Detective Tony Valentine of the Atlantic City Police Department blinked awake. Doyle Flanagan, his partner and best friend, was pointing at the binoculars lying in his lap. Embarrassed, Valentine handed them over.
“You spot him?” Valentine asked, smothering a yawn.
“I’m not sure.” Doyle lifted the binoculars to his eyes.
It was six a.m., and they were sitting in a pushcart chained to the Boardwalk’s metal railing. During the summer, pushcart men dragged tourists up and down the Boardwalk, two bucks a ride. It was a custom that dated back to the turn of the century, when Atlantic City had been the country’s most famous resort town.
Fifty yards from where they sat was a neon-lit monstrosity called Resorts Atlantic City. Resorts was New Jersey’s first foray into legalized gambling, and already generating more money than all the other businesses on the island combined.
“Got him,” Doyle said. “He’s coming out the front doors.”
Valentine followed the direction of Doyle’s finger, and spied the bouncing dread-locks of a notorious pimp named Prince D. Smith. Recently, the Prince had spread his wings, and his girls were now working Resort’s hotel. The Prince was also a wanted felon, and they had planned to arrest him inside the hotel lobby, only to have their superior squash the idea.
“The governor doesn’t want any bad publicity inside Resorts,” Captain Banko had told them. “Arrest the Prince when he’s outside. That’s an order.”
So they’d taken to hiding in a pushcart. Climbing out, they shook the life into their legs, and jogged to the casino. They were dressed identically: faded blue jeans, baggy sweatshirts, and New York Yankees baseball caps. That was where the similarities ended. Doyle was five-nine, thin and wiry, his face dusted with freckles, with a mane of red hair that made him look as Irish as Pattie’s pig. Valentine was four inches taller, broad-shouldered and weighed two hundred pounds, with jet-black hair and coloring that betrayed his Sicilian heritage.
The crowd leaving the casino was moving to its own rhythm. Resorts was a spruced-up pile of bricks in a crumbling city — “A shit house with carpet,” proclaimed a dirty-mouthed comic the opening night — yet no one seemed to care. People came here to gamble, and every night since Resorts had opened, thousands had packed its floors.
Doyle attempted to push his way through the crowd. Stymied, he flashed his badge. “Police,” he announced loudly.
Pimps had better hearing that most dogs. The Prince’s head snapped. Seeing them, he started to run. Valentine drew a snub-nosed.38 from his pocket holster.
“Out of the way!” he exclaimed.
The crowd parted like the Red Sea, and the two detectives ran past the fountain in front of the casino. The Prince had gotten a good jump on them, and was already a block away. He had a long, relaxed gait, and did not seem concerned that he was being pursued. “I’m right behind you,” Doyle said.
Valentine hadn’t lost a foot race in years. He picked up the pace, and saw the Prince jump into a pink Cadillac with a Rolls Royce grill. The Caddy pulled away from the curb just as Valentine caught up.
“I’m going to get you!” he declared.
The driver’s window came down, and the Prince flipped him the bird. It made his blood boil and continued to run, not seeing the monster pothole in the middle of the street.
Valentine didn’t know which hurt more; not catching the Prince, or falling down and tearing out the knees of his jeans. They were his favorite pair, and he sat in an unmarked car with his partner, cursing his luck.
“Maybe the department will reimburse you,” Doyle said.
“Maybe the moon will fall out of the sky,” Valentine replied.
“Look on the bright side. Our shift just ended.”
“Let’s get something to eat. My treat.”
They drove to the Howard Johnson’s on the north end of the island. There were plenty of good places to eat in Atlantic City —the White House Sub Shop, Angelo’s Tavern, Tony’s Baltimore Grille — but Hojo’s coffee was always fresh. Pulling into the lot, they both stared at an Out of Business sign made to look like a funeral notice hanging in the window. Through the window Valentine saw that the restaurant’s trademark ice cream churn was gone. No more twenty-eight flavors, he thought.
“Guess they couldn’t compete with Resorts’ $1.99 buffet,” Doyle said.
Resorts had the cheapest food in town, and was driving the local restaurants out of business. The politicians had said that legalized gambling would be a boom to Atlantic City. So far, the only boom had been inside the casino.
“Let’s go somewhere else,” Valentine suggested.
Doyle drove south, and found a twenty-four hour Jack-in-the-Box in an area called Snake Alley. The food was garbage, but that was what you got at six-thirty in the morning. They drank coffee and shared a bag of greasy french fries. Valentine’s knees were aching from where he’d fallen. On top of that, he was in a lousy mood and didn’t want to take his bad attitude home to his wife and son. He said, “Heard any good jokes?”
Doyle put his coffee down. He had been cheering Valentine up since they were kids. “This traveling salesman knocks on the door of a house. The door opens, and a ten-year-old kid steps out holding a cigar and a can of beer. The salesman says, ‘Are your parents home?’ And the kid says, ‘What the hell do you think?’”
Valentine sipped his coffee and grinned. The radio on the dashboard crackled, and Marlene, the dispatcher on the graveyard shift said, “Pick up if you can hear my voice.”
“You’re the one who fell down.”
“I didn’t fall down, I tripped. There’s a difference.”
Doyle smiled. “Yeah, I’m up for it.”
Valentine answered the call. “Hey Marlene, what’s up?”
“Detectives Crowe and Brown are arresting an armed suspect at the Rainbow Arms apartment complex,” she said. “They’ve requested back-up. Can you help them?”
The Rainbow Arms was less than five minutes away. It had been a long, frustrating night; maybe assisting in a collar would make them both feel better. Doyle mouthed the word yes.
“Tell them we’ll be right there,” he said, grabbing the last french fry.
Atlantic City was the last stop on a railroad to nowhere. It was there because there happened to be the shortest distance between Philadelphia and the sea. Once, there had been swanky hotels and nightclubs and a standard of living that was hard to beat. Then Las Vegas and Miami Beach had stolen the tourists away, and the island — all thirteen miles of it — had gone straight to hell, with crime so rampant that it had led the nation when Valentine joined the force in ‘64. The Rainbow Arms apartments were one of the island’s war zones. Doyle parked near the front entrance, and they got out.
Crowe and Brown stood in the shadows of one of the block’s few trees. The detectives were wearing bulky bulletproof vests and had twenty-gauge Remington shotguns cradled in their arms. They were not the friendliest pair, and wore grim looks.
“What are you doing here?” Crowe snapped.
“We’re responding to your call.”
“You been in a fight? You look busted up.”
“And you look like you’re hunting elephants,” Valentine replied.
Doyle laughed under his breath. Another pair of detectives materialized behind Crowe and Brown. Their names were Freed and Mink, and they also wore bulletproof vests and carried shotguns. Crowe wagged a finger in Valentine’s face. “Listen, funny man. We’re going into that apartment house, and we’re coming out with a black motherfucker who shot at us earlier. If you’re not ready for action, get out of the way.”
Mink, who was black, looked away, his jaw tightening. Valentine stared at Crowe. “When did this happen?”
“Twenty minutes ago,” Crowe said. “You with us, or not?”
“We’re with you. Just give us a minute to suit up.”
“Make it fast,” Crowe said.
Valentine and Doyle got their gear from the trunk of their car, and suited up. Under his breath, Doyle said, “How did Freed and Mink get here so fast?”
Valentine was wondering that himself. Freed and Mink worked the same shift they did, and were also off-duty. “Beats me,” he said under his breath.
They formed two lines of three, with Crowe and Brown leading the charge. The Rainbow Arm’s front path was littered with broken beer bottles and debris. As they reached the stoop, the front door swung in, and the detectives froze. A little black boy emerged clutching a Fat Albert lunch box to his chest.
“Hey kid, get lost,” Crowe said.
The little boy’s eyes turned fearful.
Mink tried. “Son, go home,” he said gently.
The boy was dressed for school, but it was too early for school. Valentine felt a hot wire ignite his blood. It was a trap.
“Get away from the door,” he said loudly.
The other detectives did not move. They were seeing the frightened little boy, and not the threat. A spot appeared in the crotch of the boy’s pants.
“Move,” Valentine barked at them.
A black man with dread locks appeared in the doorway behind the little boy. He was holding a UZI submachine gun and had a crazed look in his eyes. Using the boy as a shield, he aimed at the detectives’ legs and started firing. It was the Prince.
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Their names were Bo and Karen Farmer. Bronco Marchese had chosen them to be his claimers because they were young and didn’t have criminal records. Best of all, they were about to be married. When it came to cheating a casino, there were no better claimers than a pair of newlyweds.
Dressed in their wedding clothes, Bo and Karen had left northern Sacramento early one Friday morning, and driven four hours to the Cal-Neva Lodge in Nevada. The Cal-Neva was a favorite spot for couples to get hitched, the lodge overlooking beautiful Lake Tahoe and the snow-tipped mountains that surrounded it.
Bronco was playing a slot machine when Bo and Karen entered the Cal Neva’s casino. The couple didn’t have much money, and had borrowed on their credit cards to rent Bo’s tuxedo and Karen’s wedding dress. It was a beautiful dress, with a long train and a fall skirt complete with stiff crinolines that made Karen look like an antebellum. As they’d walked through the casino to the wedding chapel in the rear of the building, every eye in the place had fallen upon them. Karen was blond and drop-dead pretty, Bo tall and ruggedly handsome, and they looked right for each other.
Bronco picked up his pail of coins, and followed them. There were weddings every half-hour in the chapel, and he slipped into a back pew without being noticed. The ceremony was short and sweet, and he watched them exchange vows and kiss. Two nights ago when they’d gone to dinner in the Old Town section of Sacramento and hatched their plan, Karen had confided in Bronco. She’d told him that she wanted to believe her late mother would have liked Bo, even though Bo had the devil in him.
“Does that bother you?” Bronco had asked her.
Karen had smiled coyly. “Most boys I’ve known did.”
Bronco had smiled back at her. Not everybody was cut out to cheat a casino. Bo and Karen were different. They were young and naive, and both had a touch of larceny, which made them perfect. Bronco had grabbed the check and paid up.
When the ceremony was over, Bronco returned to the casino and sat down at a slot machine. When Karen and Bo walked past moments later, Bronco found himself staring at the young bride. Although he was forty-five and physically out of shape, he still believed that young women found him attractive. Two nights ago, he’d been convinced that Karen had been coming on to him.
Bronco shifted his attention to Bo. To rob a casino, each member of the gang had to play a role. This was important because there were surveillance cameras in the ceiling, and they were always turned on. Bo’s role was the impatient groom. Bronco watched Bo walk up to the front desk and ask the female reservationist if their suite was ready. The reservationist checked her computer.
“Your room’s still being cleaned, Mr. Farmer,” she replied.
“Can’t you do something?” Bo asked, sounding angry.
“I’m sorry, sir, but there’s nothing I can do.”
“Come on, it’s my wedding day.”
“How about I give you a coupon, and you can play the slot machines until it’s ready?” the reservationist suggested.
“A coupon? How’s that work?” Bo asked.
The reservationist opened a drawer, and removed a coupon with the Cal Neva’s logo stamped on it. Handing it to him, she said, “The coupon is worth fifty dollars. Go to the cage, and present it to the lady behind the window. She’ll redeem it for you in quarters, and you and your wife can play the slot machines.”
Karen came over to where her husband was standing. “What’s wrong, honey?”
“Room’s not ready,” Bo sulked. “You want to play the slots?”
The reservationist removed a second coupon from the drawer. “Here, Mrs. Farmer, you can have one, too. Good luck.”
Bronco found himself smiling. He’d used a lot of claimers over the years, but few took to it as easily as these two. He followed them across the casino to the cage, and watched Bo exchange the coupons for two plastic pails filled with quarters.
“Here you go, honey,” Bo said. “You know what they say about virgin luck.”
Karen blushed up a storm. “Very funny,” she said under her breath.
“It’s an old gambling expression,” Bo said, grinning. “People who gamble for the first time always win big.”
“Just about.” Bo undid his tie, and stuffed it into his pocket. He pointed across the casino at the banks of glittering slot machines. “Follow me.”
“Why those machines?” Karen asked.
“Because they have the biggest payouts,” Bo said. Looking at the cashier inside the cage, he said, “Isn’t that right? You should always play the slot machines with the biggest payouts.”
“That’s right,” the cashier said brightly.
They were better than good, Bronco thought. As they walked away, Bronco saw the cashier look at him.
“What a nice couple,” he said.
Bronco followed the newlyweds across the busy casino floor. Karen walked holding her dress in one hand, her pail of free coins in the other, and looked like she was walking a tightrope. Bo went to a slot machine in the corner called Big Bertha. It stood six feet high, and had a million dollar jackpot as its grand prize.
“This one,” he declared. “Make sure you bet the maximum amount of coins.”
“Why’s that?” Karen asked.
“Because it won’t pay a jackpot if you don’t,” Bronco said, coming up behind them.
Karen turned and stared, not recognizing him. Bronco could not enter a casino without drastically altering his appearance, and his face had taken on dozens of wrinkles since Karen had last seen him.
“It’s me,” he said under his breath. “You kids ready?”
“Bronco?” Karen whispered. “Is that really you?”
“Yeah. Don’t use my real name, okay?”
“Sorry. How did you get so old?”
Bo put his arm around his bride. “We’re ready.”
“Good,” Bronco said. “Let’s make some money.”
Karen dug five quarters out of her pail and fed them into Big Bertha. She wasn’t very tall, and as she got on her tip-toes to grab the machine’s giant handle, her wedding dress billowed out, allowing Bronco to duck between her and the machine.
“No funny stuff,” she whispered.
Bronco pressed his body against Big Bertha. He never mixed business with pleasure, but with Karen, he might make an exception. Taking a skeleton key from his pocket, he unlocked the machine. One of his great gifts was the photographic ability of his brain: If he saw a key hanging on someone’s belt, his mind would make a mental picture, and he’d later duplicate the key with special equipment he carried in the trunk of his car. He’d opened dozens of slot machines this way, and never been caught.
Taking a small but powerful earth magnet from his pocket, he stuck it against the side of the machine to pacify it’s internal anti-cheating device. Then, he pulled open the door, reached up into the guts of the machine, and carefully lined up the reels to show five cherries. The machine instantly registered that a jackpot had been won, and bells as loud as a five-alarm fire went off. His heart started to race.
Closing the machine, he slipped the magnet and skeleton key into his pocket, then stepped away from Karen’s billowing dress and glanced into her eyes.
“Now the fun starts,” he said.
Bronco walked away from Big Bertha, then turned around to watch the scene unfold. Big Bertha’s bells were still ringing, and several employees were hurrying over to where Bo and Karen stood. Winning a million-dollar jackpot was like something out of a dream, and Karen played her part to the hilt. Dropping her pail of quarters on the floor, she jumped up and down and screamed with delight.
“You see,” Bo said over the clamor. “Virgin luck.”
Karen slapped her husband on the behind. A mob of patrons had assembled around her, and an elderly woman with blue hair stepped forward.
“Can I ask you a favor?” the woman asked.
“What’s that?” Karen said.
“For luck,” the woman explained.
Karen let the elderly woman touch her sleeve. Others in the crowd stepped forward and did the same thing. There was something about her wedding dress that made the event seem nothing short of magical.
Soon, a half-dozen casino employees were hovering around the newlyweds. One had a camera, and took Karen and Bo’s picture in front of Big Bertha. Another had a clipboard, and helped Karen fill out the necessary paperwork for the Internal Revenue Service so Karen could claim her jackpot. While this was happening, Big Bertha’s bells continued to ring, the casino happy to let its customers know that every once in a while, people did go home winners.
That afternoon, Bronco followed Bo and Karen around the casino. Everywhere they went, someone wanted to shake Karen’s hand, or get their picture taken with her. The attention seemed to bother her, and her beautiful face turned into a deep frown.
They went to the craps pit. Bo was playing on a line of credit that the casino had extended him, the casino people their new best friends.
“I want to go home,” she said loudly.
“We still have to collect the jackpot money,” Bo said.
“Can’t they send it to us?”
An apprehensive look crossed Bo’s face, and he pulled her aside and lowered his voice. “It will look suspicious. We need to stay and collect the million dollars.”
“But, I want to go home,” Karen said.
Bo glanced nervously at Bronco, who stood a few feet away. “Come on, honey. Just one more day. That’s all I’m asking.”
Karen glanced Bronco’s way as well. Her attitude had changed dramatically, the reality of what she’d done slowly settling in. She spoke in a hushed voice to her husband. Bronco couldn’t read lips, yet knew exactly what Karen was saying. She was living a lie, and wanted it to end. And Bo was trying to pacify her, knowing damn well there was nothing he could do about it.
Bronco stayed at a seedy motel down the road from the Cal Neva. The next morning he rose early, and spent thirty minutes putting fingernail polish on his face. When it dried, dozens of wrinkles appeared, making him look like an old man.
He drove to the Cal Neva, and had breakfast in the coffee shop. He chose a table that let him eat and watch the elevator banks at the same time. At nine, Bo and Karen came downstairs and went to the registration desk. The casino’s GM greeted them, then took them to his office and shut the door. Although Bronco had never been present when a jackpot was paid, he knew the procedure. The GM would make Karen sign some papers, then give her the money in a cheap briefcase. The GM would also ask them if they’d like an armed escort to take the money to their car. Then he’d shake hands, and invite them back to his casino the next time they were in town.
At nine-twenty, Bo and Karen left the GM’s office, and disappeared into an elevator. Bronco paid for his breakfast and walked out of the coffee shop. Normally, he would have met up with the Farmers at another location, and cut up the money. But last night’s conversation had bothered him. People who got scared did stupid things. He went to the house phone and called their suite.
“It’s me. Which suite you in?”
“Number four oh four,” Bo said.
A minute later Karen showed him into the suite. As she shut the door, Bronco glanced into her eyes. Still scared, he thought. Bo had spilled the money onto the floor, and was lying face-down in it, doing the Australian crawl. Minus federal taxes, their winnings came to six-hundred and forty-five thousand dollars. Bronco got onto his knees and started stacking the money into two piles.
“You mind my asking you a question?” Karen asked.
“How did you get all those wrinkles?”
Bronco looked up at her. “I spread fingernail polish mask on my face, let it dry, then scrunched my face around until it looks like wrinkles.”
“You know all the angles, don’t you,” Karen said.
Bronco finished stacking the money and stood up. There were six stacks of one hundred thousand each, with ten grand on the side. With his foot he pushed two of the one hundred thousand stacks toward Bo, then began stuffing the rest into the briefcase. When Bo did not object, Karen let out a shriek.
“You lied to me,” she said to her husband.
Bo swallowed hard. “It’s still a lot of money.”
Bronco found himself feeling sorry for Karen. “How much did he tell you?”
Her eyes had welled with tears. “Half.”
Bronco thought he understood. For three hundred grand, Karen had been willing to stand in front of a slot machine in her wedding dress, and let a man she hardly knew steal a jackpot. But not for a penny less. He edged closer to her. In a quiet voice he said, “You want the rest of your money?”
Karen swiped at her eyes and nodded stiffly.
“I’ll give you my half if you dump this loser, and hit the road with me.”
“The wedding dress is perfect cover. We can hit a couple of casinos a week, make out like bandits.”
Karen backed away from him with a horrified look on her face. “Get away from me. Bo, make him get away from me.”
Bronco felt a hand clamp down on his shoulder, and spin him around. Bo was standing directly behind him, his fist cocked. Bronco tried to duck as the punch connected with the right side of his face. He dropped the briefcase as he fell.
“You crummy son-of-a-bitch,” Bo said, towering over him. “You think you’re a big shot with your skeleton keys and magnets and your money. Well, you can keep that shit. Just get out of our lives. Understand?”
Bronco took a deep breath and rose on unsteady legs while staring at Karen. She had that sultry look he’d always liked. As if reading his thoughts, Bo stepped forward and shoved him into the wall. “Stop looking at her like that! She’s mine, understand? I should kill you for looking at her like that.”
But Bronco couldn’t stop looking. Seeing Karen in her wedding dress yesterday had stirred emotions in him that he’d thought had died long ago. She was too good for this loser, and he said, “She won’t be yours for long.”
“You lied to her,” Bronco said. “On her wedding day. Think about it.”
Bo pulled his arm back to strike him. Bronco wasn’t going to eat another punch, and drew a silver-handled gun from his pants pocket, aimed at Bo’s chest, and squeezed the trigger. The shot made a loud Pop!, the bullet passing through Bo’s heart like a tiny meteor. Bo went straight back, bouncing as he hit the floor.
Bronco went to the door, jerked it open, and glanced back at Karen. She was kneeling beside her dying husband and sobbing. She looked at him, as if to say Why?
“You deserve better,” Bronco said.
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Every county in Florida dealt with juvenile offenders differently. Some put the offenders on house arrest and made them wear electronic monitoring bracelets on their ankles. Others sent the offenders to boot camps, where they lived in bunk houses and drill sergeants turned their lives into living hell. In Fort Lauderdale, offenders were entered into a rehabilitative program called Harmony.
Harmony was an ugly pile of burgundy stucco on the west side of town, its neighbors a nasty biker bar and an Asian massage parlor that took all major credit cards. It was a seedy area, and Linderman found it hard to believe that sending a problem kid there would change him or her for the better, unless the idea was to scare them straight. The street had been cordoned off, and he showed his credentials to a patrol officer before being allowed to enter.
He parked his SUV at the curb and got out. The slain driver’s body lay beneath a white sheet on Harmony’s front lawn. Dried blood stains raced across the grass to the side parking lot, where a pair of gloved CSI technicians from the Broward Sheriff’s Department scoured the area for clues. Vick stood beneath the building’s shade, awaiting his arrival.
“Who moved the driver?” Linderman asked by way of greeting.
Vick stepped out from the shade. She was dressed in a navy pants suit the same color as a cop’s uniform. She was small, and wore heels to compensate for her size. Her sun-streaked blond hair was cropped short, the effect almost boyish. She wore little make-up, yet still managed to look stylish and pretty. Had a badge not been pinned to her lapel, she could have passed as a teenager.
“One of Harmony’s counselors did,” she explained. “The fire ants were attacking him, so the counselor dragged him onto the lawn.”
Florida was like the jungle; when people died outdoors, critters began to eat them.
“How badly was the crime scene compromised?” he asked.
“It’s worthless to our investigation.”
He knelt beside the dead driver and lifted the sheet. The victim was a balding, overweight white male in his late 40s, his shiny head covered in angry red bites. His neck had been sliced, the coagulated blood around the wound stretching from ear-to-ear. Criminals called it giving someone a necklace. He was having a bad day, but nothing like this poor son-of-a-bitch.
“His name’s Howie Carroll. He’s been a Harmony driver for five years.” Vick said. “Carroll was supposed to deliver Wayne Ladd to his anger management class this morning at seven-thirty. One of Harmony’s counselors found Carroll’s body in the parking lot. The counselor assumed Ladd had killed Carroll, and called 911.”
“Why did the counselor think that?”
“Last year, Ladd shoved a bayonet through his mother’s boyfriend’s heart. He’s a violent kid,” Vick replied.
“Just like the first two victims.”
“Yes. They both killed adults in their early teens.”
He stood up, and had a look around the Harmony property. Daylight abductions were rare. It told him that the perp had little, if any, regard for the law.
“Any witnesses?” he asked.
“The manager of the Magic Mart across the street witnessed the killing,” Vick said. “It was also captured on the store’s outside surveillance camera.”
“Is this the tape you told me about?”
“Still convinced he’s Killer X?”
The excitement was still there in Vick’s voice. She’d hooked a live one, and now wanted help reeling him in. She’d given Linderman something to feel good about, and he felt the dark clouds that had been circling around him slowly lift.
“Where’s the manager now?” he asked.
“Inside the store. A homicide detective is getting a statement from him.”
“Let’s go talk with him,” Linderman said.
The Magic Mart was an ice box, the aisles crammed with bags of potato chips and cases of discounted beer. Behind the counter stood a skinny Latino wearing a brown smock with the name Juan stitched in white letters above the breast pocket. Beside him stood a chunky white male with blown-dry hair and an off-the-rack suit whom Linderman assumed was the homicide dick. Both men looked up.
“Why, hello Rachel,” the detective said, flashing a smile.
“Hello, Roger,” Vick replied. “Detective Roger DuCharme, this is Special Agent Ken Linderman, supervisory agent for the FBI’s Child Abduction Rapid Deployment unit in North Miami. He’d like to speak with the manager.”
Linderman liked the formality in Vick’s voice. Firm but polite. DuCharme glanced warily at him as if sizing up an opponent, then dipped his chin. Linderman didn’t like the vibes the detective was giving off, and nodded back.
“Mr. Gonzalez doesn’t speak English very well, so you need to go slow with him,” DuCharme explained.
If Linderman had learned anything living in South Florida, it was that the vast Latino population spoke English better than people thought. He faced the manager and smiled pleasantly. “Good morning. Please tell me what happened earlier.”
Gonzalez appeared eager to get away from DuCharme. Coming out from behind the counter, he led the FBI agents to the front of his store, where he pointed across the street at the Harmony building.
“This morning, I see a big man on the sidewalk over there,” Gonzalez said. “I think he maybe Cuban or Puerto Rican. A van come into the lot, and the big man run over to it, and wave to the driver like something wrong. The driver get out, and the big man grabs him like this.” Gonzalez mimicked putting someone in a choke hold. “He puts a knife to the driver’s throat, and cuts him bad. The big man jump into the van and punches the boy. Then, he take off. I feel bad for driver – you know?”
“Did you know the driver?” Linderman asked.
“Oh, yeah. He come into the store many times. Nice guy.”
“Anything else you remember?”
“It happen so fast, it didn’t seem real. You know?”
“Oh yeah.” Gonzalez snapped his fingers. “He kill him just like that.”
“I’d like to see the surveillance tape,” Linderman said.
Gonzalez locked the front door and led them to a storage room where a TV and VCR sat on a desk. Linderman pulled up a chair, as did Vick, while DuCharme stood behind them working a piece of gum. Gonzalez pressed the Play button on the VCR.
“You watch,” Gonzalez said.
The TV came to life. A surveillance tape showing the front of the Magic Mart started, the Harmony building and parking lot visible across the street. Stamped in the bottom right corner of the tape was the date and time. The tape had been taken at 7:30.24 that morning.
A figure appeared on the sidewalk in front of Harmony. A tall, broad-shouldered Latino male wearing a floppy white hat, wraparound shades, and an embroidered white Guayabera shirt with matching white cotton pants. The Guayabera was a traditional Cuban shirt, and worn pulled out.
The tape continued to roll. At 7:33:10, a van driven by Howie Carroll pulled into the Harmony lot, and parked by the building’s side entrance. In the backseat sat a teenage boy plugged into an IPOD whom Linderman assumed was Wayne Ladd. The boy had a mop of black hair, and seemed to be lost in the music on his IPOD.
The man in the Guayabera made his move. Entering the parking lot, he waved to Carroll while pointing frantically at the hood of the van. Carroll got out of the van to have a look. Drawing a knife from his pocket, the man in the Guayabera put Carroll in a choke hold. He fumbled for a split-second, then slit Carroll’s throat in one swift motion. Wayne Ladd watched through the window, his eyes bulging. The man in the Guayabera jumped into the van, and clubbed the teenager to the floor with his fist. Getting behind the wheel, the man in the Guayabera closed the door, and sped away.
Linderman checked the time stamp. 7:33:27. Seventeen seconds and change. Not one wasted movement or step had been taken.
“Show me the link,” he said.
Vick rewound the tape. Again, they watched the killing.
“Watch when he fumbles,” she said.
Linderman watched. The man in the Guayabera tried to grab Carroll’s hair as he slit his throat. Only Carroll was bald, and nearly slipped free.
“He tried to grab his hair, and jerk his head back before he killed him, ” Vick explained. “It was an instinctive reaction.”
Vick was right. Not many killers slit their victims throats. The man in the Guayabera had done this many times before.
“I think you’re onto something,” Linderman said.
Vick’s face lit up. “You do?”
“Yes. Let’s see how many more clues he left.”
They rose from their chairs. DuCharme stood behind them like a statue.
“Pretty scary guy,” the detective said.
Linderman did not like working with people who stated the obvious. Their stunted imaginations did nothing but impede the investigative process. He decided to give the detective a chance to redeem himself.
“How do you think our killer got here?” Linderman asked.
“Come again?” DuCharme said.
“His mode of transportation. Did he walk, come by bike, take a bus? Whatever he used, it’s likely someone saw him.”
“I never thought of that,” DuCharme said.
Linderman had heard enough. He told DuCharme he wanted a copy of the tape, then grabbed Vick and headed outside.
“This is a huge breakthrough,” Linderman said, standing beneath the store’s awning. “We’re not going to talk to anyone about it.”
Vick’s spirits crashed. “We’re not?”
“No. The media would have a field day, and that will only impair our ability to catch this guy. Think of the headlines. Serial killer abducts boy, murders driver in broad daylight.”
“So I shouldn’t refer to him as Killer X.”
“Not until after we catch him. Okay?”
“Our killer looked fresh. I think it’s reasonable to assume that his mode of transportation had air conditioning,” Linderman said.
“Do you think he came by bus?”
“Yes. He could have taken a taxi, but that would have meant exposing his face to the driver. This guy’s smarter than that, don’t you think?”
“He’s above average IQ, but unbalanced,” Vick said. “Did you see what he did to the driver after he killed him?”
Linderman spotted a covered bus stop two blocks away. He started to walk in that direction. Vick heels clopped on the pavement as she fell in line.
“No, what did he do?” Linderman asked.
“He kissed the top of the driver’s head as he slit his throat,” Vick said. “He was saying goodbye to him.”
Linderman had seen that, but wanted to see if Vick had noticed it.
“Anything else?” he asked.
“The killer’s shirt was embroidered. A Guayabera can be bought plain, or with embroidery. His clothes were also spotless. I think he’s narcissistic.”
“That’s good. What else did you see?”
“That’s it.” She hesitated. “Did I miss something?”
Vick did not respond. He waited until they were at the bus stop before telling her.
“He’s driven a van or bus before,” Linderman said.
“The doors on vans are tricky to operate. Our killer closed the door on the first try. He may have been a driver once.”
Vick’s shoulders sagged, and she let out a deep sigh. She was a perfectionist, and would flog herself for the rest of the day over this.
“I missed that,” she said.
“Don’t worry about it,” he said. “We all miss things.”
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