Jilliane Hoffman (32 page)

76

The man took a deep breath, letting the fresh, unseasonably warm air fill his lungs. His whole body was tingling, every sense was on high alert, like a hungry, wild animal who hears the soft bleating of lunch far off in a distant meadow. He’d tried dust and acid in high school, but this –
this
was a natural rush that no high could ever come close to. He sniffed at the air. A dozen scents filled his nose – car exhaust, pine, gasoline, burning leaves, body odor, frying meat, urine. Call him crazy, but he thought he could also smell her. Somewhere out there. Sweet and lovely, probably spritzed down with PacSun’s Nollie and sprinkled with a little bit of baby powder. Her freshly washed, dusty brown hair fragrant with Herbal Essence’s Red Satin Raspberry.

Janizz. The name was either the product of a kooky, non-conforming mother or a teen who hated the boring old-fashioned name of Janice. A girl who wanted to be different, like the Parises and Cocos and Demis of the world.

He was thinking door number two. A girl who wanted someone to finally notice her. He smiled.
I can’t wait to notice you, sweet Janice. I can’t wait to shower you with attention
.

Janizzbaby. Even her name had a lilting melody to it. He hummed a bar to himself. Slow and sexy it would be, like an H-Town R & B tune. He rubbed his sweaty hands on his pants. Like the Oscars, the anticipation was both the best and worst part of the evening. Would she show? Would she look like her picture, or was she just a fake? Would she come willingly, or would she get spooked for some reason?

It had never happened before – he had never had a problem getting them in the car. But there was always that worry.
There’s always a first time for everything
, his mom liked to say.
So be ready for anything
. And he was. He looked in the backseat at his special black bag. It had everything he needed. All he had to do was just get her in the car. Once she was in, she was his.

His hands were dripping now. Of course, she might not show at all. That
had
happened before. And that’d made him really, really angry. It took a lot of careful preparation to get the house ready for a new arrival. And when it was all for naught – when he was taken for a fool – it took him a long time to trust again.

He stared at the glass front door of the busy McDonald’s. Like a freaking revolving door, it was. Lazy mommies and their screaming kids hurried in for another balanced meal of chicken nuggets and fries. Fatties pondered the picture menu like they’d never seen a Big Mac before. Was she inside? Was she looking out that front door, watching for him, wondering what he looked like? Was she as excited to see him as he was to see her? Was she wearing something special, like she’d promised? Was she nervous? Was she afraid? His sweaty hands shook like crazy. He lit a cigarette to try and calm his nerves. She would be spooked if he couldn’t control himself. If he shook like a Parkinson’s patient when he saw her, then she might run. No, she
would
run. And that would be bad. Really bad.

He wondered if and when anyone would notice little Janizz missing. Now that he was all over the news, making headlines in countries he’d never even heard of, he wondered just how long would it take for someone to make the quantum leap that Janizz was a victim of foul play. And how long it would be before she was known as Picasso’s Latest Victim. He smiled. How long would it be before people locked their doors at night just because of him? Or had security walk them to their cars in dark parking lots?

He licked his dry lips, his eyes glued on that glass door, sniffing at the air for the first real scent of her. His little lost lamb.

The door pushed open. A tiny thing – barely five feet, it looked like – walked out and over to the bench by the sidewalk. A sparkly bandana held her long, chestnut-colored hair back off her face. A single streak of vibrant purple ran down one side, just like in her MySpace profile picture. Dressed in a short denim mini and a tight black tank top, she had the stocky, muscular build of a gymnast, and her shapely legs were accessorized with a pair of wedge sandals. She looked all around the parking lot like she was waiting on somebody, but she didn’t appear nervous at all. After a minute, she lit a cigarette, and started to text away on her cell, without a care in the world. It was obviously Janizz. From the looks of her, he doubted he was the first boy she’d met up with from the internet, although he was quite sure he would be the last.

His hands went crazy at the sight of her. He wiped them one last time on his jeans and rolled on antiperspirant. It would be difficult to handle her properly if he had no grip.

Just like the little lamb that’s wandered far away from the flock to graze by itself in the meadow, sweet baby Janizz was completely oblivious that just a few steps away the ravenous wolf watched and waited from his hiding spot.

He flicked the cigarette out the window and smiled. It was time to begin the hunt.

It was time to introduce himself.

77

‘What the fuck are you doing?’ Bobby asked, tapping hard on the driver’s side window.

The window slid down. ‘Obviously the same thing you’re doing,’ a red-faced Mark Felding answered with a slow smile.

‘Are you kidding me?’

The reporter shook his head. ‘It’s a free country. Can’t stop the press.’

‘Are you fucking kidding me?’ Bobby repeated. He ran his hand through his hair. ‘I can’t believe this.’

‘I’m not doing anything illegal, am I? Just following a lead to see where it takes me, is all. Just minding my business, Agent Dees. Just trying to catch some news as it’s made. You don’t like to return my phone calls unless I got something for you, so seeing as there’s no quid pro quo with information, I have to do what I gotta do.’

‘How did you know?’

‘Do you think your boys can walk around without anybody caring any more? Face it, you’re famous, now, Agent Dees. You’re free game, like Brangelina.’

Bobby tried hard to control his anger. It took every bit of restraint to not reach inside that car, take Felding by the throat and toss him across the parking lot. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to do it, he just knew it would draw attention, which is the one thing he couldn’t have happen. ‘What the hell is more important to you people? Getting your face on the TV or stopping this guy before he gets his hands on another girl?’

The guy didn’t even hesitate. ‘Frankly, both. And I know you don’t like to hear that.’

Bobby looked at his watch: 4:07. ‘You and your camera are going to fuck this up. Get out of here.’

‘Look, I don’t want to fuck this up for you. I don’t. I want to see this guy caught. Just let me sit here, I’ll be quiet. I’ll be good. I won’t even pick up a camera,’ he begged. ‘Only if he shows. And only if there’s an arrest. Fair? If anything goes down – just let me have the story. That’s all I want. The story. If it’s over tonight, I want to be the one who gets it. He started it with me, it should end with me. It’s only fitting.’

‘I am not making deals with you.’

‘Can you give me a name? Details? What you know about him?’

‘Your face is on the news every night. If he sees you, Felding, it’s over.’

‘Only if he watches Channel Six,’ Mark added with a smile. ‘And apparently, need I remind you, our psycho has a thing for you as well, Agent Dees. If he sees
your
face, I would imagine it’s over, too.’

‘Get the fuck out of here. I won’t tell you again –’

The radio crackled to life. ‘Possible subject approaching. Black four-door Lexus.’ It was the LEACH eyeball.

‘ES,’ came the response. It was Lou Morick, another LEACH operative. ‘It’s a Lexus ES. Maybe ′03, ′04.’

LEACH, PBSO and the Picasso task force members were all on the same surveillance channel, so there was no need to go through dispatch or talk radio-to-radio. Chatter came fast and furious.

‘Tinted windows. Can’t get a look at the driver. Moving slow through the parking lot. Can you get a tag, Mike?’

‘Florida tag. X-ray, Seven, Zebra, Delta, Three, Seven. Can’t read an expiration date from here.’

‘OK, 1622, run that,’ Kleiner, the PBSO Special Investigations Lieutenant who was running ops from the NW corner, ordered.

‘10-4.’

Shit
. It was happening now and he was babysitting. ‘You move from this spot, you pick up a camera and I will arrest you for obstruction. This isn’t
Cops
. This isn’t some fucking TV show.’ Bobby called in. ‘FYI. I’ve got a reporter sitting here in front of the Family Dollar.’

‘What the hell?’ It was Kleiner.

‘Who’s that, Bobby?’ Zo asked. ‘It ain’t that weasel Felding, is it?’

The eyeball broke in. ‘Natalie’s approaching the passenger-side window. 10-23.’

10-23 meant stand-by.

‘She’s not miked, so watch for the signal,’ Morick cautioned.

‘This better not be on the news,’ Mike Hicks grumbled over the air. ‘This ain’t
Dateline.’

‘Passenger window’s coming down. Still no visual.’ ‘She’s talking to the subject.’

‘Plate’s back. It’s a stolen tag. Comes back to a black Benz.’

‘OK. Wait for the signal,’ Kleiner ordered. ‘If he runs, stop him, but until then let’s see what he does. Let Natalie do her magic.’

‘I’ve got a marked PBSO unit turning off westbound 45th into the McDonald’s parking lot,’ reported Ciro.

‘Who’s that? Is it one of ours?’ asked Hicks.

‘She’s playing with her bandana,’ said the eyeball.

‘That’s the signal.’

‘Is it off? She’s supposed to take it off,’ said another.

‘Oh shit, the cruiser just lit him up! What the hell?’

The cruiser had pulled up behind the Lexus and put on his lights. It looked like he was doing a traffic stop.

‘Who the fuck is that?’ Hicks yelled.

‘Perv’s gone! Subject just high-tailed it out of the lot and is fleeing eastbound on 45th!’

‘Shit! All units engage! Do not let this one get away!’ Kleiner shouted.

Bobby ran back to his car, yelling into his radio as he ran. ‘Ronny, get in the air! Subject’s eastbound on 45th in a black Lexus ES. PBSO, 10-9 that tag number!’

All he could see was Katy’s face
.

‘X-Ray, Seven, Zebra, Delta, Three, Seven. Copy?’ repeated the eyeball.

Her sweet face on the mutilated body of Jane Doe
.

‘Copy that,’ came Ronny Martin, the FDLE copter pilot. ‘I’m going up.’

Lying on the metal gurney, chains wrapped around her throat
.

‘He’s turning northbound on Australian …’

‘Don’t lose him!’ shouted Bobby into his radio as he reached his car. He hopped into the Grand Prix, threw it in drive and spun out of the parking lot, barely missing a screaming lady pushing a baby in a shopping cart. He joined the undercover units that were racing down 45th and Australian, lights and sirens blaring. The police cruiser must have called into PBSO dispatch for assistance; he could hear sirens approaching from every direction.

‘Train’s coming!’ Hicks barked over the radio. ‘Damn it! FYI boys, gate’s down! I just made it through. If you ain’t over the tracks now, it ain’t happening! Lou’s right behind me – we’re gonna need marked units to meet us on the north side at Michigan or Martin Luther King, if this guy keeps heading north and don’t stop!’

Bobby could see the red-and-white crossing gates some three hundred feet ahead. They were down. If he didn’t make it across the tracks now, he’d never catch up. If it was a CSX or East Coast Railway freight train, it could be five minutes or more before all the cars passed and he finally got through. And if Hicks and Morick didn’t get the guy to stop, or he got on to I95 …

Rush hour was here. A thick line of cars had already stopped at the gate. He crossed into the southbound lanes of Australian, which were empty, thanks to the closed gate. He could hear the deafening train whistle, warning of its imminent approach.

Do not let this one get away. Not this one
.

He cut in front of the Ford Explorer stopped at the gate. He could see the train coming upon him on his right. It was maybe fifty feet off. Maybe less. There was no time to question his decision and no time to turn back. There was no time to even say a quick prayer. With his blue lights on, he gunned the gas. He could almost hear the collective gasp of all the drivers lined up at the crossing.

There was also no time to marvel that he’d made it across. He wiped the sweat out of his eyes. The approaching train had thinned northbound traffic, but he had lost time. Morick and Hicks were a block or more up.

Hicks came on the radio. ‘He’s clocking sixty-five!’

‘What’s the limit?’ Kleiner asked.

‘Ah, thirty, I think.’

‘He’s weaving into oncoming! He’s freaking nuts!’ Lou Morick barked. ‘It’s rush hour!’ ‘This guy’s gonna kill somebody!’

‘He just ran the light at Martin Luther!’ Morick yelled. ‘Just totally ran it! Where the hell are those marked units? We’re gonna need a roadblock. This guy’s not stopping for nobody!’

‘Bike down! There’s a black chopper in the intersection – he just spun out and he’s down!’ said Hicks. ‘Get an ambulance out here to MLK and Australian! Damn, I gotta stop! This guy’s pretty bad!’

‘That’s it.’ It was Kleiner. ‘Don’t take any more civilians with you, Lou. It’s four thirty in the afternoon, there’s too many of them. Terminate the chase. We’ll get units at Blue Heron and stop him there!’

Australian ended at Blue Heron Boulevard, a mile or so up. But a left on to Blue Heron led to I95. The interstate was less than two miles away. It would be open road if the Lexus got on the highway.

High-speed chases were against every department’s policy. Civilians or cops inevitably got hurt or killed, property got destroyed, lawsuits got filed. Anything higher than fifteen miles over the speed limit was generally considered high speed, and sixty-five miles an hour through a heavily trafficked commercial area definitely fit the bill. High-speed chases could only be approved by command staff. And they normally weren’t.

But PBSO Lieutenant Lex Kleiner wasn’t in Bobby’s chain of command. He wasn’t even in his department. Rock beat scissors and FDLE trumped the Palm Beach County Sheriff’s Office. Morick dropped back. Bobby flew past him.

At the sound of approaching sirens, drivers either pulled over to the right or just stopped where they were, like panicked deer. A crazed driver being chased by a symphony of sirens and flashing lights had turned the already thickening traffic on Australian into a steel obstacle course. Bobby weaved in and out of the cars and oncoming traffic. The Lexus was now in sight.

‘I’m right behind him; he’s not stopping at Heron,’ Bobby said as the Lexus blew another light and went right past a marked unit, turning on to Blue Heron. ‘He’s gonna go for 95. Have a swarm at both the on and off ramps. Do not let him get on 95!’ If they could block him in and force him to run, there wasn’t far for him to go. Just gas stations and businesses, and those could be locked down.

‘Who the fuck is this?’ barked Kleiner. ‘I said terminate. It’s too dangerous!’

‘I don’t work for you,’ Bobby replied.

The Lexus suddenly shirked sharply to the left and went around a stopped FedEx truck.

Bobby slammed on his brakes and went to follow, but then the world just exploded, right there in front of him.