Under Suspicion

by Lee, Rachel

  “You will,” Nancy said darkly. “That’s the problem. No matter how hard you fight it, eventually you fall asleep anyway.”

  Anna shuddered. She didn’t want to think about how vulnerable that would make her.

  Gil made record time on the drive across the bay and Tampa to Temple Terrace. From time to time his daughter stirred herself enough to say, a bit crabbily, “Dad, please slow down. Mom would have a fit if she knew how fast you’re driving.”

  “I’m a cop. I can drive fast.”

  “Yeah, right.” She hunched back into her the world’s gone crazy and I don’t want to be here pose. A while later she groused, “I don’t understand why we have to go see Anna and Nancy at five in the morning. They’ll be mad when you wake them up.”

  He hadn’t told her about what Anna found, didn’t want her worrying needlessly. On the other hand, he hadn’t dared leave her home alone, not after seeing that car. Christ, it just kept getting better and better.

  “I have a feeling,” he said finally.

  Her tone was acid. “A cop feeling, I suppose.”

  She’d gotten that one from her mother, too. “Yeah, a cop feeling. It happens, and when it does, I don’t ignore it.”

  She huffed. Attitude, he reminded himself. It was just a teen attitude, heightened by her mother.

  It was just past five when they reached Anna’s house. Pulling up along the curb, he switched off the ignition and looked across the street at the patrol car. The cop was sitting at the wheel, a little slouched as if he’d been trying to find a comfortable position. He didn’t get out of the car to come check on them though.

  Smart, Gil decided. He was probably radioing about their arrival, getting another car here.

  “Wait here, Trina. I need to go talk to that officer for a minute.”

  She sent him one of her patented looks. Gil ignored it and climbed out, auto-locking the doors behind him. He strolled across the street toward the cruiser, keeping his hands in plain view. Much to his consternation, the cop inside didn’t react in any way.

  When he reached the window and peered in, he saw a young uniform sitting with a plastic cup of coffee on his lap, an open Thermos bottle beside him on the passenger seat. He rapped on the window but got no response. The door was locked. The engine still purred in park.

  He rapped harder, still no response, and his heart slammed into overdrive.

  Running back across the street, he tapped on his daughter’s window. She powered it down a couple of notches. “Something’s wrong,” he told her. “Stay right here, keep the windows rolled up and the door locked.” He passed her his c-phone after making sure it was on. “If there’s any trouble, call 9–1-1, okay?”

  “Okay.” She suddenly didn’t look as belligerent. In fact, she looked like a scared little girl.

  “It’s okay, honey. As soon as I know Anna and Nancy are all right, I’ll come for you.”

  She nodded.

  “Now roll up the window.”

  He waited until it was fully closed, then ran up the walk to Anna’s front door. There he banged on it with the heel of his fist, a sound loud enough to wake the dead.

  Moments later, Anna opened the door looking exhausted and frightened. At least he thought it was Anna. There was something in her eyes he recognized. But the moment she spoke, he was sure. Anna’s voice was softer than her sister’s. “Gil, what…”

  “Are you and Nancy okay?”

  “Fine. Nancy’s on the back porch smoking a cigarette, but we’re fine. What…”

  “The cop who’s been watching you isn’t responding. Can I bring Trina in? I don’t want to leave her in the car.”

  “Of course.”

  He ran back to his car and Trina practically tumbled out into his arms. He took the cell phone from her and tucked it into his pocket, then led her up the sidewalk, promising her it was going to be all right. Anna drew her inside and wrapped an arm around her.

  “I’m going to check around outside the house. Lock up until I get back.”

  “Should I call for help?”

  “Yes.”

  She nodded and closed the door on him. He waited until he heard the dead bolt slide into place.

  Then he headed around the house with his gun drawn.

  The shadows beneath the trees were dark, darker than the night. The little bit of illumination from the streetlights cast eerie shadows, turning them into horrific shapes. All he could hear were the loud screeches of tiny tree frogs. As he approached they fell silent.

  He reached the backyard swiftly, and saw a shadow on the porch. He froze, leveling his gun at it, then saw the cherry tip of a burning cigarette.

  Just at that moment, the back door opened. “Nancy,” Anna said sharply, “get inside right now.”

  The shadow moved, stepping into the light falling through the door. Nancy. She said something, but he didn’t hear what it was as the door closed behind her.

  He took another step forward. Just then he heard movement from the bushes behind the next house over. Just a muffled sound. He started for it, then heard a crash and the thud of running feet.

  Shit!

  Holding his gun, he gave chase.

  Jackson Fisher stared at the gauges again and tapped the one on the right. The needle finally flickered to life. This was the part of the world most people never saw, he liked to think. The grunt work behind all of their lofty ambitions, business meetings, assignations, and the dreams that died like a fluffed nine iron over the pond on six. His job was neither simple nor glamorous. His job was to make sure the sprinkler systems at the Temple Terrace Country Club functioned normally. When all was well, life was grand. All was not well, and life was not grand. But assuming the gauges weren’t broken—again—he was ready to power up the system again.

  Not too bad, he thought with a sense of pride, considering the mess he’d been called in to deal with at midnight. By some act of fate one of the watering lines had burst, causing a pressure drop that had sounded an alarm and shut the system down. It had done its job, designed to avoid the waste of hundreds of gallons of water, and the destruction of parts of the course.

  So okay. He’d been called in by the night watchman, had finally hunted up the problem, and single-handedly repaired the line. He was quite proud of that.

  But fate wasn’t done with him. No, of course not. Jackson believed that troubles came in threes, and this night had borne out his superstition. Sure enough, he got the line repaired, patched the hole in the ground as best he could without turf, then had turned the system on again.

  Lo and behold, he no sooner got the cycle running again at where it had shut down, than the pressure fell. A half dozen heads blew.

  Now that was a puzzlement to him, because he took good care of his system. He cleaned the heads frequently, checked them for cracks, and made sure they were securely fastened to the line. Apparently they had gremlins tonight.

  So he’d tromped out, looking for the blown heads with a flashlight. They weren’t too hard to find; water under pressure dug holes in the ground with amazing speed. Unfortunately, some big holes had been dug on the fairways. He’d filled the holes with sand, but the 6:00 A.M. early birds weren’t going to be happy.

  But Jackson wasn’t worried about them. His personal pride was on the line, and he vowed he and the groundskeeper would get them fixed by eight. What annoyed him was that the gauges weren’t working right either. All the regions were showing low pressure. Problem three.

  “You planning to turn that on anytime soon, Jax?” The groundskeeper was breathing down his neck.

  Jax. Everyone wanted to abbreviate his name. But he was rather proud of it. He’d been named for Jackson Pollock, and he doubted anyone had ever called the famous painter “Jax.” Still, it beat the other plays on words he so often heard, most of which mated his name with that of a donkey. “Almost up to pressure,” he said.

  “I can’t keep them waiting forever, Jax. If I don’t get the mowers out there, people will be
complaining about fuzzy greens at dawn.”

  “And if I don’t get this damn system working, people will be complaining about burnt greens by noon. So we both have work to do.”

  Nancy, holding back the sheers over the patio doors, peered out into the night. “My God,” she said. “He’s chasing something. He just ran for the neighbors’ yard.”

  “Which neighbor?” Anna was holding the telephone, punching in 9–1-1. Trina huddled on one of the stools, her eyes huge and frightened.

  Nancy pointed. “Thataway.”

  The dispatcher’s voice filled Anna’s ear. Speaking as quickly and clearly as she could—or hoped she was—she explained the situation.

  “There’s a detective from St. Pete chasing him,” she finished. “He just took off at a dead run toward the east.”

  “Are you sure the prowler’s a man?” the dispatcher asked.

  “No. I haven’t seen him.”

  “What about the officer in the car?” the dispatcher asked. “What’s wrong with him?”

  “I don’t know! Detective Garcia said he couldn’t wake him. That’s why he was out checking around the house, and now he’s chasing someone and he needs help!”

  “I understand that, ma’am. Units are on the way. He’s running toward the golf course?”

  “I don’t know that. I just know he took off in an easterly direction.”

  “Keep the line open, ma’am. Don’t hang up until I tell you to, all right?”

  “Okay. Okay.” Phone glued to her ear, Anna gripped the edge of the counter.

  Nancy came away from the doors and slid onto a stool beside Trina. “He’s going to be okay, sweetie,” she said. “Your dad’s a good cop.”

  Trina nodded, but she looked as if she didn’t believe it.

  Anna came around the counter and put her arm around Trina. The girl immediately leaned into her and hugged her around the waist.

  And the darkness outside seemed to be pressing inward, trying to find a way in.

  Pipes in the pump room pinged as air flushed through the line. Out there, through that window, everything was lush, green, and manicured. In here, Jackson thought, the odor of old coffee and stale cigarettes mixed with rust. But in here was what made out there possible. Line three was still low, and he opened the valve a bit more. The pings and pops came more rapidly. The needle climbed. And, so far, there were none of the flickers he’d been watching and fighting all night. Flickers as leaks sprang hither and yon and farther yon. His hands ached from twisting wrenches. But he felt a satisfaction in the ache. It was a workingman’s ache. He watched the needles rise.

  Three blocks and six privacy fences away, Gil was cursing his topsiders, wishing he’d donned his jogging shoes. Every now and then he needed to stop, to listen, to figure out where his prey was. The idiot wasn’t worried about being silent, apparently, but he was keeping a good distance ahead. Never had Gil seen more of him than a vague shadow a house or two away.

  Pressing the cell phone to his ear with his left hand wasn’t helping either. Sweat was making him sticky and slick, and the phone kept trying to get away from him. His heart was pounding both from adrenaline and from running, and sometimes it sounded louder than the night sounds around him.

  He was still waiting for a patch to the Temple Terrace police. It hadn’t been that long, not in real time, but it felt like a lifetime.

  There! A thud as feet hit the ground hard. The suspect had gone over another privacy fence.

  He’d turned. Just as Gil was becoming convinced the guy was headed in a beeline for a particular place, the idiot turned. Shit. What was going on here?

  Coming to a corner, Gil turned in the direction of the sound and headed up a northbound street. A zigzag maybe? Staying on the street, he ran faster, hoping to catch up while shrubbery and fencing slowed the guy he was pursuing.

  And wouldn’t it beat all hell if he was chasing some ordinary prowler?

  There was a crackle on his cell phone, and a tinny voice spoke to him.

  “This is Corporal Vinzano, Detective. I’m heading up the search team. Where are you and where is the suspect?”

  “I’m heading north on…” Shit, he didn’t know the streets here. “Give me a minute. There’s a street sign ahead. I’m on the street, the suspect is running north through the backyards. Or was a minute ago.”

  “We’re on our way. Get to that sign, will you.”

  As if he wasn’t trying. Gil gave himself another push, speeding up. The sign wasn’t under a streetlight, though, and he couldn’t read it until he was on it. He repeated the street names into the telephone.

  “We’ll be there in three minutes,” Vinzano told him. “He’s still headed north?”

  “When last seen. Give me a minute.”

  But the night offered no clues. Except for sounds of insects and his own heavy breathing, there might have been nothing alive. “He’s gone to ground,” he said into the phone.

  And he was starting to get angry. He knew it was an adrenaline response, and he tried to stomp it down, but at that moment, with blisters stinging on his feet, his body drenched with sweat, his lungs protesting from dragging in huge gulps of air so humid that it was almost like breathing water, he was pissed.

  Across the street from him, there was a wall of thick growth, palmettos and palms, oaks and scrub pines. Overgrown with vines, it looked impenetrable. A great hiding place.

  Reining in his anger, Gil crossed the street, looking for somewhere a person could get into that growth, looking for something that appeared disturbed, listening all the while for the sound of running feet.

  It was dark, too damn dark, to see much, and he wished vainly for the flashlight in his car. Dawn hadn’t even started to lighten the sky yet.

  Then he saw the hole ahead. Big. Big enough for several people to walk through. Quickening his jog, he headed for it and discovered an asphalt footpath and bike path. There. He had to have gone there.

  But now he needed to slow down. The suspect could have gone off the path anywhere, could be hiding behind any bush, tree or palmetto in the shadows. He might be armed.

  A new surge of adrenaline filled him as he started down the path. Dew was dripping from branches and fronds with a gentle plopping that sounded almost like a soft rain. The frogs and insects were quiet, sensing an invader.

  The suspect was nearby, somewhere. Gil felt the awareness seep through every bone of his body. Moving cautiously, he tried to keep to the deeper shadows beside the path as he scanned for anything that didn’t seem right.

  Which was ridiculous because nothing seemed right at that moment. Everything was a murky threat.

  A sound. He turned toward it, thought he saw a palmetto frond shake.

  Christ. Gun at ready, he stuffed his cell phone into his pocket, then gripped the butt with both hands, moving slowly toward the palmettos.

  Then, just as he sensed that something was behind him, he was struck hard at the back of his head. The world swirled, went black, filling with stars.

  “I’ve got to get out there, Jax. I can’t hold them anymore.”

  “Go ahead,” Jackson said. “Not my problem if you get wet. I’ll have them up in about sixty seconds.”

  “I’ll tell the drivers to carry umbrellas.”

  The next thing Gil knew, he was lying facedown on the path, his chin stinging like fire. He could hear running feet down the path. Struggling, feeling a little disoriented, Gil shoved himself up onto his hands and knees. He still had his gun. It was the first thing he looked for. Then he felt the sticky warmth at the base of his skull.

  Jesus! The footsteps were fading into the distance as he stared at the rock that had been used to club him. Jesus.

  Feeling a little woozy, he struggled to his feet. He could still hear the running footsteps, fainter now, and he forced himself to take off after them on legs that felt a bit wobbly. He was going to catch that son of a bitch if he did it with his dying breath.

  Speaking into his cell phon
e, he updated Vinzano, who assured him the team was close.

  “Are you okay?” Vinzano asked.

  “Yeah. I’m fine.” He wasn’t, quite, but his head was steadily clearing. “You got somebody at the Lundgren house?”

  “A couple of cars will be there in a few moments.”

  “Thanks.”

  The curving path was leading him through a swamp, over narrow wooden bridges. At least that was some surety the suspect hadn’t leapt off to the side again. But every now and then, echoing off the trunks of aged trees, he heard the footsteps. The guy was still ahead of him.

  The path suddenly opened onto a road. Across from him were large, expensive homes. The reek of money was as strong as the stink of rotting vegetation from the swamp behind him.

  And no sign of his assailant.

  The sky was lightening at last, a grayness that seemed to be creeping out of the east. At the moment there wasn’t much of an improvement over the darkness, but he could see wisps of fog, rising over the yards across from him.

  Then he saw the footprints, a clear path in the dew.

  I’ve got you, sucker, he thought with a savage sense of triumph. He took off again, following the footprints like a lighted highway, past tropical gardens, across manicured lawns and onto a golf course fairway.

  The guy was heading west. Gil alerted Vinzano and kept running, following the yellow-brick road.

  Engines were loud now. Too loud for cars. What were they doing, bringing in the National Guard?

  They were going to get this guy. Part of Gil was already relishing the look on the suspect’s face when they nabbed him. The night was brightening ahead of him, as if lights were coming on. The cops?

  Rounding a copse of trees, he stopped dead, and felt his heart sink. The mowers were out, a bank of them running side by side in a wedge formation, cutting away the very footprints he was following, masking any sound the suspect might make.

  He stood there, holding his phone, watching the mowers chew up the footprints, knowing they had already cut away all the ones behind them.

  He clapped his phone to his ear. “Vinzano?”