Judged (24 page)

“Got it,” I said.

“Call me back as soon as you get the info on that car,” Couch said.

I confirmed and hung up.

Couch had gotten the word out to our air support that the wanted vehicle was a 2012 Ford Focus sedan, color blue. He said he would report back the second he heard anything. The last information we had on Wendell was that he left the scene of the accident heading south, which was where the helicopters would start.

Beth and I followed Harrington’s car, lights and siren on full song, for thirty minutes toward the scene of the accident. Cars gridlocked the freeway as we got within a few miles. We spent the last couple miles of the trip riding the shoulder. Ahead, through the windshield and past Harrington’s car, I could see red and blues, an ambulance, and a tow truck at the side of the road. We parked behind the last patrol car and got out of our vehicles. Fifty yards up, in the grass along the right side of the road, was the balled-up Mercedes ten or fifteen feet back from the concrete-and-metal base of a sign it had made impact with.

Harrington, Beth, and I walked to the first uniformed officer we saw.

“Who is in charge here?” Beth asked.

“That would be Patrol Sergeant Aaron Shields. You are?” the officer asked.

“FBI and Miami Dade PD. Where is the sergeant?” she asked.

“I’ll take you to him.”

We followed the officer past a string of civilian vehicles nearest the crashed Mercedes. Three uniformed officers stood together. The one in the center wore a brown uniform with a black tie, as opposed to the dark-blue uniforms of the two officers bookending him. I figured the man in the center of the group to be our sergeant. The man, looking in his later forties with a thick neck and a brown-and-gray goatee, held a clipboard full of papers he was writing on.

“This is him here,” the officer said. “Sergeant Shields?”

The man in the center of the three officers took his attention from the papers on his clipboard and looked up.

“I’m Agent Hank Rawlings. This is Agent Beth Harper and Lieutenant Harrington from Miami Dade.”

“Okay,” he said.

“The man that fled the accident here we believe is someone we are after.”

“What do you need?”

“Anyone who saw him and can let us know what happened,” I said.

“We have a couple.” The sergeant looked at the officer next to him. “Bring some of the witnesses over,” he said.

The officer turned and headed toward another group of officers standing in the grass a bit away with a number of people in street clothes. I glanced over at the Mercedes, which had a yellow tarp draped over the driver’s side of it.

“What do you have down here?” I asked the sergeant.

“DOA. He’s still in the vehicle. We’re waiting for a team to arrive and remove him. I caught a glimpse of what remained in there. It’s not something that you want to see. You can smell liquor from outside of the vehicle. We put the tarp up to block the view from the motorists passing by.” He bobbed his head back toward the clogged freeway traffic.

I glanced over at a patrol car and an officer blocking the right lane of the freeway and motioning for cars to continue on. The face of each passerby was locked on the Mercedes.

I looked at Beth and Harrington. “Start getting what you can get from the witnesses. Unfortunately, I’m going to need to walk down there and take a look.”

I didn’t get a response from either of them.

I started for the Mercedes, trying to keep my line of sight a bit away from the tarped-over area of the vehicle. I walked to the sign the Mercedes had made impact with. The base of the sign came up to my waist and was at least three feet wide. The concrete the base was made from was cracked at the top and had smeared paint and plastic on it from the collision. Around my feet was more debris that had come from the vehicle upon impact, along with what looked like pink plastic flowers. I looked down at my shoes and the grass around them—both were wet with what I assumed was antifreeze or some other fluid that had leaked from the Mercedes. A cylindrical metal pole rose from the concrete base. My eyes followed it up to where it bent at ninety degrees and held the huge sign for the next exit, hanging over two lanes of the freeway. I eyed the metal pole, so thick I couldn’t bear hug it and touch my hands. The pole, however, was free of any damage, for the concrete base had taken the brunt of the impact. Something did catch my eye on the pole, so I leaned in for a closer look—blood.

I turned away from the sign and made my way to the passenger side of the vehicle, which was far less damaged than the driver’s. In the grass was a red helmet with a clear visor that was flipped up. The helmet had a number of scratches on the right side but looked intact. The passenger door of the Mercedes hung open. I walked to it and took a quick glance inside, trying to focus on the front passenger area. The airbag was deployed. In my peripheral vision, I caught nothing but red on the driver’s side of the vehicle. I glanced up, let out a breath, and took the scene in. Ridley’s body was pinned to the dash. His right arm looked mostly undamaged. His head was crushed—the upper half through the windshield and the lower half being obscured by the dash and mangled steering wheel. The area between what remained of the twisted seat and the dash was mere inches. A foot caught my eye lower in the vehicle, but nowhere near where it should have been. I turned away and walked from the vehicle before I saw any more.

“Hank!” Beth shouted.

I glanced up to see her standing near the edge of the grass along the shoulder of the freeway. She stood with a man in street clothes. Beth waved me over.

I walked to her, trying to clear my head of the sights I’d just taken in. “Yeah?” I asked.

“This is Michael Roth. He is the owner of the stolen vehicle,” she said.

I introduced myself to the man, who looked like he was in his late twenties. He wore a white T-shirt, tight jeans, and a backward ball cap. “Run through it for me,” I said.

“Um, yeah, sure. The accident happened right in front of me. I stopped and ran up to the vehicle. So—”

I interrupted him. “Describe how the accident happened.”

“Okay, well, I was maybe ten or fifteen car lengths behind the SUV when it just started veering off of the road. I could see the course it was on, directly for that pole that holds the sign. I mean, there really isn’t anything other than grass on the side of the freeway there. It was almost like the guy was pointing at it.”

I rubbed my eye. “Continue.”

“So the SUV hits the sign. And I mean hard. The back wheels came off of the ground. There’s shit flying all through the air. I clamp on the brakes, pull to the shoulder here, and jump out. I run over to the vehicle to help—all I see is blood on the driver’s side, but I can see through the blown-out windows someone moving on the passenger side. There was still some smoke in the car from the airbags or whatever, so I didn’t get the best of looks right away. Well, I get closer, yell if everyone is all right, and see the driver is obviously dead. His head and body were crushed. That’s when I saw the guy on the passenger side that was still moving was wearing a damn helmet. I stop in my tracks, trying to figure out what the hell I’m looking at. The guy in the helmet looks at me and asks me to help get him out. I didn’t move.”

“And then?” I asked.

“The guy gets himself out of the car, takes off his helmet, and comes at me with a gun. He grabs me, sticks a gun in my face, and steals my car.”

Beth spun the guy and showed me the back of his T-shirt with blood near the collar.

“Yeah, that’s where he grabbed me,” the guy said.

“What kind of shape was he in?” I asked.

“He was bloody. His left arm and left pant leg were covered in blood. I don’t really know if it was his or the driver’s. When he was walking, he had a bit of a limp. His left arm might have been injured, too. It was kind of hanging down a bit. Either way, after a crash like that, and seeing what happened to the other person inside, I still can’t believe anyone walked away from it.”

Beth cleared her throat. “I showed him a picture of Wendell. He confirmed that it was him.”

“And he headed south?” I asked.

“Yeah, just down the freeway there. I didn’t know what to do and couldn’t find my damn phone. It must have flown from my lap when I hit the brakes. Anyway, a woman that pulled over behind me and saw what happened called the—”

“Wait, wait, wait,” Beth said. “Your phone is in your car?”

“It must be. I don’t know.”

“What’s the number?” Beth pulled her cell phone and brought it to her ear.

The guy started rattling off his cell-phone number, but Beth held out her finger for the guy to wait a moment.

“Couch, this is Beth. We need a phone number tracked via GPS.”

She made the guy give her the number again and repeated it to Couch. Beth clicked off from the phone call and looked at me. “He’s calling it in to the Miramar office. We should know where it is within a few minutes.”

Tim sat in the stolen Ford, waiting in the parking lot of the Fort Lauderdale police department. Directly across from where he was parked was the small side street that Lieutenant Peterson always drove down to leave the facility from the employee parking area.

Tim checked the time on the dash—a couple minutes after six. He knew Peterson would be coming by any minute—the lieutenant never stayed late.

Tim looked down and inspected his leg through the rips in his pants. The four-inch-long and inch-wide laceration just below his knee was still pumping blood. He could feel it gathering in his sock, making each movement of his foot squish. He tried moving his left arm to check the range of motion. Sharp pains shot through it from fingertip to shoulder and then up to his neck. Tim figured something was definitely broken—what it was, he didn’t know, and it didn’t matter.

Tim brought his pistol onto his lap and leaned back. He cracked his neck from side to side and then reached for the car’s glove box. He flipped it open and rummaged through the contents until he found a pen and a piece of paper. Tim took the paper in his hand and looked it over—an oil change receipt. He flipped it over and pressed the paper against the steering wheel. Tim spent the next few minutes writing what he had to write. Then he tossed the paper into the backseat.

Tim focused his attention back down the street, waiting to see Lieutenant Peterson’s vehicle—a moment later, he did.

Tim clicked the Ford into reverse and pulled from the lot to follow Peterson.

“Dammit.” Beth clicked off from the phone call she was on and immediately started dialing again. She brought the phone to her ear and looked at me. “I’m calling the Fort Lauderdale police department. Have Harrington get a hold of Lieutenant Peterson directly. The damn GPS signal came back from there.”

“He’s targeting Peterson,” I said.

Beth confirmed and went to her phone call.

“Harrington,” I shouted.

Harrington stood talking with the patrol sergeant near the shoulder of the freeway. He must have caught the tone of my voice and jogged toward me.

“Yeah?” he asked. “Did we get the location?”

“Do you have a direct number to Lieutenant Peterson over at Fort Lauderdale?”

“It should still be in my phone from earlier. Why? Do we think that’s his next target?”

“The GPS track we ran on this guy’s phone came back to the Fort Lauderdale PD,” I said.

Harrington fumbled his cell phone from his pocket and went through his call log, looking for the number. He hit a few buttons and held the phone to his ear. I waited, but Harrington never started a conversation.

“Shit,” he said. “He didn’t answer.”

“Was that his desk phone or cell phone?” I asked.

“I don’t know. It’s the number he called me from.”

Beth waved me toward our car.

“Come on, we need to get over there,” I said. “Try calling the PD and get put through to his desk on the way. If you get the same result, ask for a mobile number.”

Harrington agreed and then relayed to Sergeant Shields that we needed to go, and we jogged toward the cars. Beth was behind the wheel with the motor running by the time I got to the passenger door. We left the accident scene to drive back to the Fort Lauderdale PD. Harrington led. With his lights and siren, I was hoping we could make the fifty-minute drive in under forty.

“Fort Lauderdale PD is aware,” Beth said. “They’re sending officers outside. Did Harrington get a hold of the lieutenant?”

“Not on the first try. He was going to try making contact again on the drive. Let me call him and see what he got.”

I dialed Harrington, who picked up right away.

“I just got off the phone with someone at the department,” Harrington said. “I had the woman I was talking to check his office. He’s gone. She gave me the number for Peterson’s cell phone. He didn’t answer there, either.”

“Beth said that the station was sending officers outside. I need to call Agent Couch back and make sure that the signal hasn’t moved. Do you have Peterson’s cell-phone number?”

“I do. Are you ready?”

I pulled my notepad from my inner suit pocket. “Yeah, give it to me.”

He did, and I wrote it down.

“We’ll keep heading for the station until we hear otherwise,” I said.

“Okay,” Harrington said and clicked off.

Beth glanced over at me. “Harrington didn’t get a hold of him?”

“No. I’m going to have Couch try to run the lieutenant’s cell location.”

“Good idea.”

I dialed Couch, and the phone rang in my ear.

“Yeah, Hank,” he answered.

“I need a current location on that GPS signal for the last number I gave you. I also need the same on a different number.”

“Who does the new one belong to?” Couch asked.

“It’s the lieutenant’s that we think Wendell is after.”

“Okay, give it to me,” Couch said.

I did.

“I’ll have both for you in a second. The last I heard, the first cell-phone signal hadn’t moved. We sent the birds to the area to get a visual. Let me make the call and call you back.”