The Night Stalker_ A Novel of Suspense - James Swain [22]
Cheeks got on the horn and called Broward’s three major theme parks. He spoke with their human resources departments, and using a threatening tone, obtained the names of each employee in security and their Social Security numbers, which he passed on to me.
“This is too easy,” he said.
“No one wants a pervert working for them,” I said.
Sitting at his computer, I accessed the sheriff’s department’s sexual predator website, which contained files of every known sexual predator in the United States. Entering each name and Social Security number into the search engine, I looked for a match.
On the twentieth name, I got a hit.
“Busted!” I said.
Cheeks came around to where I was sitting, and stared at the screen. The pervert’s name was Lonnie Lowman, and he had surfer-white blond hair and bedroom eyes. His charming good looks had no doubt attracted a sixteen-year-old girl in Seattle, who’d willingly gone to his home one weekend, before being held captive and molested. In the mug shot, Lowman was still glowing from his conquest.
I went through his file. Lowman had done three years in prison, and been paroled for good behavior. Part of his release had required him to register himself as a sexual predator at his new address. Lowman hadn’t done that. Instead, he’d traveled three thousand miles across the country and set up shop in Fort Lauderdale.
“Where does Lowman work?” I asked.
“Wet and Wonderful,” Cheeks said.
“That figures,” I said.
“How do you mean?”
“All of the kids are in bathing suits.”
Florida hadn’t invented theme parks, but it had certainly made them popular. There were theme parks devoted to cartoon mice, old movie studios, the Bible, and underwater dancing mermaids. The theme park where Lowman worked was called Wet & Wonderful, and featured hair-raising water rides for kids and the world’s largest swimming pool.
It was a gorgeous day and the park was jammed. As we crossed the parking lot, I tried to determine which was louder—the deafening roar of traffic on nearby I-95, or the high-pitched screams of kids riding the wave machines.
The park’s business office was attached to the ticket office. Cheeks showed his badge to a cashier, and we were ushered into a reception area. We declined coffee and did not take the chairs we were offered.
Soon the park’s female general manager appeared. She had a bluetooth stuck in her ear, a cell phone in one hand, and a walkie-talkie in the other. I wanted to ask her if she juggled, but didn’t think it was the right time for a joke.
“How can I help you gentlemen?” she asked.
“We need to speak to an employee named Lonnie Lowman,” Cheeks said. “I believe he works in your security department.”
“May I ask what this is about?”
“We’d like to question him in regard to an ongoing criminal investigation,” Cheeks said, making it as vague as possible.
The GM lifted the walkie-talkie to her face. Before she could radio Lowman, I stopped her.
“Please don’t do that,” I said.
“Excuse me?” the GM replied.
“Tell us where Lowman works, and we’ll go talk with him.”
A wall of resolution rose in the GM’s face. “I’d prefer to bring Lowman here, and have you question him in my office. I have the park’s reputation to think of, not to mention the traumatizing effect an arrest might have on the children in the park.”
“Lonnie Lowman is a convicted sexual predator,” Cheeks said. “Had your human resources department done a proper background check, you’d never have hired him. Tell us where he is, or I’ll drag your ass down to the station as well.”
Broward cops were required to take annual sensitivity training. It was obvious Cheeks had been sleeping through the classes. The GM led us outside, and pointed at an aqua blue trailer sitting behind a water slide on the opposite side of the park.
“He’s in there,” she said.
Back when I was a cop, I’d helped