messy.”
Tasker opened the door and offered his hand. “Bill Tasker.”
The man said, “Warren Kling. I live next door. What god-awful state agency do you work for and what did you do to get sent here?”
“FDLE, and I did what anyone would do. I said, ‘Sure, I’ll go out to Gladesville.’ ”
“But what for?”
Tasker shrugged. “Looking into a death at the prison.”
“A murder?”
“Looks like.”
“Now that’s interesting.”
Tasker shrugged again. “What about you?”
“Archaeology led me here. Seminole camps. I’m a professor of Native American studies—lot of interesting sites out here.”
“I think I met one of your assistants.”
“Only have one. Not many men miss her.”
“You can send her by to drop off stuff anytime you like.”
“Actually, I try not to. Every time she leaves the site I don’t see her again for hours. You know young people.”
“Where do you teach?”
“University of Florida.”
Tasker frowned.
“Don’t tell me,” the professor said.
“’Fraid so, Doc. Florida State, class of ’ninety-three.”
“Hell. Just when I thought this place couldn’t get any worse.”
“I agree.” They both laughed and immediately Tasker felt better about his stay. Their schools might be fierce rivals, but at least he had a neighbor worth talking to.
Billie Towers peered over the steering wheel of the noisy Ford pickup that the University of Florida had provided Professor Kling for his crazy dig. Who really cared if her ancestors settled here near Gladesville or out west in Big Cypress? She’d been raised on the Hollywood reservation and she didn’t give a shit. All she really cared about was a reason not to live on the reservation again, even if it did mean a fat stipend from the Seminole tribe of Florida. When she did think of the reservation outside the beach town of Hollywood, all she could remember was her father bringing home a different tourist lady every night and his friends’ eyes following her as she raced through the house to find refuge at the local arcade or school event. She’d learned early that men appreciated her for things other than her intelligence.
Now she felt the truck’s engine stutter as she drove past one of the many abandoned sugar company offices.
“Shit,” she said as she pounded on the cracked blue steering wheel. The pickup reacted by cutting out altogether. Billie assessed the situation. She could turn and coast into the empty parking lot of the office building, where she would be safe, or just pull to the side of the road. Although she’d be near traffic, she figured someone would see her, and if that someone was male she was confident she’d be rescued.
She bumped onto the shoulder of the four-lane highway and didn’t waste any time scooting out of the truck. She checked her hair in the side mirror, tied off her T-shirt to show her defined abs, and, satisfied she was ready, turned and faced the highway. Before she could walk to the rear of the truck, two vehicles nearly collided trying to turn off the road.
A new Dodge pickup truck with a tall, cute guy about twenty-five stopped just past her. His smile reflected the bright sun and a confident strut as he came toward her, and his brown hair, stylish and a little showy, must have been cut by someone in the city. Behind her, a heavy man around fifty-five slowly plopped out of a four-wheel-drive Chevy truck. The two opposite specimens of men met Billie at about the same time.
“What’s the prob?” asked the younger man.
Billie held up her hands and shrugged.
He smiled and said, “I’m Chuck.”
Billie was about to answer when the other man said, “What year is the truck?”
“ ’Ninety-five, I think.”
He didn’t reply, just walked right past them to the front of the truck and popped the hood. He grumbled as he poked around, then stopped to scratch the gray stubble on his chin and tilt up his black number three memorial hat.
Billie and Chuck waited for a passing semi, then joined the other man. Billie liked watching Chuck’s walk and the sway of his hips.
When he looked in the engine compartment, Chuck said, “Man, look at that antique. We should just leave it here.”
The older man said, “Crank it for me.”
Billie crawled in the cab and tried it a few times without success. She rejoined her new friends.
The older man said, “It’s the alternator. Happens all the time with these Fords.”
Billie looked at Chuck, hoping he’d know what to do. He still looked good, just not as smart.
Billie said to the older man, “What should I do?”
“Don’t know. Auto parts store is a few miles back.” He looked at his battered Timex. “Could take a while.”
Chuck said something, but Billie knew who could rescue her now and didn’t listen to the young man’s comments. She said to the older man, “Is there any way you could help me?” She smiled and looked up at him.
“I guess I could do it, but it’ll cost sixty bucks for a rebuilt alternator.”
Billie checked her front pocket. She had a twenty the professor had given her, but that was it. Suddenly she remembered Chuck and turned. “I only have twenty. Shoot, I don’t know what to do.” This time she let her head rest against the tall man’s chest.
Chuck immediately dug in his rear pocket and
yanked out a nice leather wallet. “I only have thirty.”
Her face sank.
“But I have an American Express.” He pulled out a Gold card. “See, I can cover it.”
“Thank you so much.” She hugged him, then hugged the older man, too.
The older man said, “I’ll start to pull this one off, you go to the store.”
As Chuck turned to head to his own truck, Billie added, “Could you pick me up a Big Mac on the way back?”
As Chuck cheerfully trotted away, Billie smiled. She knew her strengths. Now all she needed was some cash so she didn’t have to rely on them all the time.
Captain Sam Norton liked to imagine he was a lord looking over his castle when he stood high in the control room of the Rock. The facility didn’t have an electric chair, but they still killed inmates on a fairly regular basis. Two this year when they tried to escape through a hole in the west fence. With a damn name like Manatee, you had to throw a scare into the residents once in a while. Norton had been at Glades when the six had tunneled out. The experience had been embarrassing to the department, but he had found it to be the most interesting month of his whole career.
Now Captain Norton looked out over the empty yard. He was pleased to see no movement. As the senior man on duty, he had just ordered a full lockdown, which meant most of the inmates of the Rock were shut in their cells and no trustee was allowed to wander from a workstation. Captain Norton held his beefy five-foot-eight frame still as he looked out from the control room. He smiled because he hadn’t ordered the lockdown for safety reasons or to fix some fault in the fence. He’d done it because he was sick of looking at the miscreants that the good state of Florida had sent to him, here at the toughest facility south of the Florida State Prison in Starke. Even if it was named after a damn waterborne cow.
Norton had a lot on his mind. The damn FDLE agent was coming to look into Dewalt’s death. His business plan could go out the window if he didn’t take action, and, like most men, Norton was finding that relationships, no matter how quiet you tried to keep them, were a pain in the ass. He was tired and it was time to test the kid, Lester Lynn, in the control room. The boy had pestered him for months about getting out of the psych ward and into the control room. Some officers liked the tech-heavy room where you could look into almost any corner of the facility. Due to limited manpower, Norton had assigned only one officer per shift to the room, so it was not as all-seeing as it should have been. Norton also had his doubts about this boy Lynn. He needed the right officer in the control room, not just any officer. Some of the other, more experienced officers said he was okay, but there was only one way to find out.
“How long we locked down for, Cap?” asked the young correctional officer. At twenty-four, he was still eager and in pretty good shape. That might last two more years, tops.
“Why do you care? They’re down for a while, Lester. You just keep an eye on that board and shut your yap.” The captain stood back and watched the young man carefully.
Norton checked his watch and knew the test would start in less than a minute. He walked out of the control room without comment. He pulled out his personal cell phone and called Janzig. “I’m out, Henry. Put on your show.” Norton couldn’t resist walking down the hallway to peek out the window. He knew young Lester would see the same thing over a monitor. The question was, would he report it?
Norton watched Henry Janzig walk into one of the outdoor walkways with an inmate. It looked like the old pot smuggler from Dorm D. The thin, white boat captain had gone along with the shows before. The fifty-seven-year-old short, puffy Janzig wobbled like a kid’s toy as he followed the inmate, then stopped, pulled out a solid nightstick from his belt and whacked the inmate across the back, dropping him to his knees. Then, when he was down, Janzig clubbed him three times over the shoulder and head. Janzig looked up at the monitor and shook his head as a warning to Officer Lynn.
Norton had seen Henry Janzig scare many a new correctional officer with that look. He thought the inmate overacted a little, but seeing it on a monitor without sound, it had to look real. Norton smiled as the inmate pretended to stagger to his feet and walk toward his dorm.
After ten minutes or so, Norton had not been raised on the radio or called on the phone. He walked back into the control room.
“Any problems, Lester?”
The young man remained cool and looked straight ahead. “No, sir. Everything is quiet.”
Norton smiled. This boy might be able to join the club, he thought.
He walked down into the yard, nodding to the officers on the towers, standing with their scoped, high-powered 30-06 rifles leaning on their hips, ready for action. He was the boss here and wanted things to run smoothly. He took his job seriously and expected the same from the men and women who worked under his command.
He stopped in front of Dorm A near a female officer writing a report on a picnic table just outside the door. Her body looked square in the bland tan-and-brown uniform issued by the state. Her straight brown hair hung down around her face as she leaned into the paperwork.
“Anything new, Rosalind?”
She looked up. “No, sir, Captain. Just writing up a work order for the air-conditioning in the dorm. It’s not working right.”
“Don’t worry about it now, Rose. They’re down for the afternoon. They won’t complain.”
Norton was tired of this new breed of correctional officer, all concerned with inmates’ feelings and well-being. He had started when he was nineteen and spent a total of twenty-two years among the most hardened criminals. He couldn’t care less what they thought of being locked down on a pretty Sunday afternoon.
Rosalind said, “Won’t be like this if they put in a private prison.”
“Don’t you worry about that. They won’t take these kind anyway. We’ll always have us jobs.”
“But what about the money goin’ to private prisons? What’ll we do if they can run ’em cheaper?”
“One thing at a time, Rose. They’re just looking for a site for the prison. Whatever happens, it’s a long way off.” Norton turned and headed toward the main gate so he wouldn’t have to listen to the girl yak. He walked through the administration building and then out the side exit to the housing. He had four hours left on shift and needed a break, so he headed to his private quarters. The two sergeants on duty knew to call him if there was trouble. Janzig was the most dependable son of a bitch he’d ever met. If he had to, he could jog the four hundred yards from his little state-provided house back to the prison. As he came to the rear of the house, he heard the big air conditioner on the roof cranking full blast and knew he still had a guest. A smile crossed his lips as he thought about what he might do on his break.
six
Tasker parked his state-issued gold Monte Carlo in the visitors’ lot of Manatee Correctional and walked the quarter mile on hard-packed limestone to the administration building. The distance was an intentional design so that cars couldn’t be brought close to the outside perimeter fence. At the front office, he pulled out his FDLE badge and credentials and waited for an escort, while straightening his tie in the reflection of a glass picture frame that held an aerial photo of the prison. He’d purposely left his Sig in his car so there wouldn’t be an issue and worn his light, comfortable, blue blazer. Even winters could be warm in the Glades. He’d left his state-issued ASP, too. The collapsible metal nightstick usually sat in his right rear pocket when he had on a coat, so it was hidden. The stick had helped him out of more than a few jams. He’d figured he was safe in the administration building of a prison, though, and locked it up.
After less than a minute, a young correctional officer with a crew cut and thick-rimmed glasses opened the door and said, “This way, sir.”
Tasker followed him through a maze of clean hallways with thin, industrial carpet, where several trustees in orange vests ran vacuum cleaners and wiped windows. At the end of the longest hallway, an open door showed a large office with dark oak furn
iture. The sign above the door said WARDEN in large gold letters. The young correctional officer stuck his head in the open door and nodded to a tall, well-dressed black man behind the gigantic oak desk.
“Agent, Tasker. I’m Robert Stubbs, warden of Manatee.” He extended his large hand, then guided Tasker to a chair at a conference table.
The warden said, “This is Captain Sam Norton.”
Tasker shook the hand of the shorter, sturdy-looking, uniformed captain. His brown eyes briefly appraised Tasker, then showed his lack of interest.
“And this is Inspector R. A. Chin.”
Tasker turned his attention to the figure at the far end of the table, and then froze. The inspector had been facing the wall, talking on the phone, but then turned, and Tasker saw that Inspector R. A. Chin was a female. A tall, beautiful female. Whom he had already met.
“We’re old friends,” she said. Then Renee leaned across the table, took Tasker’s hand and grinned at his shocked expression.
The warden said, “We’re happy to have you here, Agent. Inspector Chin will be assigned to work with you on the case.”
Norton mumbled, “What I want to know is, why’re you here for this murder and not one of the other six unsolved ones we’ve had in the last four years?”
Tasker shrugged. “I was assigned, that’s all I know.”
Norton said, “Oh, F.I.G.M.O.”
Renee cocked her heard, “Figmo?”
Tasker smiled because he was very familiar with the phrase.
Norton answered her. “Fuck it, I’ve got my orders.”
Renee smiled.
Norton turned toward the door. “This don’t really involve me, so I’ll leave you two to handle it.” He looked at Tasker. “Please don’t get in the way of daily operations. That is my business.”
Escape Clause Page 5