The Night Stalker_ A Novel of Suspense - James Swain [30]
“Yeah,” Sampson said.
“I want to talk to the man you’re with,” I said.
A car horn honked in the background, followed by the sound of another airplane. I guessed they were calling from a pay phone near the Hollywood/Fort Lauderdale airport. The airport was isolated, and did not have many retail stores nearby.
“I’m back,” Pepe said.
“I want you to release the boy,” I said.
“Fat chance, brother.”
“You’re getting paid to hold the boy by his kidnapper,” I said. “Let him go, and I’ll pay you more.”
Pepe laughed derisively. “I’ve heard about your deals. No thanks.”
Pepe dropped the phone, and I heard it bang against a wall. Then I heard a car pull away, its muffler rattling loudly. There was a convenience store on Griffin Road by the airport that had a bank of pay phones outside the store. It was only a minute away. I pulled onto the highway’s shoulder and hit the gas. Pepe sounded smart, and I didn’t think he’d speed away, arousing suspicion. With any luck, I’d catch him.
I drove with my eyes peeled to the oncoming traffic, looking for a car with a dying muffler. At the convenience store on Griffin Road I slowed to stare at the pay phones on the side of the building. One was off the hook.
I raced down Griffin Road toward I-95. I’ve always been good at putting myself in a criminal’s shoes, and anticipating how they were going to act. I decided that Pepe had gotten onto I-95, and headed north into Fort Lauderdale.
Traffic on I-95 was the usual mix of blue hairs doing thirty and crazy Cubans trying to break the sound barrier. I got into the left lane, and pushed the Legend up to ninety. Soon I saw a tail of black exhaust ahead of me. I stuck my head out my window, and heard Pepe’s car.
I drew my Colt from my pocket, and laid it on my lap. The car was a few hundred yards ahead, a black Chevy Impala with no plates driving in the center lane. In most parts of the state, driving without license plates would get you pulled over. In South Florida, it was a way of life.
I got behind the car and slowed down. Two men occupied the front seat. Lonnie Lowman had said that Sampson was being held by a pair of drug enforcers. I didn’t see Sampson, and guessed he was either strapped down in the backseat or stowed in the trunk.
I dialed 911. My call was answered by an automated police operator. I saw the Chevy speed up, and I got back into the left lane. I needed to get a good look at the driver, and pass his description to the police.
As I got close to the Chevy, the driver jerked his head. Young, Hispanic, and missing several front teeth. His eyes grew wide, and I realized I’d been made.
The driver shouted to his partner. His partner grabbed a handgun off the floor, and climbed into the driver’s lap. I wasn’t going to get into a shooting match with him, and risk harming Sampson. I hit my brakes, and let the Chevy get ahead of me.
I stayed a hundred yards back. The guy with the gun lowered the passenger window, and stuck his weapon out. Overweight and in his forties, he was the opposite of his partner. I thought he was going to shoot at me, but that wasn’t what he had in mind.
Instead, he aimed at the minivan in the lane next to him. It was filled with kids, the woman driver on her cell phone, oblivious to what was going on.
Then he looked at me.
I instantly understood. If I didn’t back off, he was going to shoot the woman and kill her, and probably all the kids as well. I couldn’t be responsible for so many innocent people dying, and flashed my brights while slowing my car. He grinned.
The Chevy speeded up, and was soon a memory. I heard a voice on my cell phone.
“Broward County police. Do you have an emergency?”
I told the operator what had happened while getting off the interstate.
I pulled into the convenience store on Griffin Road and went inside. It was a squat, one-story building, the windows plastered with ads for the Florida Lottery. A surveillance camera hung over the door. I asked the manager if it worked.
“Naw.”
I inspected the bank of pay phones