Escape Clause

by James O. Born

  “Hello, ladies, anything new?”

  Renee pulled away from Tasker and said, “Looks like Luther Williams killed him. Won’t have forensics for a few days.”

  “That boy better be back in the can in a few days.” He looked at Tasker. “Harrison says you had a run-in with some Aryan Knights.”

  Tasker nodded.

  “You hurt?”

  He shook his head, trying to will Norton to leave so he could finish his conversation with Renee.

  “You didn’t do any favors for one of ’em. He’s over at the infirmary with a broken shoulder and a concussion. Was that called for?”

  Now Tasker was involved in the conversation. “Look here, Captain, that’s the second time your inmates have tried to hurt me. I did what I had to do. Hit him once. Just one time across the back as he came at me. Didn’t any of your ace correctional officers see it on a monitor?”

  “My question is why did you smuggle an ASP inside the perimeter?”

  Tasker was about to give him the honest answer when a better one popped into his head. “I was testing the entry security. Guess what? You fucking failed.”

  This brought Norton up short. He looked at Renee. “Inspector, we have a lot to go over. I’m sure Agent Tasker wants to finish his investigation.” He turned and stormed out of the library.

  Renee took a few steps, turned and said, “How about dinner?”

  “When?”

  “Saturday night.”

  Tasker grinned and nodded. He’d be better prepared to talk to her over dinner.

  thirty-two

  Sam Norton caught up to the search team covering the residential area to the east of the Rock. The captain didn’t need to check on them because Henry Janzig was there and he ran a tight ship. His boys wouldn’t get lax, even though Norton was afraid it didn’t matter anymore. Luther Williams was probably a hundred miles from Gladesville by now.

  He found the short, stout frame of his most trusted associate near the edge of the abandoned US Sugar housing units, screaming at some young correctional officer.

  Janzig had the taller man cowering by a department pickup truck. “Boy, you hold a fucking shotgun that ain’t aimed at someone straight up in the goddamn air. You hear me?” Janzig’s round face turned red as he screamed.

  The young man with a crew cut and still a smattering of pimples nodded his head before scampering off to join the others going through backyards and toolsheds.

  Norton got out of his own state-owned pickup and walked over to his friend. “I hope the moron pointed the gun at you for you to get so bent out of shape.”

  “Careless som-bitch. He was gabbing with the female, the cute one, what’s her name?”

  “Manfredi, Angela Manfredi.”

  “Yeah, that’s the one. What’s a girl like that doing out here anyway?”

  Norton snorted at his friend. “Trying to make enough money for college. Her daddy is a teacher in Belle Glade. She does a good job. What’s crawled up your ass and died?”

  “You sayin’ I ain’t sensitive to females? Hell, I’m sensitive all to hell over ’em. But I got a job and no part of my job requires me to know about people’s personal problems.”

  “Whoa there, sailor, it’s me. Now what’s really wrong?”

  Janzig stopped and looked around to make sure no one was near them. “Having Williams on the loose spooks me.”

  “No one likes an escape.”

  “You know that ain’t what I mean.”

  Norton nodded. “Yeah, I know. We’re doing everything we can. I had the inspector from the South Florida Reception Center go with a couple of FDLE guys to Luther’s girlfriend’s nice Miami Beach apartment. You know the heavy white woman.”

  “Yeah, I seen her.”

  “She didn’t know shit. She let them search her place and car. Nothing.”

  “Damn sure is a coincidence she was here when he got out.”

  “Henry, he’s a sly one. He might have planned it like that just to throw us off.” He patted his friend on the back. “Don’t worry. We’ll get him.”

  On his way back to the prison, Norton saw Rufus Goodwin at the town’s only coffee and doughnut shop, Dinkin’ Delights. It even used the same colors as the corporate doughnut shop that had lasted all of two years in this town. He pulled the truck across US 27 and into the lot next to Rufus’ Crown Victoria.

  “Isn’t it a stereotype to see a cop at a doughnut shop?”

  “Only when the cop hasn’t eaten in fifteen hours.”

  “Problems?”

  “Our murder case is falling apart.”

  “Why?”

  “One reason is that nosy FDLE agent. That asshole must be some kinda retard because he sure can’t take a hint.”

  Norton nodded. “Ain’t that the truth. He does give new meaning to the word ‘determined.’ ” Norton knew he’d have to step in on this matter. It had already gone too far.

  Luther finished his three slices of pizza and two cans of real Coke. Not Chek soda or some other store brand but real, honest-to-goodness Coca-Cola. He was starting to realize how much he had missed in his visit to Manatee.

  The young man from the apartment dozed as he watched cartoons on the big plasma TV. Luther had forbidden him to leave his sight until the real resident of the apartment, a certain Scooter Brown, returned.

  Three short raps on the door sent the young man scurrying. He unchained the door and in walked a muscular man of about thirty. His defined biceps and tapered back showed the man worked out on a regular basis. His coal-black skin showed off the gold-and-diamond earring in his left earlobe.

  Luther stood to greet the renowned organizer of crack and cheap marijuana distribution.

  Scooter said, “I heard on the news you had taken a vacation. Didn’t think I’d see you down here.”

  “C’mon, Scooter, you didn’t want to see me down here.”

  “No, sir, Mr. Hodges, I never had no problem with you. You did some good for the community, and most importantly you never tried to sell no crack.”

  Luther shook his head. “Scooter, all those years at University of Miami and you still use poor grammar?”

  The sleek, tall man said, “As long as I caught the long ball or could run back a punt, they didn’t care if I spoke good or well.”

  “You should speak well. You’re an example to our community.”

  “No, sir. I was, until the Jets passed on me in the draft ’cause of my knees. Now I’m just a businessman who does what he has to. Not proud of it, but I don’t deny it, either.”

  “A fine attitude, I’m sure.”

  “Mr. Hodges, I need to ask why you’re here.”

  “In Miami?”

  “In my stash house.”

  “Oh, yes, of course. I’m here to collect the debt your former employer owes me.”

  Scooter hesitated. “You know Odell is dead, right?”

  “I am aware he succumbed to the competition.”

  “And a nine-millimeter in his eye.”

  “That’ll do it. But the loan was not a personal one. I invested in your organization. He was making payments. Now you, as the manager of this enterprise, are responsible.”

  Scooter looked at him.

  Luther continued. “No, my boy, not on a monthly basis. A onetime fee to set things right.”

  “How much of a payment?”

  “Let’s say two hundred and fifty thousand.”

  “Let’s say, no way.”

  Luther smiled his “I’m impressed” smile. “A negotiator, excellent. I could be convinced to accept two hundred large and call it even.”

  “Sir, I respect who you used to be.”

  “I am who I always was. Is that understood?”

  The crack dealer hesitated, considering his options. “Yes, sir, you are, but I can’t pay out two hundred grand. I don’t got it.”

  “That’s not a problem. I’ll give you two days to get it.”

  Scooter eyed the older man. “I’m sorry, Mr.
Hodges, I don’t think we should have to pay. Especially since you ain’t got no juice here no more.” Scooter eyed his assistant, who had kept Luther company for the past two hours. The young man stood up from the kitchen stool he had been perched on and casually sidled up next to Luther. Scooter continued. “I’ll extend you one courtesy, Mr. Hodges.”

  “What would that be?”

  “I’ll let you leave here alive if you promise not to bother me again.”

  Luther nodded, careful not to telegraph his next move. He let his right hand slip to the waist of his newly acquired jeans. His fingers carefully felt for the end of the shish kebab skewer. It had been broken in half, but the end of the five-inch rod had a vicious point. In a flash he yanked out the steel rod by its wooden handle and thrust it straight through the assistant’s heart. The young man dropped straight to the floor without a peep. Luther immediately slashed up with the weapon, catching Scooter across the throat and face. The incision spread open wide, showing the depth of the cut. Scooter tried to back away, but the shock of the attack and knowledge of his wound slowed him. Luther slashed downward, severely slicing three fingers on Scooter’s right hand.

  Luther followed the stricken man to the floor, his face inches from the injured man’s. “Now, Scooter, I’m gonna extend a courtesy to you.”

  Scooter’s eyes shifted to Luther’s face. They showed the shock that was coming over him.

  “You tell me where your cash is hidden in here and I’ll let you live. Clam up and I’ll wait as you bleed out.” Luther threw in a smile to show there were no hard feelings.

  Scooter got a look at the blood seeping into the cheap shag carpet and said, “Bedroom closet. There’s a safe in the wall near the floor.”

  “What’s the combination?”

  Scooter started to pass out. Luther slapped his face to bring him around. “Scooter. The combination?”

  He gasped for air. “It’s a keypad. Six, six, six. Ain’t no two hundred large.”

  Luther stood up. He looked over at the corpse next to Scooter. He wiped the skewer across a napkin with some pizza sauce on it, then stuck it back in his waistband.

  The bedroom was a disaster, with clothes stacked everywhere and all the dresser drawers open. The closet was stuffed full of hanging jogging suits and sweatshirts. On the rear wall near the floor was a two-foot-by-two-foot safe, right where Scooter had said it would be. He knelt down and tapped on the 6 key three times. He tried the handle and sure enough the door opened wide. Luther smiled at the stacks of bills. He pulled out the twenties and tens. Maybe ten grand. That’d work for now.

  Luther trotted out through the living room, dodging the casualties of ignorance, and made it to the door.

  Scooter called out from the floor, “Wait. I can’t get to the phone. I need help.”

  Luther assessed the man’s situation. “I concur. I also think you handled this whole thing poorly. Consider it a lesson.”

  “What good is a lesson if I die and can’t use it?”

  “Good point.” Luther took two steps to the portable phone sitting on the coffee table. He picked it up, mashed nine one one and heard a voice say, “Nine one one, please state your emergency.”

  “A disrespectful man has been stabbed and is bleeding badly at 5662 Seventeenth Avenue. Send fire rescue.”

  Luther turned to the door and on his way out said, “That’s the best I can do.”

  He was out on the street and on his way several seconds later.

  thirty-three

  Tasker had spent the day at Manatee doing just what he was supposed to be doing: trying to determine who killed Rick Dewalt. This investigation had the least number of viable leads he had ever seen. It was like the guy had just died on the spot. If it weren’t for the forensics, Tasker would swear it was a death by natural causes. No one knew anything, or at least, no one was talking. But that was rare. Someone always talked. Especially in a prison.

  He still had the marks he had found on the door of the psych ward he wanted to check out. The confusion of the attack and the escape had made him adjust his priorities. Now he knew what his priorities were again. He’d talk over the marks with Dr. Freund and see what the assistant medical examiner had to say.

  The other thing that kept bouncing around in his head was the Dewalt company posting a reward for Professor Kling’s killer. Big Rick Dewalt didn’t impress him as a community activist, unless the action was developing land. Rufus Goodwin said it was common, but Tasker kept wondering anyway.

  Tasker’s mind may have wandered to Professor Kling’s homicide investigation and Luther’s escape and the lovely Renee Chin, but his ass stayed in one seat as he studied interviews and crime scene photos.

  By midday, thirst drove him to the officers’ lounge down the hall. There were a couple of vending machines and a TV. He needed the break.

  The room already had an occupant. Tasker nodded to the round, puffy sergeant named Janzig. Since Renee had discovered he had been in Tallahassee the day of Dewalt’s death, Tasker hadn’t really worried about him. He was going to talk to him, but it wasn’t vital right now.

  Tasker mumbled, “Need a break,” as he headed across the room toward the machine with Powerade in it.

  The surly sergeant hardly took his eyes off the Fox news channel. He was leaning on a chair, giving the impression he didn’t intend to be there for long. “Break from what?”

  “Looking at photos and reading interview transcripts.”

  “You need a break from readin’? What the hell would you do if you worked on a farm?”

  “I like the outside.”

  “Even if it’s shoveling cow shit and harvesting crops?”

  Tasker realized whatever he said this old geezer was going to give him a hard time. “You’re right, it’s not too bad.”

  The sergeant turned toward him. “Not too bad? You sayin’ I don’t know shit?”

  Tasker just stared at him.

  “I don’t need no sissy FDLE agent tellin’ me I’m a dumb-ass.” He turned and headed toward the door.

  Tasker assessed the shorter man. “Sergeant, I don’t know what your problem is, but we can talk off the record if you want.”

  “Off the record. When are you on the record? Thought you were looking to see who killed the inmate Dewalt. I see you doin’ everything but that. If it ain’t running off on escapes or beating up our inmates, you’re worried about other things. Shit, I coulda solved this case in three days.”

  “Is that so?”

  “It is.”

  “How?”

  “Inmates talk. They say that Leroy Baxter killed that boy.”

  “They’re not saying it to me.”

  “What about Dewalt’s jewelry Baxter had? Everyone knows you found it.”

  “Does anyone know the only fingerprint on it was yours?”

  The old man froze and stared at Tasker. Then, slowly, he said, “What’s that mean? I handle a lot of stuff around here. It’s my fucking job. At least I do my fucking job.” Janzig spun on one foot and marched out of the lounge.

  Tasker just stared at the door the old guy had stormed out of. Maybe there was something there.

  It was five o’clock and Renee Chin was closing down her office, getting ready to help a search team cover another section of Gladesville in their effort to find Luther Williams. No one really thought he’d still be in the vicinity, but they had to show they were trying. She liked work as long as it was interesting. And this was definitely interesting.

  She had firmed up her dinner date with Bill Tasker for Saturday night, but was unsure what she would say. She wanted to tell him she had developed feelings for him, but didn’t want to scare him off. She wondered if that conversation might be better after she had landed him in bed, at least once.

  Right now she had to concentrate on work; she couldn’t worry about her crush on the FDLE agent.

  As she was headed down the hallway past Captain Norton’s office, she leaned in to say goodnight.

&nb
sp; Norton was talking to Henry Janzig. He motioned her into the office.

  “What’s up?” she asked.

  Norton said, “Henry was just sayin’ how the FDLE guy, Tasker, called him a dipshit and berated him today.”

  She looked at the short sergeant. “He used the word ‘dipshit’?”

  Janzig hesitated. “Not in so many words. No.”

  “That doesn’t sound like Bill. I haven’t seen him be disrespectful to anyone here.”

  Norton said, “Tell that to Linus Hardaway.”

  She just looked at him.

  Janzig said, “You guys know me. I’m sweet as pie. I’d never start a ruckus.”

  Renee looked at Norton and then had to suppress a smile. “No, you’re right, Henry. You make Pat Sajak look mean.”

  Once Norton started to laugh, there was no point continuing. It was well past eight in the evening, and the team Tasker was helping, despite his orders to focus on the Dewalt investigation, had finished covering the far side of Gladesville. They had uncovered every crevice Luther Williams might use to hide in. Tasker knew no one really thought he was still in the area. The rumors had him as far north as Atlanta and as far south as Costa Rica. Tasker seemed to think he was somewhere in between. The correctional sergeant who was running the team told them to knock off for the night and be ready to go at eight in the morning. Tasker knew this didn’t apply to him. No one even acknowledged the FDLE agent’s help. He hadn’t volunteered for the recognition, but a “thanks” wouldn’t have hurt, either.

  Tasker rode in the back of a DOC pickup truck back to the prison and then started throwing his gear in the trunk of his Monte Carlo. The visitors’ lot was well lighted and he had no problem sorting out all of his gear in his trunk. He always had two pistols. His Sig Sauer P-230, which he carried most of the time because it was small and light, and his bigger Beretta 92F .40 caliber, which he usually stored in the nightstand at his apartment. The larger, much heavier pistol was issued by the department and he had found that he was comfortable with the Italian import.