“Spearman?” I asked.
Pine nodded in confirmation.
Anderson spoke up. “Yeah, it was Spearman—tall guy with red head. You couldn’t see much of it though. His head was all bandaged up. Man, did he want to tear into whoever he was after. So we tried to assist in restraining this guy and he gave us the same treatment. He screamed, yelled and tried to claw his way free.”
“Who was he after?” Hank asked.
“We didn’t notice anyone that looked like they shouldn’t have been there. It was all doctors and nurses. He kept shouting a name though, Jack, I think.”
“Could it have been Jake?” I asked.
“Yeah, maybe.”
“Do you remember him saying anything else?” I asked.
“Just that name and I’ll kill you, I’m going to get you, things of that nature.”
“But you didn’t see who he was going after?”
“No.”
“Then what?” I asked.
“He tried to get away from Pine and I again. After a few more failed attempts he seemed to calm down.”
“Or so we thought,” Pine said.
The captain gave him the hand motion to continue.
Anderson went on, “Well, then the guy looked me dead in the eye. He acted real calm, like he was done with whatever sent him over the edge. He cracked his neck from side to side and then the asshole head butted me square in the face.”
Pine chimed in, “So after he head butted Anderson, I reached for my Taser and the guy kneed me in the groin. I dropped, and the guy ran down the hall.”
“Did you chase him?” Hank asked.
“We didn’t get a chance to. Big guy from hospital security tackled him and held him down until we could get over there and get him in cuffs. The judge who presided over the case gave the guy a slap on the wrist—counseling or some such crap. He should have gotten a felony charge.”
“Who was the judge?” I asked.
“Koehler.”
“You’re sure?” I asked.
“Yeah, why?”
“No reason.” I looked to Bostok. “I have everything I need.”
“Thanks for making the drive over guys. Keep an eye out for this guy, spread the word.”
“Sure thing, Captain,” Pine said.
The two walked out and closed the door.
“That was a nice history lesson, but it’s not giving us anything that we can use to catch the guy,” I said.
“Well,” Hank said.
“Well what?”
“He mentioned Spearman got sentenced to counseling. Remember the stress ball?”
I nodded.
“Place over by the hospital. Retten… something.”
“You want to make the call and see what you can find out?”
“Yup.”
Hank walked out leaving the captain and me.
“I checked into the judge. He doesn’t have a concealed carry permit,” the captain said.
“So you’re thinking that he knows something more too?”
The captain’s face said he was wrestling with something in his head. “OK, when I took Casey from here yesterday over to the medical examiner’s he was acting strange.”
I interrupted, “Strange how? He just saw his daughter dead. Acting strange would be acceptable under the circumstances.”
“Not in that way. He started firing off text messages to someone.”
“Text messages?”
“Yeah, it didn’t sit right with me so I called up Santos for a favor. I wanted to keep it off the books in case it didn’t pan out.”
The only Santos I knew of was a retired homicide detective. He left years before I took the job, but would pop into the station and shoot the breeze every now and again. “Retired Santos?” I asked.
“Yeah, retired Santos. He owed me one, so I asked if him to keep tabs on the judge. Santos said Casey left his house last night and met with someone described as the organized crime type in a Hookah lounge north of the city. The guy left with a large envelope from the judge. After that, Casey went on a drinking binge. Santos followed him back to his house around midnight. Said the judge was all over the road. Guess he hasn’t left since.”
“What would he be meeting someone for? A payoff for something? We need to have another talk with him. You want me to put out a call to bring him in?”
The captain stood. I followed suit.
“No. Just take Rawlings and go out there. Remember he just lost his daughter and we don’t know what transpired with the other guy.”
“I’ll go easy, but if he starts dodging my questions or says he wants to talk to his lawyer, I’m bringing him in.”
“Use your better judgment. I’ll stand behind you either way.”
“Thanks, Cap.”
I headed out to go find Hank. The captain walked back to his office. Hank sat at his desk on the phone. I took a seat and waited.
He hung up the phone. “Doctor Fay Rettenburg was Spearman’s shrink. She said she saw the news coverage, but couldn’t tell us anything. She did mention that she was planning on taking a trip to Argentina soon. That was kind of weird.”
“She was trying to throw you a bone, Stupid. Spearman must have told her that’s where he planned to go. Be ready to go to the judge’s in ten minutes. I need to call Faust.”
“Cap gave us the OK to question him again?”
I nodded. “I’ll fill you in on the rest on the way over.”
I walked to my office and dialed up Faust.
“Hi, Kane. What can I do for you today?”
“Yeah, sorry.”
“I’m just kidding. Phone records from the Miller’s should be ready later today.”
“I appreciate it. We have an I.D. on our suspect and no longer need the murder victims named Claire. It was his wife, she wasn’t murdered.”
“OK. I’m guessing you still need something though.”
“Sorry.”
“Spill it. How can I help?”
“I just wanted to see if you could spread the word and make sure he has the most difficult time possible evading us.”
“I’ll get him added to a couple lists. If he tries crossing a border, using a credit card or getting on a plane, we’ll get a hit.”
“I appreciate the help—again.”
“Not a problem.”
I gave Faust all of Spearman's information, and hung up.
Chapter 32
“Housekeeping?” A woman asked from the other side of the door.
Tom rolled in bed.
“Housekeeping?” The maid swiped her card in the door and entered the room.
“No. No thank you,” Tom said. His voice was groggy from sleep and alcohol.
“Oh, sorry, Sir.” She closed the door.
Tom lay in the resort room bed and tried to focus his eyes on the clock—it was 8:22 a.m.
He surveyed the room, taking in his surroundings. Between the loss of blood and consumption of whiskey, he managed to book himself a room. He scooted himself up against the headboard, trying to sit up in the bed. The sheet peeled away from where it stuck to the duct tape on his shoulder. The tape pulled at the washcloth, which pulled at the homemade stitches. The pain hit like a blowtorch to flesh—he winced until it began to subside. Every new movement sent searing pain through his shoulder and into his chest. He reached for the bottle of whiskey on the nightstand and brought the bottle to his mouth. There wasn’t a drop left. The pain from drinking the entire bottle started to build in his head.
This has to be addressed, he thought.
He tried rolling from bed and standing. His body swayed. Tom used everything in the room to steady himself as he tried to make his way to the bathroom. At the sink, he filled two handfuls of water and splashed it across his face. He stared at himself in the mirror. His eyes refused to focus. Tom carefully removed the tape and washcloth bandage. He rubbed his fingers across the fishing line stitches in his shoulder. There was blood leaking through the stitching.
“Get it together, Tom.”
He pulled the curtain to the side and reached turned on the shower. The water warmed. He stepped in and pulled the curtain closed. The water rolled over his head. He fumbled to get the small bar of soap from the package. Once out, he began to clean the bullet wound. The water over his shoulder turned a color of pink as the blood mixed with the white lather of soap. The pink suds cascaded down his side—then the drain.
Tom finished his shower, dressed back in the clothes he borrowed from the judge and left the room. The do not disturb tag was hung on the door as he exited. He walked the hall of the eighth floor to the elevator and hit the button to take him down. The elevator dinged, and the doors opened. A couple already occupied the elevator. The man, thin, in his sixties and wearing a flowered shirt, flip flops and a straw golf hat. The woman equal in age, but heavier in weight sported a pink striped shirt with a towel draped over her shoulder. Tom stepped inside with the older couple to ride down.
“Morning. What floor?” the man asked.
“Lobby please.”
“It looks like we’re headed to the same place.” The man reached out and hit the door close button. He returned to his place against the back wall of the elevator next to his wife. “Rough night?”
“A little,” Tom said.
“Vacation?”
“Just a quick getaway.” He hoped that keeping his responses short would limit the conversation. It didn’t.
“We’re down here from Cincinnati. It’s our first time in Florida. Is this weather about normal for this time of year?” the woman asked.
Tom eyed the elevator floor indicator as it passed floor six. He hoped it didn’t stop again before the lobby. Tom noticed the couple staring at him. They waited for a response.
Tom nodded.
“We have a place in Myrtle Beach that we’re heading to after this. We were through with the snow years ago,” the man said.
The floor indicator lit the fourth floor, and the elevator stopped. The doors opened. A family of four stood outside. The parents were in their thirties dressed for the pool. Their kids, a boy around seven and a girl around five wore swimsuits and arm floats. The man smiled and nodded a hello as he entered. The woman herded the two kids into the elevator car.
“What floor folks?” the old man asked.
“Lobby please,” the woman answered. She used the beach towel to tend to a snotty nose on the little girl.
“Family vacation?” the old woman asked.
“Kind of. We have family being married at the resort here.”
Tom reached out and hit the door close button to speed the process.
“Oh, that’s nice. This place is so beautiful,” the old woman said.
“Isn’t it?”
“Where you folks from?” The old man asked.
“Columbus area. Ohio,” the man answered.
“Hey, we’re from Cincinnati. Bengals or Browns fan?”
The father smiled. “Bengals, of course.”
“Oh boy. Here comes the football talk,” the mother said.
The women had a quick laugh.
Tom’s head rang listening to the people make annoying small talk. With each painful pump of blood, his shoulder ignited in pain. The pain moved to his head next. Shoulder, then head, and again. The dance of pain was unbearable. He willed the light to flash lobby. It stopped on the next floor down to pick up two more people. Tom couldn’t deal with it for a second longer. He exited the elevator.
“This isn’t the lobby,” the old man said.
Tom ignored him and continued down the hall looking for the stairs. He found them tucked in by the ice machine. He pushed open the heavy steel door and started down. Each step jarred a thump of pain through his body. He reached the bottom of the stairs and stopped. He was dizzy. Tom held the rail of the stairs until it passed. He opened the door to the lobby and stepped out.
He was across from the large gift shop near the front reception desk. Souvenirs, clothing and miscellaneous sporting goods filled the store. Tom entered and walked to the small section marked Health and Beauty.
He looked through the offerings. He picked up a Chapstick sized bottle of Ibuprofen and looked at the label—ten pills inside. The price of the bottle was $8.50. He browsed the rest of the items hanging on the rack and picked up a small roll of athletic tape. Clothing was next on his list. Tom walked past the snow globes and souvenir shot glasses to the apparel section at the back. The options were slim. He grabbed the first shirt that was his size, a beige Hawaiian button-up with pink flowers. A straw hat and a pair of khaki shorts completed the outfit. He made his way to the checkout counter.
A female employee got Tom’s attention from the cash register at the end of the counter. “I can help you down here, Sir.”
He walked over and sat his items down. He fished his wallet from his pants and opened it up. Four thousand and some change in hundred dollar bills plus a two thousand dollar pre-paid credit card. He slid one of the hundreds out.
The girl took the items and scanned each one with the laser wand. “Are you going for the stereotypical retired man in Florida look?” She smiled.
“About another twenty years until I retire. I figured I’d start on the wardrobe now.” Tom forced a smile through his pain.
“The straw golf hat is kind of cool. Are you planning on golfing at the resort?”
“No. No golf. I just liked the hat.
She smiled. “That comes to ninety-six dollars and ten cents please.”
Tom handed her the hundred.
“Is that blood?” she asked.
“Huh?”
“On your shoulder there.” She pointed.
Tom looked down and saw blood beginning to seep through the sweater he took from the judge’s place. He thought fast and pushed the pain down to respond. “Dammit, I must have pulled a stitch. The doctor warned me about over exerting myself. I’m sorry. I had shoulder surgery a few days ago. Today was the first day I didn’t need to be all bandaged up. I guess I should have kept the sling on.”
“You should be at home resting,” the girl said.
“I wanted to get away. I thought a resort would be a nice quiet place to try to heal up.”
“Well, at least you have some fancy new clothes to wear now.” She put the clothes in a bag and pulled the receipt from the printer of the register. “Receipt in the bag OK?”
“That’s fine, thank you.”
She tossed the receipt in with the clothes and handed Tom the bag by the handle. “Have a nice day.”
“Thanks, you too.”
Tom took his purchases out of the store and back to a waiting elevator. He walked in and hit floor eight. Tom pressed the door close button before anyone could get in with him. The doors opened and let him out on the eighth floor. He walked down the hall, past a maid’s cart, to the door of his room. A slide of a key card let him in. At the bed, he removed the sweater and tossed it on the floor. He ripped the tags from the clothing he just purchased and laid them out. The tape and ibuprofen in his hand, he headed to the bathroom. He unwrapped the plastic cup next to the bathroom sink and filled it with water. Tom downed the entire bottle of pills.
He tore two strips from a washcloth, doubled them up and made pads over the stitches in his shoulder. With the athletic tape, he secured the washcloth pads to his shoulder.
Tom walked back to the bed and dressed in his stereotypical Floridian retiree outfit. He stood in front of the mirror to give himself a look.
“Ugh.”
He took a seat at the desk across from the bed. The phone book was opened to letter L. His finger ran down the page and stopped at the first large ad he saw. He dialed the number. Someone picked up within a few rings.
“Prestige Limousine. How can I help you?”
“Hello. Yes, I was wondering if I could book a car for this morning?” Tom rested the receiver on his good shoulder and grabbed a pen and pad of paper from the desk.
“Where
are you located?”
“I’m at the Saddle Creek resort in Wesley Chapel,” Tom said.
“OK. And would this be in town or out of town?”
“I’d be staying in the Tampa area—from here to the airport.” He tapped the pen back and forth on the top of the desk.
“How soon would you need to be picked up, Sir?”
“As soon as possible please,” Tom said.
“Are you looking for a limousine or town car?”
“A town car is fine.”
“One moment let me check and see what we have,” the man said.
“Sure.”
Tom’s stomach grumbled as he sat in the chair. He questioned if it was his body trying to digest the pills or hunger pains. He tried to remember the last time he ate—he couldn’t.
“Sir?”
“Yes.”
“We can have a car out to you in about an hour if that works?”
“Perfect.”
“We will just need your name and a credit card number for a deposit. We will charge you for the hours used after your travels.”
“That’s fine.”
Tom rattled off the pre-paid credit card number and a fake name to the guy. He left him his room number for the driver to call when he got downstairs
I need to eat, Tom thought.
He found the room service menu and opened it on the desk. The breakfast section caught his eye. He picked up the phone and dialed the lobby.
“Front desk,” the receptionist said.
“Can I have room service please?”
“Sure I’ll put you through.”
Tom waited on the line listening to the resort promoting its activities in his ear.
“Room service, what would you like to order this morning?” a woman asked.
“Can I get the Eggs Benedict and a side of hash browns?”
“Sure. It should be about twenty-five minutes. Anything else? Coffee or something to drink?”
As Tom thought over what to order for a drink he noticed a mini fridge under the television.
“Can you hold on one second?” he asked.
Tom sat the receiver down and rolled the desk chair over to the fridge. He popped open the door. A fully stocked mini bar. He reached in and took out two small bottles of vodka. He wheeled himself back to the phone.
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