The Night Monster_ A Novel of Suspense - James Swain [41]
“About ten minutes.”
“I need you to go there right now.”
“What’s going on?”
“I e-mailed the Dade and Broward police, and asked them to report any sightings of guys who were unusually big. This morning, an elderly woman reported seeing a giant taking a piss on Hollywood Beach. The Hollywood police sent a bicycle cop to investigate. So far, they haven’t heard back from him.”
“Where on the beach was the sighting?”
“Near the parking garage south of the Hollywood Beach Hotel.”
The area was not far from where I lived. It was a hangout for vagrants, the covered levels a perfect place to camp out for the night. I pulled out my car keys.
“I’m leaving right now,” I said.
“Good. I’m heading there myself.”
I ended the call and hurried toward my car. A black Cadillac Eldorado was coming down the street toward me. The Eldorado braked at the curb, and the driver’s door flew open. Frank Yonker leapt out, appropriately dressed in a sharkskin suit and bloodred tie. Yonker had a pasty white face and crooked eyebrows. Clutched in his hand were the subpoenas he wanted to serve me.
“Just the man I was looking for,” Yonker declared.
“How did you find me?” I asked.
“This was your last known address, so I took a shot.”
“Business must be bad for you to take up process serving.”
“On the contrary, business is great. I just happen to dislike you, so I’m getting pleasure out of this.”
“What did I do to piss you off?” I asked.
“You think you’re above the law.”
“It’s better than being below it.”
“Aren’t we funny.”
Yonker came forward, waving the subpoenas. I didn’t have time for this, and let out a shrill whistle. Buster, who’d been watching the action from the car, scampered out the open driver’s window, barking ferociously.
“Get that beast away from me,” Yonker cried.
“Go for the throat!” I yelled.
Yonker stumbled backward and tripped over the curb. The subpoenas fell from his hand. The gods must have been smiling down on me because a stiff wind lifted the papers into the air and carried them across the street into a vacant lot. Grabbing Buster by the collar, I dragged him to my car.
“Have a nice day, Counselor,” I said.
CHAPTER 21
drove south to Hollywood Boulevard, and headed east toward the ocean.
Back in the 1920s, Hollywood had fancied itself the moviemaking capital of the east, and had been filled with sound lots and production companies. Brutal summers and giant mosquitoes had driven the moviemakers away, leaving palm tree lined streets and scores of Art Deco homes.
I crossed the Hollywood Bridge, the historic Hollywood Beach Hotel directly in my path. Exiting the bridge, I drove a hundred yards on A1A, and turned down a side street where the elevated parking garage was located. The garage was four stories high and self-service. A perfect place to hide out for a few hours, or even a day.
I parked on the street and got out with Buster. A policeman’s bicycle was parked by the garage’s first floor. As my dog sniffed its tires, I looked for its owner. The first floor of the garage was filled with cars, yet quiet. I guessed their owners were on the beach getting turned radioactive by the sun.
“Help me.”
The voice came from somewhere inside the garage. Buster’s hackles rose.
“Please, somebody help me.”
I wanted to go in, but I knew better. It could be a trap. Taking out my cell phone, I called Linderman’s cell, and heard him answer on the first ring.
“I’m at the parking garage in Hollywood,” I said. “Where are you?”
“I’m still stuck in traffic. Did you find anything?” the FBI agent asked.
“There might be a policeman down, but I can’t be sure. I need you to call the Hollywood police and ask them the name of the bicycle cop they sent over to investigate the old lady’s complaint.”
“Hold on.”
I heard the click-click sound of Linderman putting me on hold. I’d worked with the Hollywood bicycle cops on occasion, and found them an athletic, fun-loving group of guys. Most of the calls they handled were drunks disturbing the peace, and rarely anything serious. I found myself fearing for the poor officer who’d