The Night Monster_ A Novel of Suspense - James Swain [11]
A pair of guys stalking a women’s basketball game had purposely stolen a minivan with the seats ripped out. It sounded like a perfect vehicle for a kidnapping.
“That’s not good,” I said. “I need you to send a cruiser to the Day’s Inn on State Road 84. The Florida State women’s basketball team is staying there, and I think these guys have their eye on one of the players.”
“Will do. Are you heading there now?”
“Yep. Tell the cruiser to meet me behind the motel. That’s where the players stay.”
“Got it.”
I ended the call and jumped into my car. The average response time for a police cruiser in Fort Lauderdale was eight and a half minutes. I knew from experience that a lot of bad stuff could happen in that amount of time. I punched the gas pulling out of the service station and started running red lights.
CHAPTER 7
he Day’s Inn on State Road 84 was a time warp. Hot pink stucco and a flashing neon vacancy sign, it had been there for as long as I could remember. The Lady Seminoles usually rented a row of rooms in the back, away from the highway.
I drove behind the motel, tasting the salty ocean breeze. Coming around the corner, a pair of shiny animal eyes flashed back at me from the swamp behind the motel.
The team bus was parked in back. I parked behind it and got out.
Peels of laughter and loud dance music floated through the air. My daughter’s team was celebrating their hard-earned win over Ole Miss. Everything looked fine, but looks could be deceiving. I decided to find Jessie and make sure she was okay.
I started to cross the lot, and stopped in my tracks. A vehicle was parked in the grass between the team bus and the swamp. It looked like a Ford Minivan, and I approached for a closer look.
It was a Ford Minivan, the rear window covered in duct tape. It was the same vehicle from the Bank Atlantic Center. I drew my Colt.
I approached the driver’s door. Through the tinted side window glowed the orange ember of a cigarette. Grabbing the handle, I jerked the door open.
Behind the wheel sat the stalker. Headbanger music blared out of his car radio, his fingers tapping out the beat on the wheel. He shot me a startled look.
“Remember me?” I asked.
The stalker nodded stiffly, his eyes never leaving my Colt.
“Get out, and keep your hands where I can see them.”
He hopped out of the minivan, tossing his butt to the ground. Enough light was coming from the motel for me to get a good look at him. Small of build, with rotting teeth and a crooked nose, his darting eyes made him look feral.
“What’s your name?” I asked.
“Mouse,” he mumbled.
“Is that your first or last name?”
“Just Mouse.”
“Okay, Mouse, put your hands in the air.”
Mouse lifted his arms into the air. There was something childlike about the way he acted that made me think he was not all there. But that didn’t make him any less dangerous. I stuck my head into the open door and peered inside the minivan. The interior had been stripped and reeked of paint remover. I pulled my head back out.
“Where’s your partner?” I asked.
“I don’t have a partner,” Mouse replied.
“Stop lying. Which girl on the basketball team are you after?”
Mouse’s mouth opened, but no words came out. Guilty as charged.
I decided to frisk him, but I didn’t do it the old-fashioned way. Instead, I made Mouse turn his pockets inside-out, and when I saw that he wasn’t carrying a weapon, I had him unbutton his shorts, and drop them to his knees. Then I made him do a slow three-sixty spin. It was a great way to humiliate a person, and often led to a suspect opening up. Seeing that he was clean, I let him pull his pants back up.
“Where’s your partner?” I asked again.
Mouse hesitated, then pointed at the row of rooms where the Lady Seminoles were staying. “There.”
“Show me,” I said.
Mouse started toward the motel. When asked, criminals often led people of authority to places where they’d committed crimes. I’d never fully understood the reason, and guessed the answer was rooted in the subconscious.
Mouse stopped at the last room in the row. The door was