Midnight Rambler (19 page)

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

L
as Olas Boulevard was Fort Lauderdale's answer to Rodeo Drive. The three-mile-long, tree-lined street was filled with pricey clothing boutiques and epicurean restaurants. A handful of watering holes were within my price range, but mostly it was stuff I only dreamed about.

Trojan Communications was located one block south of Las Olas in a dramatic two-story building made of chrome and tinted glass. The company's logo—a crooked T made from shiny aluminum—sat by the front entrance in the grass.

At eight-thirty, I pulled in front of the building and called Linderman. He was waiting for my call, and I gave him the address and told him that our suspect worked for the company. I didn't give him Paul Coffen's name, and he didn't ask for it. He agreed to meet me in thirty minutes and said he'd call if traffic was bad.

I then drove east to the beach and walked my dog. The tide was up and the waves were big and loud, and I drank up all the sights and smells, my conversation with Kumar still fresh in my mind.

At eight-fifty I drove back to Trojan Communications and entered the company parking lot. A cream-colored Mercedes 500 SL was parked in a space marked Reserved P. Coffen, President & CEO. I parked beside the Mercedes and waited.

At eight fifty-five, Linderman arrived and parked beside me. Sitting beside him was a sandy-haired man with a purple scar on his cheek shaped like a question mark. He wore Ray-Bans and a dark suit, as did Linderman. The three of us got out of our cars. Linderman introduced the second man as Special Agent Richard Theis.

“The suspect is named Paul Coffen,” I said. “He owns the company and appears to be here. I think we should enter the building separately, in case he happens to be watching the front door on a surveillance camera. I'll go first, then you and Theis follow.”

Both men nodded. Theis said, “What's the deal once we're inside?”

“I spoke with one of Coffen's phone operators earlier,” I said. “I'm going to use her name with the receptionist, and tell Coffen I'm interested in hiring his company to process calls from a group of Checkers restaurants I own in Tampa.”

“What's our role?” Theis asked.

“You're my business partners.”

“Works for me,” Linderman said.

Theis simply nodded.

I checked my watch. Nine o'clock on the nose. Without another word, I crossed the lot and entered Trojan Communications. I walked with my head bowed, my eyes peeled to the ground. Thirty seconds later, Linderman and Theis followed me.

When I was a cop, I was good at putting myself in the shoes of criminals I dealt with. It allowed me to anticipate how they were going to react when I confronted them. Most cops are good at this, but I was particularly good at it.

I entered the reception area assuming that Coffen had taken precautionary measures to avoid being arrested. Like bugging his reception area or having a surveillance camera trained on the door. I scanned the reception area and, not seeing any cameras, approached the receptionist, a purple-haired young woman in a miniskirt sitting at a Lucite desk.

“Can I help you?” she asked, snapping her gum.

I was still wearing yesterday's clothes and hadn't shaved. It wasn't my best side, but it would have to do.

“I'm here to see Paul Coffen,” I said.

“Do you have an appointment?”

“No.”

“Sorry, Mr. Coffen is busy.”

“I spoke with an operator named Sherry Collins about hiring your company to handle orders for several fast-food restaurants that I own in Tampa,” I said.

Her eyes touched briefly on Linderman and Theis, who flanked me.

“Are these gentlemen with you?”

“Yes, they're my business partners.”

“Let me see if Mr. Coffen is available. Can I have your name?”

I nearly said my real name, then caught myself.

“Ken Linderman,” I said.

Linderman laughed under his breath. The receptionist pressed a button on the intercom sitting beside the phone. It came alive with a man's voice.

“I'm busy, Heidi.”

“I have three gentlemen who are interested in hiring our company to service their restaurants.”

“Then I'm not busy,” the voice said with good humor. “Would you mind asking them to wait? I'm on a conference call.”

The receptionist looked up into our faces expectantly. “Would you gentlemen mind waiting until Mr. Coffen is free?”

“How long do you expect him to be?” I asked.

She asked Coffen how long he was going to be.

“I don't know,” Coffen said. “Just ask them to have a seat. I'll be out when I'm done with this call.”

No smart businessman made potential customers wait, and I sensed that Coffen was stalling. I looked around the reception area again, then at the desk. The receptionist acted embarrassed and crossed her legs. A tiny button on the intercom caught my eye. It was a miniature camera. Coffen was looking right at us.

“He's onto us,” I said.

Behind the desk was a black door marked Private. I started to walk around the desk, and the receptionist rose from her chair.

“You can't go in there,” she said.

Linderman pulled out his wallet and showed his badge.

“FBI. Sit down and don't move,” he said.

She dropped into her chair.

“Jesus,” she said.

The black door was locked. Lifting my leg, I kicked three inches above the knob. Both hinges broke at the same time, and the door came crashing down.

I pulled the door out of the way and entered a windowless hallway that ran the length of the building. Through its walls I could hear female phone operators processing fast-food orders from around the state. Their voices seemed to be coming out of nowhere.

Theis and Linderman were right behind me. Theis went left and started checking doors. I headed in the opposite direction with Linderman breathing down my neck.

“Are you armed?” Linderman asked.

“Yes,” I said. “How about you?”

“You're a funny guy, Jack.”

The hallway's carpet muted our footsteps. I assumed that like most CEOs, Coffen occupied the corner office. At the hallway's end I found his name printed on a plaque nailed to a door. The door was locked and I took it down with my foot. We rushed in.

“FBI,” Linderman announced.

The office was light and airy. One wall was nothing but windows; the other three were decorated with paintings of naked girls in provocative poses. Coffen sat at a cherry-and-walnut desk wearing a black designer T-shirt and an array of gold necklaces, his chubby fingers banging the keyboard to his computer. His face was crimson and reminded me of someone having a heart attack. As I came around the desk, I saw why.

His computer had frozen. Imprisoned on the screen was a photograph of Julie and Carmella Lopez sitting inside a car at a McDonald's drive-through. Coffen was trying to erase the image, only the computer wouldn't let him.

“Stop what you're doing,” Linderman said.

“Whatever you say,” Coffen said.

Coffen pulled open the desk's middle drawer and reached for the automatic pistol resting inside. I threw my hip against the drawer, closing it on his hand. The automatic went off, and a bullet ripped through the desk. Linderman collapsed on the floor.

I punched Coffen in the face. His eyes rolled back into his head, and he passed out.

I retrieved the smoking automatic and placed the barrel under Coffen's nose. The fumes instantly revived him.

“Touch the computer again and I'll kill you,” I said.

He gripped the arms of his chair and shook away the cobwebs.

“Whatever you say,” he mumbled.

I went around the desk and knelt down beside Linderman. The bullet had clipped him, and he lay on the floor clutching his side.

“I think I cracked a rib,” Linderman said.

“You wearing a bulletproof vest?” I asked.

“Yes. We both are.”

“Thanks for offering me one.”

Linderman didn't know what to say. Rising, I told Coffen to stand up. He slowly came out of his chair. He was flexing his right hand, which was turning an ugly purple.

“Tell me where Melinda Peters is being held,” I said.

“Never heard of her,” Coffen said.

I glanced at the frozen picture of the Lopez sisters on his computer. Then I looked at Linderman lying on the floor. His presence was only complicating things, and I found myself wishing I'd never asked for his help.

The automatic felt awkward in my hand. I lay it on the desk and drew my Colt. I aimed the Colt at Coffen's belly.

“If you don't tell me where Melinda is, I'm going to kill you,” I said.

Coffen's expression was defiant. Like all predators, he was used to dominating the people around him. Nothing was ever going to change that. Not a lifetime in prison, nor endless psychiatric counseling. It was simply who he was.

“Last chance,” I said.

Blood was pouring out of his mouth, and Coffen raised his hand and wiped it away. Then he stared at the blood. He looked at me and began to tremble.

“All right,” he said.

I looked at the blood as well. I knew that it was a precursor of his new life, for in prison he would be beaten by fellow inmates who felt the need to remind themselves that he was a worse breed than they were. His career as a successful businessman was over, while his role as a pariah was about to begin.

Coffen knew this as well. It was in his face and his posture. His life was about to become a living hell. Which is why I was shocked but not surprised when he bolted around his desk and jumped headfirst through the wall of windows.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

I
didn't shoot Coffen as he burst through the glass. If I killed him he wouldn't be able to tell me where Melinda was being held, and that was all I cared about right now.

Going to the window, I kicked out the broken glass with my shoe. Coffen was staggering across the parking lot with hideous gashes in his black T-shirt and pants. He wasn't moving very fast, and I didn't anticipate any trouble running him down.

I jumped through the broken window and landed in a standing position. The fall was short, but it made my right knee sing with pain. Coffen was fifty feet away, and I watched him pull a key ring from his pocket as he staggered toward his Mercedes.

Linderman appeared in the broken window above me.

“He's getting away! Take him out!”

I aimed at Coffen's legs and fired. A large hole appeared in the Mercedes's gas tank, and gasoline began pouring out. Four more shots produced the same results. I missed Coffen but kept hitting his expensive sports car.

Coffen got into his car and backed out of his space. Instead of driving toward the exit, he went in reverse and plowed through a thick hibiscus hedge. Reaching the street, he spun the wheel until he was facing Las Olas.

I fired my last two bullets at the gas tank. The Mercedes began to make loud popping noises, followed by a muffled explosion. Within seconds the vehicle became engulfed in bright orange flames.

“Way to go!” Linderman shouted.

I limped toward the burning vehicle while reloading. The flames were intense, and I cautiously approached the driver's door and found it wide open. Coffen had escaped.

My eyes found his bloody trail. It crossed the street and went straight down the sidewalk of Las Olas. Linderman came out of the building and staggered toward me.

“Where's Coffen?”

I pointed down the sidewalk. Something wet touched my wrist, and I looked down to see Buster pinned by my leg.

“Can't you go anywhere without that dog?” Linderman asked.

“No,” I said.

We limped down the sidewalk in pursuit. It was early, and most of the stores along Las Olas were closed. Halfway down the block I spotted Coffen hanging on to a lamppost. In his damaged hand was a cell phone, into which he was frantically punching numbers. I knew what he was doing. He was calling Jonny Perez to tell him to kill Melinda.

“Drop the phone!” I shouted.

Coffen saw me and pushed himself off the post. The life was draining from his face, and his eyes were out of focus. Throwing himself across the sidewalk, he disappeared inside a hotel restaurant.

“Get him,” I told my dog.

Buster took off running.

I was moving faster than Linderman and hurried ahead. The restaurant Coffen had gone into was part of the Riverview Hotel, a local landmark. I walked through the main dining area to find several patrons hiding beneath tables.

“Stay down,” I said.

I passed through the restaurant into the hotel lobby on the other side of the building, an airy room decorated with elegant rattan furniture and ceiling fans. There, Coffen's bloody trail mysteriously stopped.

“Buster! Here boy!” I called out.

I heard my dog's familiar yip. The hotel's entrance was on a backstreet, and I pushed open a swinging door with my gun and went outside.

Coffen stood by the valet stand, trying to punch numbers into his phone while kicking at my dog. His broken fingers were making this especially hard for him. I leveled the Colt at his chest.

“Drop the phone,” I said.

“You're not a cop. You can't tell me what to do,” he said.

He kept pressing numbers into the phone. Even Buster nipping at his ankles didn't seem to faze him.

“I'm giving you one more chance,” I said.

He raised the phone triumphantly to his face. His call had gone through.

“Go fuck yourself,” he said.

I fired the Colt three times. Coffen spun away from the valet stand, clutching his chest. The phone slipped from his hand and clattered to the pavement. He tried to speak, but instead of words, blood spilled from his mouth. He crumpled to the pavement.

I retrieved his cell phone and held it to my ear. It had gone dead. I attempted to power it up and retrieve the number he'd just dialed. The phone did not respond.

“Shit,” I said.

Linderman came out of the hotel and said something. When I didn't reply, he knelt down and checked Coffen for a pulse. It was strictly a formality, and he looked up at me.

“He's dead. Did his call go through?”

“No,” I said.

In the distance I could hear wailing sirens. I couldn't imagine how I was going to explain this to the police. Linderman stood up.

“Give me the phone,” he said.

I handed him the damaged phone.

“Let me deal with the police,” he said.

“Deal with them how?”

“I'll tell them I shot Coffen. It will take the heat off you.”

“You sure?”

“Yes. It will make everything easier.”

I suddenly felt light-headed. I had never shot an unarmed man before. It was a strange feeling, and I pointed at the doors leading inside.

“I'll be in there if you need me,” I said.

The hotel lobby was filled with frightened guests and wide-eyed staff. I sat on a creaky rattan couch with Buster glued to my side. A white-jacketed waiter served me a cup of coffee without being asked. I thanked him and sucked it down.

The coffee brought me back to life. The couch faced a flat-screen, high-definition TV, the lobby's only nod to modernization. CNN was on, broadcasting live from Starke Prison. I stared at the screen and nearly got sick.

Simon Skell had been released.

Starke was in a rural area, the facility surrounded by a six-foot-high chain-link fence topped with razor wire. A stretch limousine came through the front gates, followed by several news crews covering the event. There was a light drizzle, and the caravan inched down a muddy road to a field where a helicopter sat.

The limo stopped, and four figures piled out. Leonard Snook, Lorna Sue Mutter, Chase Winters, and Skell. Skell was dressed in jeans, an Old Navy sweatshirt, and white tennis sneakers. Everyone else wore raincoats.

The group climbed into the waiting chopper, and the door closed. Skell's face appeared in the side window, and he tugged on his paintbrush beard.

The chopper went airborne and briefly hovered in the gray sky.

A second chopper appeared and followed Skell's chopper. I guessed this chopper contained Scott Saunders and the other FBI agents tailing Skell.

As the choppers faded from view an icy finger ran down my spine. The FBI wasn't going to stop Skell. Skell had been on the FBI's radar for
three years
, and they hadn't gotten close. They didn't understand what made him tick. His motivation was a crazy song, one I knew by heart. Only I could stop him.

I grabbed Buster and went outside. Coffen lay beneath a white sheet. Two uniformed cops stood behind him, making small talk. They paid no attention to me.

Linderman stood by the valet stand, talking on his cell phone. In his face I saw something that resembled hope. He folded his phone and approached me.

“Tell me you've got good news,” I said.

He nodded enthusiastically.

“Theis just cracked Coffen's computer,” he said.