The Night Monster_ A Novel of Suspense - James Swain [90]
Linderman seemed comfortable with my theory and leaned back in his seat. From the pocket of his windbreaker he removed a small package wrapped in aluminum foil. He opened the package and passed me several oatmeal cookies.
“Muriel make these?” I asked.
He nodded while he chewed. I bit into one and tasted raisins. Buster popped his head between the seats, not to be left out. Soon the cookies were a memory.
“What do you think the sheriff is doing?” Linderman asked.
“He might be running a prostitution ring, or selling moonshine. Or he’s holding dog fights on weekends. Or it could be worse.”
“Drug trafficking?”
“That’s a possibility. In the old days, drug traffickers brought their shipments in by boat, but the DEA got wise to them. The traffickers switched to small airplanes, and started landing in towns in remote parts of the state.”
“So he could be involved with one of the cartels?”
“It’s a possibility.”
“If that’s the case, there are probably other people in Chatham who are involved,” Linderman said. “We could be stepping into a hornet’s nest.”
I stared at the empty interstate. I had been so focused on rescuing Sara that I hadn’t considered all the risks. Linderman took out his cell phone and fiddled with the keypad in the dark.
“Who are you calling?” I asked.
“The director of the Jacksonville office of the FBI,” Linderman said. “I’m sure he’d be happy to send some agents over to Chatham to back us up, if we need them.”
I found myself nodding. I had been in tight spots with Linderman before, and had even seen him kill a man. Linderman wasn’t afraid of danger, or putting himself in harm’s way. Like me, he didn’t believe in backing down.
I’d chosen the right person to bring along.
CHAPTER 45
he town of Chatham was pitch dark when we arrived on its narrow streets. Like many small towns in Florida, it had seen better days. The main street was lined with potholes, and many of the storefronts needed a face-lift. The info on the web had said there were several cheap motels, but I couldn’t find any of them.
I drove back to the highway, and found a place to stay. It was called The Florida Inn, and was built to resemble a log cabin. A light shone inside the manager’s office.
My car’s tires crunched the pebble driveway. Linderman put down his pencil and looked up from his notebook. He carried the notebook with him whenever he went on a trip. It was small and black, and had a pencil stuck in the spiral binding. I didn’t know if it was for work, or if he kept a journal. I didn’t think it was my place to ask.
I took Buster for a quick walk around the grounds. Only two cars were parked in front of the rental units. I put my dog back in the car and went inside.
The night manager was watching TV behind the counter. He sprang out of his swivel chair, his watery eyes filled with suspicion. He wore his hair long, and had a metal hook sticking out of the sleeve of his shirt that made him look like a pirate.
“Didn’t hear you come in. Can I help ya?” the manager asked.
“I need a room. My buddy and I have been driving all night,” I said.
He flipped open the register. “Where you from?”
“I’m from Fort Lauderdale. My buddy’s from Miami.”
“You don’t say. What brings you to Chatham?”
“We heard the fishing’s good up here.”
“Depends who you ask. Some people think it’s better in the next county.”
It was the worst damn sales pitch I’d ever heard. I said, “We’ll have to check it out tomorrow, and see where they’re biting. You have any rooms?”
“Yeah, we got rooms. But we don’t take dogs.”
I looked at his chair behind the counter. There was no way he could have seen me walking Buster from his vantage point. Which meant he’d been watching me from the window, then slipped back into his chair when he’d realized I was coming inside.
“My dog isn’t staying in the room,” I said.
“Then where’s he gonna stay?