“What’s his story?” Tasker had to squint in the flickering glare of the overhead light.
“Name’s Peter Rubie. No idea where he’s from. Just a nut that we noticed eight or nine months ago. Ran him and he has an arrest for assault in Ohio. We’re checking it out now. Sometimes puts on this fake English accent, but usually just panhandles and searches through the Save-A-Lot’s Dumpster.”
“What kind of evidence you got?”
“What is this, a case review?”
Tasker sighed and said, “Look, Rufus, I’m just interested. It’s your case, your arrest, just fill me in.”
Rufus nodded. “Fair enough.” He rummaged through some papers on his desk, found one and started to go over some details. “He tried to use one of the professor’s credit cards at Eckerd drugs. Tried to buy some Grecian Formula and inserts for his shoes. The clerk knew it wasn’t his card and called us.”
“That’s it?”
“He had on a pair of the professor’s shoes.”
“How’d you know they were his?”
“Canvas with little orange UF Gators on the heels. Besides, Billie Towers identified them as missing from the professor’s apartment when I called her.”
“You did call her? Good. I thought she heard about the arrest on the news.”
Rufus waited and then said, “She did. I called after she had heard.”
Tasker decided to let it slide. “He confess or make any statement?”
“In his own way.”
“What the hell does that mean?”
“It means I’m tired of talking to you and have my own problems.” Without another word, Rufus stood up and stomped out of the bright room.
Tasker waited a few minutes, then started to make his way out of the police department. Walking past the remaining media people and through the front door, he heard someone call his name. He stopped at the base of the stairs and turned toward the voice over on the sidewalk.
Billie Towers, in jeans and a bright, form-fitting shirt, stood smiling.
Tasker said, “What’re you doing here?”
“Running some errands.” She came closer. “You okay?”
“I can’t get used to the way things are done around here.”
She stepped next to him and put her small hand on his face. “You look frazzled. Want to get some coffee?”
He felt some of the tension seep out of him and smiled. “Yeah, that sounds like a good idea.”
The small town had no lack of early morning diners. Little mom-and-pop places with names like Lulu’s or Mabel’s Home Cooking. He had noticed there were no Denny’s or other chain restaurants and he didn’t miss them. Billie led him to a place five blocks from the PD called Jacqui’s. A beautiful Dominican woman ran the place with an iron fist. She greeted them with a smile before turning a sharp glare to a lanky teenager who scooted under the scrutiny, and then quickly led them to a table next to the bay window overlooking a cane field.
Billie reached across the small table and took his hand. “They caught the killer, what’re you so upset about?”
“I’d feel better if I could verify some of the evidence. Rufus made it sound pretty thin.”
“He used one of the professor’s credit cards.”
“And he had on the shoes.”
Billie looked at him. “What shoes?”
He stared at her. “I thought Rufus confirmed it with you?”
“Oh, he did. I’m just so tired and ready to move on.”
Tasker looked at her, but he knew the feeling.
She said, “How close are you to being done with your investigation and ready to leave?”
He sighed. “Who knows? Maybe a few more weeks. Haven’t even interviewed prisoners yet.” He didn’t mention he had several reasons for not leaving immediately.
She leaned over and ran her tiny hand through his hair. “You look beat. You should wrap it up and get on with your life.”
Tasker nodded. “Maybe you’re right. But for now I still have a lot to finish up at Manatee.”
He wasn’t sure if he saw disappointment in her face, and if it was from his not responding to her touch or something else.
Luther Williams had the books he had been sorting for four days stacked neatly in seven groups. On the wall around the library were a dozen boxes with the discarded old texts he had evaluated as if they were exhibits in a museum in which he was the curator. The rejects included Ben-Hur with more than a hundred pages missing; four copies of The Crash of ’79, because the prison had plenty; a Tom Clancy novel that had been defaced with obscene drawings on a number of pages; and a box full of cookbooks that only served to remind the inmates what they were really eating on a daily basis.
Just as he was finishing the stacks of how-to books, historical novels and nonfiction, his apprentice and would-be usurper, Robert Moambi, strolled in from the west hall of offices, which held the finance and purchasing people.
“You done gone through every book?” asked Moambi.
“Every one,” answered Luther, without looking up from the copy of Wired: The John Belushi Story.
“I coulda done it quicker.”
“But then we’d have books we didn’t need and good books tossed out.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“Because you’re an ignorant ass.”
Moambi looked like he was offended until he remembered who he was talking to. Before it could escalate, Captain Norton came from the hallway that led to the senior correctional officers’ wing.
“What are you two bickering about?”
“Nothin’,” they said together, the standard answer to a query from a correctional officer.
Norton’s small brown eyes cut from Luther to Moambi, then around the room. “C’mon, Luther, you had to be arguing about something. Smart fella like you doesn’t get worked up over nuthin’.”
Luther remained silent and looked down at the cheap carpet on the floor as Norton circled them like a shark.
The corrections captain stopped in front of Moambi and stared at him for a moment. “What’s your name again, inmate?”
“Moambi, sir. Robert Moambi.”
“How long you been a trustee?”
“Less than a week, sir.”
“You supposed to take orders from this man?” He wagged his head toward the motionless Luther.
Moambi said, “No, sir. Officer Spirazza gives me my orders.”
“Then why are you even in here talking with him?”
“I’m sorry, Captain. I was out of line and won’t do it again.”
A smile spread over Norton’s lips. “You hear that, Luther? That’s respect. Here’s an inmate that knows his place.” He looked at Luther. “Well?”
“Well, what?” asked Luther.
“What do you have to say about that? You think it’s right that this new trustee shows more respect than you?”
Luther thought about how he’d have handled someone who talked to him like that on the streets of Miami, but for now he just shrugged.
“Why should you get to keep your job?”
Luther looked the captain in the eye and said, “Because we had an agreement. I helped you and—”
Norton cut him off. “You’re getting a little bit of a big head. Maybe a few months’ kitchen detail will shrink it.” He looked at the poker face Luther gave him. “We’ll see what happens in the next few weeks.”
As Captain Norton slowly sauntered out of the library, he leaned into one of Luther’s neat stacks and knocked the books onto the floor in a heap. At the door, he turned and said, “Moambi, go ahead and take a break in the admin lounge with the TV. Tell ’em I said it was okay.” He turned his head in Luther’s direction. “Get this library cleaned up now.”
Luther felt the bile in his throat as he watched the stout, arrogant man disappear toward his office. He had an idea of how to get back at the captain with just one phone call. He’d wait until he was gone, just so there’d be no repercussions. He wishe
d he could use the captain in his current plan. Before he could think it through, he heard Moambi.
“You heard the captain. Clean this shit up. I’m going to the TV lounge.” The younger man smiled and turned down the hallway.
Luther realized he already had his current plan filled with the proper candidate.
twenty-six
Bill Tasker left his small apartment just after dark, about six-thirty. He had on nicer clothes than he normally wore, nice jeans, a long sleeve Oxford button-down and a sport coat. He had bought the blue blazer at Burdines on sale and had worn it twice. Tonight made three times. He didn’t even know why he had packed it, but had thought the winter in the Glades might give him a chance. Now he had it on just for a simple meal at a sports bar. A simple meal with Renee Chin.
He pulled into the near-empty parking lot of the Green Mile a little early and checked his gelled hair in the mirror. Sport coat, gelled hair. What was happening to him? He slid the belly bag with his Sig into the large glove compartment and locked it. He made it a rule never to bring a gun into a bar where he intended to have a few beers. Instead he reached between his console and the driver’s seat and retrieved his state- issued ASP. He rarely went anywhere without the eight-inch metal tube that extended to a formidable nightstick with a flick of his wrist. He had used it a couple of times, but the sound of it opening was usually enough to frighten someone into compliance, or at the very least scare them into running.
He slipped the matte-black ASP into his right rear pocket, the same place he always carried it, and made sure the coat covered it completely.
He didn’t see Renee’s little Jeep Liberty but wasn’t worried. She had proven to be reliable if not punctual. Inside, the place was unchanged from his first visit there the night he arrived in Gladesville. The only difference between that Saturday night and this Tuesday night was the crowd. The first night he’d seen couples on the dance floor and most booths and the whole bar filled; tonight there were only a few booths filled and no one at the bar.
Sidling up to the bar, Tasker didn’t wait for the bartender’s offer of Bud or Bud Light. He beat him to the punch. “Bud Light.”
The bartender with a bandit’s mustache nodded his agreement with the order and produced a bottle of Bud Light almost instantaneously, then wandered to the other side of the bar where he had a basketball game on one of the overhead TVs.
Tasker sat down and took a sip from his beer, then glanced at his wristwatch. He was five minutes early, which meant Renee wouldn’t be there for twenty more minutes at least.
Two guys in jeans and old, over-washed T-shirts settled in on stools near Tasker. They looked familiar. Tasker had noticed them around town. He was amazed at how fast you got to know people in a small town like Gladesville. One of them, a tall guy with a little gut and a ruddy face, shouted across the bar to the bartender, “Two Buds.”
The bartender made no motion that he had heard the loud man, but opened the cooler closest to him. He took his time walking them over and setting the beers on the bar.
After they were served, the two men rotated on their stools to survey the empty dance floor. They leaned back with their elbows resting on the bar.
The larger one, a good three inches taller than Tasker at six-three, snorted then said, “Shit, Tommy, not enough people for a damn softball game.”
“Not even a good basketball game. Only white guys.”
They both laughed at the dark-haired man’s redneck wit.
Tasker didn’t bother to look over at them, just kept them in his peripheral vision. He heard one say, “What’s a matter, mister, you don’t think that’s funny?”
Tasker heard him, but didn’t bother to acknowledge him.
“Mister, you deaf?” asked the tall man.
Tasker saw him stand up, but still didn’t turn. He had learned that a drunk or bully ignored is a drunk or bully deflated. When the man took a step in his direction, he had to look at him. He did it slowly, showing the man he wasn’t afraid, even though he felt the anxiety in his stomach. He’d been in enough fights to know that the old saying that no one wins a fight was essentially true.
The big man stopped at the stool next to Tasker and said, “You deaf or just unfriendly?”
Tasker kept a straight face and said, “What?”
He spoke up. “I asked if you was deaf or unfriendly?”
Tasker put his hand to his ear and repeated, “What’s that?”
The dark-haired man, smaller than Tasker, maybe five-eight and a hundred and fifty pounds, said, “He’s makin’ fun of you, Joe.”
Joe looked at Tasker with no humor now and said, “That true? You makin’ fun of me?”
Tasker turned his body on the stool in case he had to act. From instinct and many hours of practice, his right hand fell to his side, then to his rear pocket, where he could feel the end of his ASP with his fingertips.
Tasker said, “I’m not making fun of you, I just don’t want to be bothered by you.”
“Too good for us?”
Tasker could try to ease his way out of this. He could look for the bartender to call the cops. Instead, growing tired of the bully and his toady, he said, “You caught on, Joe. Now leave me alone.”
Tasker figured trouble was coming, but it didn’t happen like he’d predicted.
The smaller man, Tommy, threw his beer bottle at Tasker from behind Joe. Tasker jerked his head out of the bottle’s trajectory and rolled off the stool, using his hands to keep from falling and losing touch with his ASP. As Joe stepped toward him, Tasker grabbed the stool between them and yanked it toward him so the metal legs hit Joe in the shins. Joe stepped back in pain, bumping into Tommy.
Tasker took a second to scan the room and realized that with the music and TVs blaring, hardly anyone had even noticed the start of the scuffle. He sure wanted to keep it that way if possible.
He advanced on the two men as Joe untangled himself from Tommy. Tasker threw a quick, hard punch into Joe’s solar plexus, knocking every ounce of air out of him. To ensure he was out of the fight, Tasker followed with a quick knee into his groin. He had to grab the big man to keep him from hitting the ground. He shoved him onto a stool and stepped past him, confident he had no fight left in him.
Without a pause, he moved toward the surprised Tommy, slipped a looping right cross thrown by the smaller man, then grabbed his extended arm and threw an uppercut into the nerve center under his arm. Tommy instantly pulled back and held his arm. Tasker followed, grabbed his skanky shirt and twisted him onto the stool next to his buddy, Joe, who still didn’t know what to worry about more—his lack of breath or his lack of feeling in his testicles.
Tasker did another spin to check the room. The bartender had seen the fight and it looked like he approved of how Tasker was handling the situation. Several other men had noticed, but kept it to themselves.
He stepped between the two whimpering men and put his hands on their shoulders like they were friends talking.
“So, fellas, what have we learned?” He waited but got no reply. “First we learned there’s nothing wrong with my hearing, right?”
Both men nodded.
“Next, we learned not to bother strangers, right?”
Again they nodded.
“Now, unless you want to learn to walk on broken legs, you’re going to calmly get up and wander out the front door, right?”
Again they nodded.
“I don’t want you two morons to bother anyone else tonight. Is that clearly understood?”
Tommy said, “We ain’t finished our beer.”
Before Tasker could comment on this monumentally stupid reply, Joe said, “Tommy, don’t be a dumb-ass. Let’s go.”
Tasker eased back onto his stool and watched the two men hobble out the front door.
The bartender came down to his end of the bar and said, “Them two just skipped on their tab.”
Tasker said, “It’s my fault. Guess I’m just bad company. I’ll pick it up.”
The thin bartender smiled, showing a missing tooth at the side of his mouth. “Don’t worry about it. In fact, you get another on the house. Like your style.”
Tasker smiled and then noticed Renee Chin come in and head straight for him. She was her usual stunning self out of the frumpy Department of Corrections gear.
She slid onto the stool next to him and gave him a peck on the cheek. “Sorry I’m late. Girl stuff, you know.”
“I don’t really know, but I don’t mind.”
She looked around and said, “It’s not exactly hopping tonight.”
“No, pretty quiet.”
She said, “I just saw one of Manatee’s former residents in the parking lot.”
Tasker looked at her. “Coming or going?”
“He and a buddy were leaving. They looked drunk, stumbling to their truck.”
“Big blond guy and a smaller dark-haired guy?”
“Yeah, the big guy is Joe Kinder. I think he was an off-loader on a pot shipment that flew into the Clewiston area. Why, did you talk to them?”
“Sort of.” Maybe he was getting paranoid, but Tasker looked at the incident differently now. Was it random or part of someone’s plan? He’d keep it to himself for now.
twenty-seven
Tasker had spent the last forty minutes driving directly into the rising sun over West Palm Beach. He had left his little apartment at six-thirty to make sure he would have enough time to do what he had to do. It had killed him to turn in early the night before. The dinner with Renee had been terrific. She was funny and they shared a lot of interests—one of them sports. The girl knew her Miami Dolphins history and had strong opinions about the coaches since Shula.
Tasker had waited for Renee to invite him home after dinner, but the invitation had never come. They’d spent a moment kissing good-bye in the parking lot of the Green Mile, but that was it. He had actually been a little distracted keeping an eye out for the two men who had assaulted him in the bar. He was afraid they might have lain in wait for him, but he had been paranoid. The worse feeling was Renee saying, “See you tomorrow,” and driving away.
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