The Night Monster jc-3

by James Swain

  “What do you want me to do?”

  “I want the FBI to turn on their cameras.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Your cameras. I want you to turn them on and look for these guys.”

  “I still don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  I put my elbows on Linderman’s desk, and gave him my best no-nonsense look. “A few weeks after 9/11, I spotted crews in Broward installing surveillance cameras at the major intersections and toll-booths. I’m a nosy guy, so I took down the license numbers on their trucks, and checked them out. Guess what I found?”

  “What?”

  “They were all FBI.”

  Linderman shifted uncomfortably in his chair.

  “It didn’t take me long to figure out what was up. Thirteen of the 9/11 hijackers lived in south Florida, so the FBI decided to install street cameras to hunt future terrorists. You probably don’t keep the cameras on all the time. Too expensive to operate and to monitor effectively. But you do turn them on when a suspected terrorist slips into town. Am I right?”

  A thin smile crossed Linderman’s face. Then it was gone. That was as much as he gave you.

  “You’ve very observant, Jack. Yes, there are surveillance cameras at every major intersection and tollbooth, and a few other places you might not imagine. It’s a secret, so I’m not supposed to talk about it.”

  “Can I ask how they work?”

  “The cameras are connected to a computer in this building that has a sophisticated facial recognition program built into its hard drive. We can burn a photograph of a suspected terrorist into the program and ask the computer to tell us when a person who resembles that photo passes in front of one of our surveillance cameras.”

  “How well does it work?”

  “We’ve nabbed several bad guys trying to slip in through Port Everglades just last month.”

  “If I gave you a film of one of Sara Long’s abductors, could you take his photo off the film and put it onto your program?”

  “It all depends upon the quality of the film.”

  “It’s a surveillance tape from a casino.”

  “That should be fine. We’ve used casino footage before.”

  From my pocket I removed the two CDs I’d gotten at the Hard Rock, and handed them to him.

  “Here you go,” I said.

  Linderman slipped the first CD into his computer, turning the screen so it was visible to both of us. The tape of Mouse talking to the girls appeared.

  “Any idea who this guy is?” Linderman asked.

  “He calls himself Mouse. That’s all I know about him.”

  “What’s on the second CD?”

  “Another tape of Mouse. This time he’s outside the casino.”

  “I’ll send both CDs downstairs, and have a tech burn Mouse’s photograph into our facial recognition program. It would be helpful if we had some idea of the vehicle he’s driving.”

  “He’ll be driving something big. Like a van, or a small truck.”

  “Why not a car? They could drill airholes in the trunk, and hide Sara there. That’s how most serial abductors move a victim.”

  “His partner would have a hard time fitting into a regular car. He’s about six-ten and three hundred pounds.”

  “You weren’t kidding when you said he was huge.”

  “He’s also a killer.”

  Linderman punched a button on his desk. His secretary appeared, and he handed over the CDs and explained what he wanted done with them. She left, and he got on his laptop, and began typing.

  “I’m going to send an e-mail to the other CARD teams around the country, and see if these guys might have struck before,” he said. “Give me the details again.”

  I repeated my story to Linderman, and he wrote down every word. When he was done, he read back what he’d written, and asked me if I was satisfied.

  “Yes,” I said.

  Linderman punched a key on his computer and sent the e-mail.

  “Now let’s hope someone has seen this pair before,” he said.

  I leaned back in my chair and felt the air escape from my lungs. It was the first time that I’d told someone my story, and hadn’t had my sanity questioned.

  I was getting somewhere.

  CHAPTER 18

  I purchased two bitter cups of coffee from a vending machine down the hall from Linderman’s office. Linderman was busy on his laptop when I returned, and I came around his desk and placed a cup on his blotter.

  “Cream, no sugar,” I said.

  “You remembered,” he said.

  I took the opportunity to glance at his computer screen. While I’d been gone, he’d sent e-mails to the National Crime Information Center, the Justice Department, the Florida Department of Law Enforcement, the U.S. Marshal’s Service, and the National Center for Missing and Exploited Children, alerting them to our pair of serial abductors. He was casting a wide net, and leaving no stone unturned.

  “Any word from the CARD teams?” I asked.

  He checked his e-mail inbox. “Not yet. You’re going to have to be patient. It might be a few days before some of them get back to me.”

  “Can’t you goad them along?”

  “This is the FBI, Jack. I can’t goad anyone. Why don’t you have a seat?”

  Sitting still was not one of my strong points. Nor was being patient. I went to the window. Darkness had set, and a carpet of twinkling lights stretched clear to the Atlantic. Although I could not see the ocean, I could feel its presence, and it calmed me.

  Through my mind flashed everything that had happened that day. The sexy image of Sara Long in a bathing suit on the news stood out. By showing Sara half-dressed, the media would make people think she had somehow been complicit in her assault. No victim deserved that.

  In the window’s reflection Linderman rose from his desk.

  “You’re driving me up the wall,” the FBI agent said.

  “I can sit in the hall if you want.”

  “You’ll be poking your head in every thirty seconds, asking to look in my e-mail.”

  “What are you suggesting?”

  “I’ll call you when I learn something, okay?”

  Linderman was throwing me out of his office. I could have been angry, only there was a flame in his eyes that hadn’t been there before. I’d seen that same flame when we’d hunted together for his daughter. It was the undying passion of someone who refused to quit. He was not going to let me down.

  At the door, I asked, “Can I call you later to see how things are going?”

  “Of course. And Jack? I’ll make sure the street cameras are turned on.”

  I took the elevator downstairs and signed out at the reception area. Outside the temperature had dropped, the heat no longer rising off the macadam like a sauna. I found Buster sitting behind the wheel, an impatient look on his face.

  Leaving the FBI Building, I drove on 167th Street west, then headed north on I-95 into Broward in rush-hour madness. Maniac drivers raced illegally down the highway’s shoulders while a posse of highway patrol cars pulled them over.

  I checked the time. Jessie’s basketball game had already started. I’d wanted to be in the stands for the opening tip-off, and found myself settling for halftime. I powered up my cell phone to see if she had called.

  I had a lone message. I called my voice mail and heard Sonny’s familiar voice.

  “Hey, Jack. The excrement just hit the air-conditioning. Call me, man.”

  I dialed the Sunset and Sonny picked up. His voice was drowned out by the dreadful singing of the Seven Dwarfs in the background. The same seven drunks had frequented the Sunset since I’d lived there. I called them the Seven Dwarfs because it was rare to see any of them standing upright.

  “Hold on,” Sonny said.

  Sonny screamed at the Dwarfs. The singing stopped. Sonny came back on.

  “Do you miss me?” I asked.

  Sonny laughed into the phone. It wasn’t
a pleasant sound.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Ralph came by and saw the damage Buster did to your room,” Sonny said. “He figures there’s about three thousand bucks in damages to the walls and furniture.”

  “Come on, that stuff was old.”

  “You know how Ralph likes to inflate things. He wanted to call the police and press charges, seeing how you never gave him a deposit when you took the place.”

  “Oops.”

  “I talked him out of it, thank you very much. We went downstairs to the bar, and I got him liquored up. I thought Ralph was going to forget about it, but then this asshole attorney named Frank Yonker came in. He had a subpoena for you.”

  “Let me guess what happened next. Ralph and Frank Yonker got to talking, and discovered that they both had a shared interest in tracking me down. Yonker offered his services, and Ralph accepted.”

  “Very good.”

  “Did Ralph file a complaint with the police?”

  “He sure did. Yonker now has two subpoenas with your name on them.”

  My exit was up ahead. I flipped on my indicator and drifted into the right lane. Cars around me blared their disapproval, refusing to slow down.

  “You on I-Ninety-five?” Sonny asked.

  “How did you guess?”

  “I’m a mind-reader. I tend bar for laughs.”

  “Look, I want to ask you a favor.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Is Ralph gone?”

  “Yeah. I took him to the airport an hour ago. What’s the favor?”

  “Can I sleep in my room tonight? I haven’t had time to find a place to stay, and I’m low on funds. Just for a couple of days until I find a new place.”

  A long moment passed. Sonny had a comment for just about everything, and finally I pulled the phone away from my face, and looked at the screen.

  The line was dead.

  I pulled into the Bank Atlantic Center and killed several minutes looking for a parking place. Buster was not happy at my leaving, and crawled into my lap. I scratched his ears until I saw his tiny tail wag, then got out.

  I approached the Center’s main entrance. A small mob of people congregated by the doors, chatting away while puffing on cigarettes. I called to them to find out what the score was.

  “Florida State is down by six at the half,” a woman called back.

  “How are they playing?” I asked.

  “They’re holding their own,” the woman said.

  I went inside. It was only natural that the Lady Seminoles would play poorly, considering the circumstances. Hearing that they were toughing it out made me proud of them.

  I spotted one of the other player’s dads. He was a podiatrist named Robin Schwartz, and his daughter was the team’s star center. Schwartz carried a flimsy cardboard tray holding several cups of beer.

  “Need some help?” I asked.

  “Hey Jack, we were starting to worry about you,” Schwartz said.

  I took three of the cups out of the tray, and held them between my fingers.

  “Sounds like the game is close,” I said.

  “The girls are playing great,” Schwartz said. “Your daughter is the top scorer.”

  “Yay,” I said.

  We headed toward the arena’s entrance. The sound of angry male voices carried from the other side of the lobby. People were hurrying away from the voices, which sounded ready to escalate into a fight.

  “What’s the problem?” I asked.

  “Karl Long is being interviewed by one of the TV stations,” Schwartz replied.

  “What’s he yelling about?”

  “The TV stations heard about Sara’s sex tapes. A reporter tried to ask him some questions in the stands. I thought Long was going to take the guy’s head off.”

  I stood on my toes, and spotted Long talking to a TV newsman named Chip Wells. Chip was one of the reasons I was no longer a cop. He had done a series of unflattering pieces after I’d beaten up a suspect, calling me “a stain on the conscience of the community.” It hadn’t mattered that the suspect had murdered eight women, and would have killed more had I not stopped him. I’d stepped over the line, and Wells had made me pay for it. I handed Schwartz the beers.

  “I need to talk to Karl,” I said.

  “Be careful,” Schwartz said.

  I sifted my way through the crowd. Long was shaking his fist in Chip Wells’s face, and looked ready to punch his lights out. Wells was the picture of calm, and kept politely nodding his head.

  Something didn’t feel right. Maybe it was the smug look on Wells’s face that bothered me. Or maybe it was Wells’s cameraman, a smarmy guy with a limp ponytail. The cameraman had his camera down by his side, and appeared not to be filming. Only the red light on the camera was blinking. I hurried toward him.

  “Excuse me,” I said.

  The cameraman looked my way. “What’s up?”

  “Got a light?”

  “Don’t smoke.”

  I pretended to trip and fell forward. The cameraman let out a startled yelp, and we went down together in a heap. His camera banged on the floor. I grabbed it, and stood up. “Sorry about that,” I said.

  The cameraman got up, and dusted himself off.

  “Give me my camera,” he said.

  I feinted giving the camera back, then opened up the back, and pulled out the film.

  “You can’t do that,” the cameraman said angrily.

  I shredded the film in front of his disbelieving eyes. Then I looked at Long. He was staring at Chip Wells, and the murderous look in his eyes told me that he understood what had happened.

  “You son-of-a-bitch,” Long swore.

  “Now wait just a minute,” Wells said.

  Long smacked Chip Wells in the head. It was a glancing blow, but I sensed that he was going to unleash all his rage on the newsman if I didn’t stop him. I grabbed Long by the arms, and steered him toward the men’s room.

  “Let go of me,” Long said angrily.

  “We need to talk,” I said.

  “I’m going to rip that shit stain’s head off.”

  “Come on. It’s about Sara.”

  Long snapped out of his rage and looked me in the eye.

  “You know something?” Long asked.

  “Yes, but I don’t want them hearing it.”

  The anger left his body almost instantly.

  “Of course,” Long said.

  During the drive over, it had occurred to me that Long needed to hear the things that I knew about Sara’s abduction. He was a rich man with powerful connections, and that power might prove useful down the road. I didn’t like the guy, but that wasn’t going to stop me from using him any way I could.

  We stood in front of the sinks, and Long crossed his arms.

  “Tell me what you know,” he said.

  I glanced beneath the stalls to make sure they were empty. I tended to be overly cautious, and I turned on the water in the sink before I spoke.

  “Despite what the police are saying, Tyrone Biggs did not abduct your daughter last night.”

  Karl’s mouth dropped open. “Are you sure about this?”

  “Absolutely. The real culprits are a pair of serial abductors. They’ve been following Sara around the state, and chose to strike last night. I was able to obtain a film of one of them from the Hard Rock Casino. The film is now in the hands of the FBI. They’re going to use it to try and catch them before they leave the area with your daughter.”

  “Is Sara… alive?” he asked.

  “I think so.”

  “What proof do you have?”

  “These two men stole your daughter because she fits a profile. Abductors who do that rarely kill their victims.”

  “What kind of profile?”

  “Tall, blond, and athletic.”

  “What do they want with her?”

  “I honestly don’t know.”

  “You’ve dealt with men like this before?”

  “Yes. Many tim
es.”

  Long suddenly stopped speaking. It was like he’d run into a wall, and the pain had just hit him. He covered his face with his hands and let out a muffled cry. I ripped a paper towel from the dispenser and handed it to him. Long dried his eyes and tossed the towel into the trash.

  “That’s the best news you could have told me,” he said. “After I lit into you earlier, I would have thought you would have given up looking for Sara.”

  “I never give up,” I said.

  “I realize that now. I’m sorry about what I said. Really.”

  “You had to let your anger out. I was the closest target.”

  “You’re not angry at me?”

  I shook my head. Long gave me a good-natured whack on the arm. Despair brings out the true character in just about everyone. Beneath the arrogance was a loving father, and I knew that I’d made an ally.

  “What can I do to help?” he asked.

  “The FBI will call me if they learn anything,” I said. “I may need to contact you, and ask you to pull some strings. Rescues are never easy.”

  “Of course.”

  Long gave me his business card. His private cell number was printed on it. As he handed the card to me, Long asked for one of mine.

  “I must have lost the one you gave me,” he said.

  I gave Long another card, and he tucked it into his billfold.

  “Let’s go watch the rest of the game,” I said.

  CHAPTER 19

  He sat in the stands with the rest of the fathers and rooted for our daughters’ team. I don’t know if cheering yourself hoarse ever accomplished anything, but if felt good, and let me forget about my problems for a while.

  With two minutes left in the game, the Lady Seminoles went on a scoring blitz, and I stomped my feet and yelled at the top of my lungs until the final buzzer went off. The team had won a game no one thought they would win, and they assembled in the center of the floor, hugging one another and shedding tears.

  I filed out of the stands with everyone else. By the time I’d reached the lobby, I’d lost Long. I’d wanted to talk to him more, and remind him that the things I’d told him were in confidence, and not to be repeated. The last thing anyone needed was for a reporter like Chip Wells to hear that the FBI was conducting an investigation far different from the one the police were conducting.