The Night Monster jc-3 Page 4

  It was my last thought just before I passed out.

  CHAPTER 8

  Two hospital visits on the same day was a record, even for me.

  I awoke in a private room with uneven plaster walls and a window facing a parking lot filled with cars. It was starting to get light. I’d been unconscious all night.

  I squeezed my fingers, and moved my arms and legs. Nothing felt broken, and I wasn’t wearing any casts, nor were there pulleys hanging from the ceiling above my bed. I just had a splitting headache, and my mouth tasted like dried blood.

  “Hi, Daddy.”

  Jessie sat beside my bed playing with my cell phone. Her cheeks were red and puffy. If I’d accomplished anything as a cop, it was shielding my family from my work, and it killed me to see her upset like this. She rose and kissed my cheek.

  “How are you feeling?” she asked. “I got your cell phone to work.”

  “I’ll live. What happened?”

  “Someone threw you into the swamp behind the motel. You were lucky you didn’t drown. Coach Daniels pulled you out and gave you CPR.”

  “Coach Daniels is kind of cute, isn’t she?”

  “Daddy!”

  “I need some water. My throat is killing me.”

  Jessie filled a plastic cup from a jug sitting on the nightstand. I took it away from her and sucked it down.

  “You were in pain, so the doctor gave you a sedative,” she said. “He said the only reason your skull wasn’t broken is because you have a thick head.”

  I found the strength to laugh.

  “Have you talked to your mother?” I asked.

  “I called Mom’s cell, but she didn’t pick up. Then I tried her at the hospital, and the receptionist told me there was a huge pile-up on the interstate, and all the nurses and doctors were working the emergency room.”

  “So your mother doesn’t know.”

  “No, Daddy.”

  My wife had left me and moved away to Tampa after I’d gotten kicked off the force. I’d tried every trick in the book to get her to come back. So far, none of them had worked. I needed to tell her what had happened, not Jessie.

  “Let me call your mother,” I said.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Positive.”

  “There are two detectives in the hall who want to talk to you.” Jessie fished their business cards out of the pocket of her jeans and read their names aloud. “Detectives Boone and Weaver. Sounds like a comedy team.”

  “First tell me what’s going on,” I said.

  “You mean about Sara?”

  “Yes.”

  My daughter rested her elbows on the arm of my bed. A tear fell from her eye, and ran down the side of her face. “Sara’s gone. The police are conducting a manhunt across south Florida. I was watching it on TV earlier. They’ve closed down all the highways and are looking for the kidnappers’ minivan with helicopters.”

  “I need to see this.”

  Jessie switched on the TV that hung over my bed. Sara Long’s abduction was the lead story on the local news channel. While a smiling newscaster explained what had happened, photographs of a bikini-clad Sara from a college edition of Sports Illustrated flashed across the screen. The segment ended, and Jessie killed the picture.

  “Who else saw Sara’s abductors at the motel?” I asked.

  “The desk clerk saw them drive away, but didn’t see their faces. That’s why the detectives want to talk to you. They’re hoping you saw what the men looked like. Did you see them, Daddy?”

  Jessie’s voice was filled with pleading. Although I loved my daughter more than anything in the world, telling her what had happened would only compromise the police investigation, and I wasn’t about to do that.

  “They were bad men,” I said.

  Jessie waited for me to continue. When I didn’t, she let out a sigh.

  “Should I get the detectives now?” she asked.

  “That would be a good idea.”

  Detectives Boone and Weaver actually did look like a comedy team. Larry Boone was as round as a beach ball and prematurely balding, while Rob Weaver was built like a toothpick and had a thick mane of black hair. I wasn’t sure which was the straight man and which was the comic, but that would become apparent once they started grilling me. Both were homicide detectives, and were on loan to help with the investigation. They sat with their knees pressed against my bed and opened spiral notebooks in their laps.

  “Start from the beginning, and tell us what happened,” Boone said.

  I explained how I’d chased Mouse at Jessie’s basketball game, and ended with me describing the giant who’d tried to crush my skull. Boone and Weaver traded glances and put their pens down.

  “How big was this guy?” Boone asked.

  “Scary big,” I said.

  “Be specific.”

  “Six-ten, three hundred pounds. And strong. He picked me up with one arm and carried me across the parking lot while holding Sara. I punched him in the face, and it didn’t faze him.”

  “You make him sound like Superman,” Weaver said.

  “I’ve never encountered someone that strong.”

  Both detectives loosened the knots in their ties. The gesture was not lost on me. They didn’t believe me.

  “I know it sounds crazy, but that’s what happened,” I said.

  “How much did you have to drink at the game?” Boone asked.

  “A couple of beers.”

  “Just a couple?”

  “I drank a Budweiser during the first half, got a refill during half-time, and didn’t finish it. I wasn’t drunk, if that’s what you’re implying.”

  Boone looked down at his notebook and read from it. “The cashier at the concession stand said you purchased a half dozen sixteen-ounce Bud drafts during halftime. That’s a lot of beer.”

  “I bought those for the other dads,” I explained. “We were sitting together in the stands, and I offered to get the beer.”

  “What other dads?”

  “The fathers of the girls on the team. We sit together during the games and root for our daughters. I’m guessing you didn’t bother talking to them.”

  Boone shook his head and flipped his notebook closed. He had rings beneath his eyes and his clothes stank of cigarettes. His body language told me that he didn’t want to hear any more of what I had to say. I folded my hands and waited him out.

  “Here’s the skinny, Jack,” Boone said. “We have a suspect named Tyrone Biggs cooling his heels down at the county lockup. Biggs is Sara Long’s ex-boyfriend. He also plays basketball at Florida State, and is a really big dude. My partner and I think you saw him in the parking lot at the Day’s Inn.”

  I followed college basketball, and knew Tyrone Biggs. He was the Florida State center, and was headed for a pro career in the NBA if his knees held up. He was big, but he wasn’t the monster I’d seen stealing Sara Long out of her motel room.

  “It wasn’t Tyrone Biggs,” I said.

  “The evidence says it was,” Boone said.

  “What evidence is that?”

  “Sara Long’s abductor didn’t break into her motel room. She opened the door, and let him in. Chances are, she wouldn’t let in the guy you just described.”

  “Did the room have a peephole in the door?”

  “Yes. We talked to Sara’s teammates, and they said that she’s extremely cautious, and wouldn’t have opened her door without first looking outside.”

  “You’re sure she let him in?”

  “Positive.”

  That didn’t make sense, but it still didn’t change what I’d seen.

  “Are you holding Biggs based solely on that?” I asked.

  “There’s more,” Weaver said. “Sara and Biggs recently split up, and Sara considered having a restraining order placed on him. It seems Biggs called her and threatened her if she wouldn’t get back together with him. Sara decided not to pursue it because she didn’t want to hurt his chances of playing pro ball.”

&n
bsp; “It wasn’t Tyrone Biggs,” I repeated.

  Boone rested his elbows on the rail of my bed and looked me squarely in the eye. I had more to say, but shut my mouth instead.

  “All we’re asking is that you drive over to the lockup with us, and take a look at this guy,” Boone said. “Maybe it will clear your head.”

  “My head is fine,” I said.

  “Come on, Jack. Play ball with us. This guy Biggs is a real jerk.”

  The worst thing that could happen during a missing person investigation was that the police followed the wrong leads and went down a rabbit hole. Boone and Weaver were going down a rabbit hole right now. If I didn’t convince them they were wrong, they’d take the rest of the detectives working the investigation down with them.

  “Okay,” I said.

  Boone slapped his hands on his knees. “Great. I’ll go find your doctor, and get you cleared out of here. Do you want us to wheel you out?”

  “I can make it on my own.”

  I got out of bed and found my clothes hanging in the closet. I started to dress. “Where’s my gun?” I asked.

  “Down at headquarters. It’s being held as evidence.”

  “How do I get it back?”

  “Talk to Burrell. She has it.”

  The detectives went to find a doctor. I dressed while staring at the TV. The channel I’d been watching had an update about Sara. The stolen Ford minivan had been found in the elevated parking garage across the street from the Broward County Library. In the back of the minivan were Sara’s clothes.

  I shivered. I knew what had happened inside that van. Sara had been drugged, and her abductors had changed her clothes. They’d also stuck a wig on her, just to play it safe. They’d stolen another car, and driven to a motel, where they’d rented a room with double beds, and tied Sara to one of them. Now they were waiting for the dust to settle. Once the police removed their roadblocks, which they’d eventually have to do, they’d move Sara to another location.

  Every crime had a signature, and this crime’s signature was very distinct. I was dealing with a pair of serial abductors who’d done this many times before. If Sara was going to have a chance, I needed to move fast.

  CHAPTER 9

  I finished dressing and headed for the door. A doctor came into my room holding a clipboard. He had me sign a form, and handed me a vial of pills to deal with the pain. The label on the vial said May cause drowsiness. I tossed them into the trash.

  In the hall I found Jessie slumped in a chair, fast asleep. I woke her up and explained that I was leaving with the detectives.

  “Don’t you have practice this morning?” I asked.

  “I was going to skip it,” my daughter said.

  “You need to go. It will take your mind off things.”

  “Okay. Can you lend me some money for a cab? I’m kind of broke.”

  “Not a problem.”

  Jessie called for a cab. Ten minutes later, it pulled up in front of the hospital. Before climbing in, my daughter hugged me, and I felt her heart pounding against my chest. She was like me, and tended to hold things in. I could only imagine what all this was doing to her.

  The cab drove away. Detectives Boone and Weaver stepped out from the side of the building. They’d been smoking cigarettes, waiting for me.

  “Ready when you are,” Boone said.

  – – They drove me to the Days Inn. My Legend was still parked in the back. I’d had the car for sixteen years and had almost forgotten what the original color was. But it still drove, and that’s all I cared about.

  I followed the detectives to the county jail on SE 1st Avenue, which everyone called the Inn on the River because of its proximity to the New River. While Boone arranged to have Tyrone Biggs put in a lineup, I chatted with Captain Mike, who’d been processing criminals into the jail for as long as I’d been a cop.

  “Who are you here to see?” Captain Mike asked.

  “A suspect named Tyrone Biggs,” I replied.

  “The basketball player? I processed him through this morning.”

  “What’s he like?”

  “He’s one of those white guys who thinks he’s a black gangsta. I told him I had Florida State in the office college basketball pool this year, and he growled at me.”

  “Mister Personality.”

  “He’s an asshole, if you ask me.”

  Boone appeared and had me follow him. We walked down a hallway to a small room with a two-way mirror. We went inside and Boone shut the door. I stood next to the mirror, my breath fogging the glass.

  Standing in a lineup in the next room were seven white males. Each was extremely tall, and ranged in height between six-five and six-ten. I recognized several as longtime perps, and I guessed Boone had pulled them out of the lockup.

  Tyrone Biggs stood in the center of the line wearing a sleeveless black athletic shirt-what cops called a “wife-beater”-and ragged blue jeans with a gaping hole in each leg. His arms were covered in tattoos, one of which snaked up his neck and stopped just below his ear. I’d admired his play on the basketball court, but I didn’t like what I was seeing now. Biggs’s eyes glinted with hostility and both hands were clenched into fists. I understood why Boone and Weaver were so certain he’d abducted Sara Long. His body language suggested he was guilty of something.

  “What do you think?” Boone asked.

  “The guy I saw was more muscular,” I said.

  Boone let out an exasperated breath.

  “I’m just telling you what I saw.”

  “You got knocked out,” Boone said. “Did it ever occur to you that your imagination might have distorted what you saw?”

  “My imagination didn’t distort anything.”

  “But it could have.”

  “Not here.”

  “You suffered a concussion and were unconscious for most of the night. What if your imagination turned Tyrone Biggs into someone else, and substituted him into your memory? Stranger things have happened.”

  I wasn’t changing my story. Boone needed to see the light.

  “Here’s an idea,” I said. “Grill Biggs, and let me be in the room with you. See how Biggs reacts when he sees me. If he’s guilty, you’ll know it soon enough.”

  “I can’t do that.”

  “Why not?”

  “It’s against procedure.”

  “Come on. I was a detective for sixteen years.”

  “So what?”

  “There is no procedure.”

  Boone looked at the lineup. The seven men were growing uneasy, their bodies slick and shiny with sweat. Of the group, Biggs looked the most uncomfortable.

  “What the hell,” Boone said.

  The interrogation cells were in the basement of the jail. Each was small and windowless, with sophisticated eavesdropping equipment wired into the ceiling light fixtures. Boone led me into one and had me stand in the corner.

  A few minutes later, Tyrone Biggs was brought into the cell by a pair of guards. Biggs was tall and rangy, but the body mass wasn’t there. This wasn’t the same person who’d snatched Sara and beaten me up.

  Boone had Biggs sit in a plastic chair that was bolted to the floor. Biggs dropped his huge frame into the chair and nearly broke it. Boone pointed at me.

  “Recognize him?” Boone asked.

  Biggs glanced at me. “No. Should I?”

  “This is Jack Carpenter,” Boone said. “Jack used to be a detective. You beat him up when you were abducting Sara Long at the Day’s Inn last night.”

  “That’s bullshit.”

  “Watch your language,” Boone snapped.

  “If he says I beat him up, he’s lying.”

  “He’s not lying,” Boone said. “You’re lying.”

  Biggs fell silent and stared at the floor. He wasn’t acting the way innocent people acted. I pushed myself off the wall.

  “What are you doing in Fort Lauderdale?” I asked.

  “I drove down to see Sara play,” Biggs replied.

&nb
sp; “Are you two back together?”

  “We’re working on it.”

  “Did you see the whole game?”

  “Most of it.”

  I’d been sitting in the Florida State rooting section during the game, and had not seen Biggs in the stands. I could have missed him, only he was too big to miss.

  “Where did you watch the game from?” I asked.

  Biggs hesitated, and I knew I’d caught him.

  “A bar?” I asked.

  His mouth tightened.

  “Or did you go to a strip club?”

  His face reddened. Busted.

  “Here’s what I’m guessing,” I said. “You came to see Sara, only temptation got the better of you, and you went to a strip club instead of the game. Things must have gotten out of hand, because now you don’t want to talk about it. And because you won’t talk, you’re screwing up the police’s ability to find Sara.”

  Biggs leaned back in his chair, looked at the ceiling and blew out his lungs. “I went to a tittie bar, and a chick gave me a hand job in the VIP lounge for fifty bucks.”

  “What was her name?”

  “Sky.”

  “Why didn’t you tell the police?”

  “I didn’t want it making the newspapers.”

  “Afraid it would ruin your NBA chances?”

  “Fuck you.”

  “Watch it!” Boone cautioned.

  There was a sweet smell coming off Biggs that I’d thought was aftershave, but now realized was cheap perfume from the stripper who’d jerked him off. Sara Long deserved better than this loser.

  “Did you call Sara after the game?” I asked.

  “Yeah, I called her,” Biggs replied.

  “What did you say?”

  “I told her I’d come by, and we’d go out and celebrate.”

  “Did she agree?”

  “Yes.”

  “You were going to pick her up at the motel?”

  “That’s right.”

  Now I understood what had happened. Sara had been expecting Biggs to pick her up. She had looked through the peephole and seen a giant figure standing outside in the dark; she’d assumed it was Biggs and unlocked the door.