Don't Lose Her (14 page)

Chapter 24

F
u
cking Geronimo. Fucker walks right up behind when I'm about to go back in that goddamn room and says, “Get her ready. We are going.”

Rae was still trying to figure out what the hell that meant when she opened the door and, boom, all hell broke loose. All the sudden, she was on her ass on the catwalk and well that bitch got hers when old Geronimo put all 260 pounds to the door after it knocked her back. Then he stepped in and put her down with that fucking backhand of his.

“Get her ready.” Yeah, right. The first thing Rae had to do was get a new pair of flex-cuffs on her. Hell, she didn't know if Geronimo even noticed that the woman wasn't cuffed. Fucking bitch! You give someone an inch and they take a fucking mile. She didn't know where she'd learned that old saying, probably from her mom, but ain't it the truth.

Rae had cut the woman's hands loose “so I can touch my baby, please,” and what does she do? Knocks my ass over and tries to run. So then while Miss Priss was out like a light on the mattress, Rae got a new pair of flex-cuffs on her and got everything in the room rolled up and out of there so Danny could take it all out to the Dumpster. Man … when she saw his face, he couldn't even look her in the eye. Hey, a couple of days of babysitting and, wow, big money Florida vacation whoopee! My ass.

But the no-talking rule was still in effect so all she could do was give him her look, and even if he didn't turn to see it, she knew he could feel her eyes on the side of his face 'cause his skin was turning red right there on his neck and cheeks like it always did when he knew she was pissed at him. What the fuck did you get us into now, Danny?

Well, she kinda knew the answer to that one now, didn't she? Hell, she'd been texting Kelsey since like day fucking one and her girlfriend had been getting all the news back to her.

having fun in the sun yet?

no.

sup?

no gd fun. lotta shit.

huh?

d n another of his big ids

u in trouble?

not yet. but coming.

u not into illegal again.

yep. but this 1s big.

Rae had been trying to keep the messaging to a minimum, afraid fucking Geronimo or one of his braves were gonna catch her, but shit, this last couple of days things were getting out of hand. She'd slip out of the room when the pregnant princess was asleep, but the Indians had a hawk eye on Danny and her. All they could do was whisper and, of course, he was giving her the “everything's gonna be all right” line from that old-timey Loggins and Messina song that he said he loved because it had his name on it.

He's so full of shit. He played that song from his iPod the first time he'd taken her down to Crystal Lake and they were making out in some car he said he didn't steal from the country club lot but then admitted later that he did and had to get it back before Sunday checkout. Back then it was kinda romantic, “Danny's Song,” and all. But every time they got into some sketchy situation he'd come up with that “everything's gonna be all right” again and it was getting real old.

how big?

big.

how illegal?

damn illegal.

Rae knew Kelsey was worried about her. They'd been friends forever and she was the only one Rae could really talk to about her mother and how pissed Rae was that she'd died and left her all the fuck alone. Kelsey even said that if Rae wanted, she'd tell her own mom and they'd like adopt her, make her one of the Preece family. But that was all fantasy and Rae had said, “No way.” She could take care of herself and did.

Even when the worker from child welfare services showed up, she'd been able to shine them on and get them off her back and say she was with relatives. It was bullshit and her so-called aunt had just backed her story but let her stay in the trailer by herself—and why not? Rae was a hell of a lot smarter than any of her so-called family and got that job at the country club—like they needed another mouth to feed anyway. Kelsey was always there and she kept Rae's secrets and they kept their friendship. But Kelsey also had a sense when Rae was in trouble and knew this time she was in deeper than usual.

big illegal trouble in FL?

d's shit again.

it's not about a preggo judge got snatched down there?

says who?

all over the tv rae plz don't say it's that.

ok. no say.

Fuck! So the bitch had been telling the truth about being a federal judge. Independent corroboration, right? She'd heard that one a few times on those law-and-order shows and now her best and only true friend was giving it to her. If it had hit the news stations up in Michigan, then it was big stuff. Then this morning, she'd heard that overhead garage door open for the first time since they'd brought the woman in. Rae got up from her bedroll on the floor and carefully cracked the door to peek out.

A silver Chrysler 300 was pulling in and she watched as it stopped and Danny got out of the driver's seat. Shit. What? He'd gone out and stolen another car? Since it looked brand-new, Rae wondered if he'd taken it right off the car lot like he'd done that time in Traverse City. That time, she'd caught him staring at a Cadillac Escalade the dealership was pimping by putting it up on a ramp out by the roadside. Thing was six feet above all the other cars on the lot like a trophy, and Danny would just stare at it when they passed by on their way to the country club. She knew, just knew like radar, that he was challenged by the damn thing and was trying to figure out how to steal it.

Sure enough, maybe three weeks later, she gets off work and Danny calls her cell and says, “Meet me out back by employee parking.” When she gets out there, he's sitting in the driver's seat of that big black Escalade­. They spent the night smoking reefer in the thing down by the point and making love in the back with the tailgate open to the lake. The next day, he ditched it, taking only the mag wheels, which he said he could sell in a heartbeat.

So she had no doubt about the Chrysler 300 down there even though Danny didn't say a word when she slipped out of the room and went down to find out what the hell was up.

It was then that fucking Geronimo cut her away from Danny and without a word ushered her back up the stairs like some cattle dog cutting her out of the herd. He said,“Get her ready,” and the shit hit the fan.

Hell, Rae couldn't even take her vacation clothes with her. But carefully, she put her cell down the front of her panties and just slightly up inside her so those morons couldn't tell and wouldn't dare search her there. Then they'd all piled into the Chrysler 300 after Geronimo had physically picked up the woman, carried her down the steps, and stuffed her into the trunk.

Now, Danny was driving with Geronimo in the front telling him where to go and Rae was in the backseat with the fucking braves. She'd made damn sure she was next to the window so she didn't have to squeeze between the two Indians like a white meat sandwich. Off they went.

They hit the interstate in twenty or thirty minutes, Danny driving­ the speed limit and using his turn signals to merge and the whole nine yards. Then they were on this wide, multiple-lane road for what seemed like hours. Rae stared out the window and couldn't even tell which direction they were going. Then there was a long, clean stretch of nothing­—and she meant nothing.

They were on an interstate called I-75 and on either side was nothing but open land that looked like wheat fields stretching out to the horizon. She let herself relax but kept thinking about the text to Kelsey and her phone and whether she'd remembered to put it on vibrate. Then she giggled, considering where it was tucked. When Rae looked over from the window, she could see Danny staring at her through the rearview mirror.

“Something funny, Little Squaw?” Geronimo said the first words out of his mouth to her since he'd told her they were leaving.

“There's not a goddamn thing funny about this whole shitstorm, asshole,” she'd let loose, surprising even herself, and adding, “now that the no-talking rule is obsolete.”

“Obsolete? I like that,” Geronimo said to Danny more than her. “That's one smart-mouth woman you got there, bro.”

Danny said nothing but readjusted the mirror so he didn't have to look at Rae.

“Yeah, well, bro,” Rae said to Geronimo, in for a dime now, in for a dollar. “You're the one who broke the no-talking rule.”

“Don't matter now,” the Indian said.

Rae felt the man next to her move, almost involuntarily, just a flinch of nervousness.

“And why not?” she asked.

Geronimo only shrugged his thick shoulders. Rae felt something flicker in the back of her head and actually felt the prickling sensation on her neck and she knew that feeling, rare as it was. She'd felt it that day in the car on the railroad tracks. She'd felt it a couple of times when one of her mother's boyfriends came stumbling into the trailer, searching for something, probably sex, when Rae was there alone and had to skinny herself under her bed and practically stop breathing until the fucker gave up and left. And now she was feeling it again and recognized it as fear.

She and Danny were way the fuck out of their league this time. It wasn't some one-day quick-hit deal and everything's gonna be all right this time, because now they were involved in the kidnapping of a federal judge. And when it finally was all over, was Geronimo really going to just let them walk? Give them the money and let them go on their happy Florida vacation, knowing they could identify him and his little band of Chippewa brothers?

Shit, she thought as she stared out the window at a thousand acres of Everglades swampland. No different than going out to the Sand Lakes Quiet Area down by Kalkaska, she thought—pure untouched nature. You get a few hundred feet off the trail in that oak and pine forest and nobody's ever going to find your body. Same here, she thought, looking out at honey-colored saw grass that ran all the way to the horizon.

She squirmed a little in her seat and felt the cell phone tucked up half inside her and thought of her friend Kelsey. At least she'd know where to dig for their bones.

Chapter 25

I
was already in a back booth at Lester's Diner, working on one of their famous fourteen-ounce ceramic cups of coffee, when Sherry walked in. She was wearing her business suit, slacks that covered her prosthesis, and a jacket that covered the 9-mm Glock she carried in a belt holster on her side. Despite everything going on, my first thought was,
Damn, she's pretty,
and I told her so when she slipped into the bench across from me.

“Am I?” she said. She has a habit of answering every compliment with that question.

“You're very beautiful today.”

“Am I?”

“You handled that perfectly.”

“Did I?”

“You're the smartest woman I know.”

“Am I?”

You get the drill. After our first few months together, so did I.

And today she was the prettiest person in the restaurant. Why I needed to tell her that while my head was spinning with questions about Diane and what the hell to try next was beyond my comprehension.

“You look terrible,” Sherry finally said, bringing me back to Earth.

“Thanks.”

She shrugged, but extended her hand across the table and laid it on top of mine.

Lester's is an authentic 1950s-style diner with an aluminum railcar look on the outside, and service at the counter on a swivel stool or at vinyl-cushioned booths running down the inside wall. Since the Broward Sheriff's Office was once housed in a nearby warehouse, the place became a favorite hangout for cops. Sherry liked it for nostalgia's sake. I liked the coffee.

One of the gray-haired, sixtyish-looking waitresses in a white, knee-length uniform with a yellow apron and a pencil stuck behind one ear came over to take our order. I succumbed to the ranch breakfast special while Sherry ordered only tea.

“Max, it's ten at night,” Sherry observed after the waitress said, “Comin' up, hon,” cracking her gum.

“Hey, a man's gotta eat,” I said, not remembering when I had last done so.

I was now holding Sherry's hand in mine. We stared at each other in silence for a moment.

“Word at the office is that the feds are reviewing tapes of any traffic cameras that might have caught the Chrysler leaving the warehouse district and then using that as a point of reference in an expanding circle,” she said. “When they get a second sighting, they can use that as direction and try to narrow the search.”

I nodded.

“But it takes a lot of time and eyes-on,” she continued. “Even with unlimited manpower, it could still take hours, maybe days.”

I nodded again. She was preaching to the choir. She knew that I knew all of these tactics and the length of time a search could take.

“If they were smart, they wouldn't have had to run,” I said, just voicing to Sherry what I'd been thinking since leaving Billy and asking her to meet me. Billy was not a brainstormer, but I was, especially with Sherry, who knew the lay of the land and had the experience to respond in kind.

“They could have stayed tight in a local safe house and waited. Hell, they were safe where they were. I was just lucky getting a tip that paid off.

“Maybe I flushed them,” I said, putting it out there. “Maybe one of the informants let it loose, somehow.”

Sherry reached across the table and took my hand away from my neck. Without realizing it, I'd left her hand lying there on the table. Mine had gone to the scar left by the bullet wound from Philly, my fingers rubbing the slick soft skin where the hole had been. It was an old habit, a tic brought on by stress and anxiety. I couldn't remember the last time I'd caught myself doing it.

“Max, they've got to know that the heat is never going to come off this,” Sherry said. “Everyone will make this their top priority for as long as it takes.” She took both of my hands and cupped them in hers, our elbows making a tepee over the table.

“You don't mess with a judge, a federal judge, in this country. Just like the state attorney said, we're scorching the earth on this.”

“Don't know. Maybe it was taking longer than they'd thought,” I said, still speculating on the kidnappers' reason for moving. “Maybe their plan was falling apart.”

“If they've got a plan,” Sherry said. “Far as I've heard, there's still no ransom demand.”

“What else have you heard?”

When the waitress arrived, we sat back and cleared a space for my late-night breakfast. My appetite surprised me, and I went through the eggs and hash browns while Sherry went through a list.

The feds had sent everything they got from the warehouse to the FBI lab in Miami. They'd already found a fingerprint on the portable toilet left in the room where Billy had smelled Diane's perfume. If it was hers, good, I thought. If she was still cognizant enough to try leaving those kinds of bread crumbs, maybe they hadn't hurt her. The feds would run every hair follicle and sweat stain and tossed-away napkin from the Dumpster for saliva and try to make DNA matches. Sherry said they'd already tracked the pickup route for the company that serviced the trash and would start raking through the contents present and past.

“No blood samples,” Sherry said.

I looked up from my last piece of toast with a quizzical look.

“They found sheets and towels and some discarded clothing in the Dumpster, none with blood stains.”

I knew she was trying to give me good news—something to hold on to. And she was right. The lack of any kind of blood was always a good sign.

“You need to rest, Max,” she finally said, and looked over her shoulder to alert the waitress. “You've got nothing to run on now. Let's go home.”

I looked in her eyes and despite my anxiety, the days of no sleep, and the frustration, I went for selfishness and, yes, neediness. We paid the bill, tipping heavily, and went home.

Afterward, we lay in Sherry's bed with the overhead fan cooling the sweat on our bodies and the aqua light from her backyard pool seeping in through the window and painting the ceiling. Even though her skin was still hot from our lovemaking, she laid her head on my chest because she knew I liked it. I stroked her hair and stared up into the rippling blue light above us.

“Thank you,” I said finally.

“For loving you?”

“For trying to relax me, take my head out of the game for a while.”

“That's not why.”

“Why then?”

“I was horny.”

“Liar.”

“Yes, but still—did it work?”

“It always works. But the sun still comes up tomorrow.”

“And do we know what it might shine on when it does?”

“We are, as they say, waiting for a break in the case.”

“Didn't you already create one break?”

“Yes, but the jury is still out on whether it helped or hurt.”

“Juries get to judge after the fact.”

“True.”

We were silent again. Maybe we even dozed a bit, or slept.

My phone buzzed at 6:10 a.m. It was mine, not one of the burners. I rolled over and answered.

“Max, they picked up the Chrysler on a photograph from the tollbooth camera on Alligator Alley going west.”

I am a light sleeper, even when I'm exhausted. It's an old cop thing. I deciphered the information coming from Billy with barely a blip in concentration.

Alligator Alley is the old name of what is now I-75, which takes you westbound across the state from Fort Lauderdale to just shy of Naples. It was built by a construction company in the late 1960s as a fast two-lane road from west to east coasts. When I-75, which goes all the way to Michigan from Florida, started using it as its main extension from Tampa to Miami, the name was officially changed. It was widened in recent times and the lanes separated because of increased traffic and the fact that when it was a narrow two-lane, head-on wrecks in the dead of night were of epic proportions.

There were two other things I knew about it. One, the far west toll plaza was dedicated to the memory of Edward J. Beck, a toll taker who was murdered on the job in 1974. Two, midway across are entrances to the Seminole's Big Cypress and the Miccosukee Indian Reservations. Together those Indian-held lands cover more than two hundred square miles of the Everglades.

“Did they catch it coming out at the Beck Plaza?” I asked Billy.

“No. No sign after that. But they could have gone north or south on State Road 29.”

“Right,” I said. Neither of us had to say it—Indians. Why the hell were Indians coming into all of this?

“You have some contacts out there, right, Max?”

“Yeah, in the Glades—one of the best. But inside the tribe is a lot tougher. You've got the big business casino boys pulling their ‘privacy of a business entity' line and on the Indian side they stay behind their ‘we're a nation of our very own' cloak. It'll be tough to crack in terms of search warrants or information coming out if tribal members are involved.”

“I've got a legal connection,” Billy said. “I helped with a case a few years ago when one of the tribe's big names got arrested for killing a Florida panther, a designated threatened species.”

“They said it was a tribal custom,” I said, remembering.

“They came to a mutual agreement,” Billy said.

“Let's hope they're as cooperative this time.”

“I'm also working another angle.”

I waited.

“I'll get back to you, Max. I know you'll do what you do.”

“Count on it,” I said, and pressed the disconnect button.