No Good Deed, page 4
part #2 of Lancaster & Daniels Series
“Did the paper run a follow-up story, and clear the sheriff?”
“We’re still waiting for that one.”
“I’m guessing Daniels didn’t apologize.”
“When hell freezes over. Let’s go.”
Ersatz pop music serenaded them as they walked through the mall to the GNC store, where the manager waited for them by the checkout. He had a shaved head and wore a tight-fitting polo shirt emblazoned with the store logo.
“We need to see your surveillance tapes from four days ago,” Stahl said. “Are they located on premises, or do you work with an outside security company?”
“The surveillance tapes are on a computer in the back room,” the manager said. “Can I ask what you’re looking for? I might be able to help you.”
“We think a lady named Elsie Tanner was in your store, buying supplements.”
“That’s the woman who was murdered,” the manager said.
“That’s right. Did you happen to see her?”
“I think so. She was a regular customer. Nice lady. I hope you solve this thing soon. We’ve hardly had any customers, and this is usually a busy time of year for us.”
They went down an aisle stocked with vitamins and supplements that promised to make their users bigger and stronger. The back room was for storage and had cardboard boxes piled to the ceiling and a desk with a computer, which the manager booted up.
“What time of day would you like to see?” the manager asked.
Stahl showed him the sales receipt. “That time.”
“Gotcha. I’ll pull up the video taken on the camera at the checkout.”
The manager worked the computer in slow motion. His forte was obviously sales, and Lancaster leaned against the wall to wait.
“What can you tell me about Elsie?” Stahl asked.
“She came in every few weeks, was always pleasant to deal with,” the manager said. “Pretty smart too. She could talk about any subject.”
“Did she ever mention any problems?”
“Not to me. Several of my customers knew her. She was well liked. Here’s the tape you’re looking for. Wait, I think that’s Elsie. Have a look.”
Most retail stores used security cameras to prevent theft, and these systems ranged from ultrasophisticated to cheesy. GNC’s system was first rate, and the image on the screen was sharp. Elsie Tanner stood at checkout with a tub of supplements tucked under her arm. She paid with cash and made a point of counting out her change.
The manager chuckled under his breath. “Elsie was a stickler about her change. One time, the cashier shorted her a few pennies, and she raised a real ruckus.”
Lancaster tuned the manager out and watched Elsie leave the store. If his hunch was correct, her killer had also been in the store, or in the mall, or in the parking lot, and had followed her home. If his hunch was wrong, and Elsie’s assailant hadn’t been in any of those places, then he was doing a fine job of wasting everyone’s time.
Several seconds passed. A large man wearing a cowboy hat entered the picture. He sported a Fu Manchu mustache and thick sideburns, and was dressed in black like a gunslinger in a spaghetti western. He did not buy anything and also left the store.
“Who’s that guy?” Stahl asked.
“Looks like Black Bart,” the manager said.
“Come again?”
“A gentleman bandit from the Wild West named Charles Boles, used to leave poetry behind after his robberies,” the manager explained. “I read a book about him in high school. That guy could be his twin brother.”
“Let’s take a look at him again.”
The manager rewound the tape and found Black Bart. He was big and wide and had a pack of smokes tucked in his shirt pocket. Lancaster shot Stahl a glance. He wanted to ask the manager some questions, but didn’t want to overstep.
“What are you thinking, Jon?” Stahl asked.
“Black Bart looks out of place,” he said. “He didn’t buy anything, and he smokes.” The deputy shook his head, not making the connection. It was the opening he needed, and to the manager, he said, “Do many of your customers smoke cigarettes?”
“Our customers don’t smoke. They’re health nuts,” the manager said.
“What kind of person comes into your store?”
“We get a lot of athletes who are looking for an edge. And people who are health conscious. Those are our two main groups.”
“Which group would Black Bart fall into?”
“Neither. He looks like a one-timer. One-timers never buy anything.”
A smoker wearing cowboy clothes in a health and nutrition store with a woman who would get murdered an hour later. Either it was a coincidence, or they’d found their man.
“I need you to print copies of Black Bart’s photo for us,” he said.
The manager typed a command. A printer hidden by boxes started to whir.
“Does the mall monitor the parking lot?” he asked Stahl.
“Twenty-four seven,” the deputy said. “The system is housed in the security offices. It’s a pretty sophisticated operation.”
“I need you to take me there,” he said. “I want to see if Black Bart followed Elsie to the parking lot. If he did, there will be a film of it. If we’re lucky, we might be able to read the license plate on his vehicle, and find out who he is.”
The manager brought them the copies of Black Bart’s photo.
“I hope you solve this,” the manager said. “Elsie was good people.”
CHAPTER 6
The mall was closing, the stores rolling down their security grilles. Together, they jogged to the security offices by the north entrance. The mall had a number of modern features to deal with terrorists and active shooters, including bomb-proof trash cans and bulletproof security cameras, and Lancaster hoped the surveillance videos of the parking lot weren’t the usual Twilight Zone variety, but were instead high quality.
While he ran, he studied the photo clutched in his hand. Black Bart’s legs were pencil thin, and grossly underdeveloped compared to the rest of his body. The man looked deformed, and would not be difficult to track down.
They were in luck. The security office remained open until the last employee went home. Two uniformed male guards sat in front of a wall of video monitors that rotated between surveillance cameras inside the mall and those out in the parking lot.
Stahl made the introductions. The guards were retired cops and very friendly. The thin one was named Woody, his partner Chase.
“You’re working late tonight,” Woody said.
“We caught a break in the Elsie Tanner case,” Stahl said. “Elsie was at the GNC store four days ago, and a guy who was also in the store may have followed her outside and tailed her home. We need to see the surveillance tapes of Elsie going to her car. Hopefully, this guy will be on them, and we’ll be able to make out the car he’s driving.”
“What’s our suspect look like?” Woody asked.
Stahl handed him a photo of Black Bart. “Ever see this joker before?”
The guards studied the photo. They both shook their heads.
“That’s some hat,” Woody said. “Shouldn’t be too hard to find him. What time did this take place?”
“Elsie made her purchase at the GNC store at 3:56, then left. Let’s start there,” Stahl said.
Woody and Chase began typing in commands. They were wizards on their keyboards, and surveillance videos from four days ago lit up the monitors. Not that long ago, mall security guards had been as skilled as school crossing guards. Times had changed; today, they were soldiers on the front line, and trained in everything from computer science to emergency preparedness.
“Found him,” Woody said. “He’s on monitor number one. Take a look.”
The video was in the upper left-hand corner of the matrix. The camera was fixed, and recording the common area in front of the GNC store. The mall was busy, and they watched Elsie sift through the crowd with Black Bart trailing a few steps behind her. She crossed the common area and entered a Hallmark gift shop.
Black Bart sat down on a bench outside the store. He took out his pack of smokes and removed a cigarette, which he placed between his lips. He was about to light up when he seemed to remember where he was. He put the cigarette back into the pack and returned the pack and lighter to his pocket.
“That didn’t look like a regular cigarette,” Lancaster said. “Can you play it back again? I’d like to see what he was smoking.”
The tape was rewound and played again. At the point where Black Bart placed the cigarette into his mouth, Woody froze the frame. Lancaster leaned in for a better look. It was a normal cigarette, only it had been previously smoked, with a charred tip.
“That cigarette’s been smoked before,” Woody said. “Who the hell saves cigarettes, and smokes them again?”
“Guys in prison,” Lancaster said.
Woody looked over his shoulder. So did Chase. Stahl eyed him as well.
“You think he’s an ex-con?” Stahl asked.
Florida had over two million residents who’d done time in prison. It wasn’t a stretch to think that Black Bart might be one of them.
“Probably,” he said.
“How does that play into this?” Stahl asked.
“I don’t know,” he said.
Black Bart rose from the bench and went to a quiet spot to take an incoming call. He continued to watch the front of the Hallmark store while carrying on his conversation. He appeared agitated, and gestured angrily with his hand while speaking.
“Maybe it’s his wife,” Woody said.
“Or his girlfriend,” Chase said.
“It’s more likely his partner,” Lancaster said.
The three men again gave him puzzled looks.
“Working off the assumption that this guy is planning to kidnap Elsie, he would let a call from a lady friend go to voice mail,” he said. “Not so if the call was from his partner. He would take that call, because it was pertinent to what he was doing.”
“What’s the partner’s role?” Stahl asked.
“His partner is probably the driver.”
“Why do you think that?”
“His partner isn’t inside the mall, because we haven’t seen him on the video,” he said. “That means he’s probably circling the parking lot, waiting for Black Bart to call him.” He paused. “These are just guesses. I could be wrong.”
“It would explain a lot,” Stahl said.
Lancaster looked at the deputy, not understanding.
“There are aspects of Skye’s kidnapping that don’t add up,” Stahl said. “Skye worked out at CrossFit and was into mixed martial arts. We couldn’t understand how the kidnapper subdued her so easily. According to a neighbor down the road, they heard Skye scream, but only once.” He paused to let that sink in. “If there were two kidnappers, it would explain how they got Skye out of there so quickly.”
The crime report had given the same account. Skye had emitted a single scream, then gone silent. He had read that line in the report twice. It was why he was here.
“He’s finishing his call,” Woody said.
On the monitor, Black Bart was wrapping up his call. He wore a frown, and was not pleased at how the conversation had gone.
Elsie emerged from the Hallmark store and headed down the mall. By changing camera feeds, Woody was able to follow her. She window-shopped at Banana Republic and queued up at Starbucks. Black Bart stood a safe distance away, watching her.
Coffee in hand, Elsie headed for the exit on the building’s south side. Black Bart gave chase while making a call. His steps were quick, as if he were afraid of losing her. Elsie went outside, and Black Bart followed her.
The video stopped. Lancaster could feel his heart pounding in his chest.
“Let me retrieve the outside surveillance video,” Woody said. “It’s on a different platform, so this will take a second.”
“Think he’s calling his partner in the car?” Stahl asked.
“That’s exactly what I’m thinking,” Lancaster said.
“Got it. Here we go,” Woody said.
The parking lot surveillance video began to play. The time stamp said 4:14. The sidewalk was wide and choking with people. Elsie sifted through the throng and made her way to her vehicle. Black Bart remained on the sidewalk, his cell phone pressed to his ear. His cowboy hat made him easy to spot in the crowd.
Elsie got into a Prius and backed out. The parking lot was full, and several drivers were vying to claim her spot. She left the lot at a crawl.
A midnight-black Chrysler 300 SRT pulled up to the sidewalk. The car was a favorite among criminals, with a cheap luxury feel, but dialed down enough to go unnoticed. It also had a Hemi V-8 engine that could produce over 470 horsepower.
The driver jumped out, and let Black Bart take the wheel. The driver ran around to the passenger side and hopped in. He looked to be in his midforties, and wore a baseball cap with the rim pulled down—an attempt to keep his face hidden.
It didn’t work. Just as the passenger door closed, his face became visible. It lasted no more than a second. Just long enough for Lancaster to recognize him.
The Chrysler took off. The Prius was sitting at a traffic light, trying to leave. The Chrysler came up behind it. The light changed, and together they drove away.
“Let’s see if we can get a read on the Chrysler’s license,” Stahl said.
Woody replayed the video. The back end of the Chrysler was never visible to the camera, and they could not make the plate.
“I need a copy of this video,” Stahl said. “My boss needs to see this.”
Woody made a copy and emailed it to the deputy. Stahl thanked the two guards for their help, and he and Lancaster left the mall. They didn’t speak again until they were in the deputy’s car.
“You got real quiet back there. Is something wrong?” Stahl asked.
He looked at the raindrops on the windshield and said nothing. Stahl had picked up on his anxiety, and stared at his passenger with murderous intensity.
“I said, is something wrong?”
He shook his head but avoided making eye contact. Telling Stahl the truth would only make the situation worse. He decided it was time to end the conversation.
“You need to share the video with the FBI,” he said.
“Like hell I will,” Stahl said, now on the defensive.
“That’s a mistake. The FBI agents know what they’re doing, even if they are jerks.”
“I’ll be the judge of that.”
“It’s withholding evidence.”
“Screw you.”
Stahl was steaming, and he drove Lancaster back to the District III parking lot without another word being spoken between the two men.
Lancaster’s head felt ready to explode. Getting into his car, he drove up the street to a Key West–themed restaurant called Ballyhoo, and parked in the lot. The skies had opened, and the rain was coming down so hard that he couldn’t hear himself think. Logan had been gone for twenty-five years, and yet it felt like he’d never left. Balling his hands into fists, he pounded the steering wheel.
“You stupid son of a bitch,” he roared.
CHAPTER 7
He only stopped when his hands were sore.
He needed to track Logan down before the police found him. His brother was garbage, but that didn’t mean he was going to throw him to the wolves.
He checked out the nearby hotels with his cell phone, and made a reservation at the Holiday Inn Express in nearby Oldsmar. Forty-five minutes later, he checked into his room, and placed a bag of takeout on the bed, then used the hotel Wi-Fi to get on the internet on his Team Adam laptop. He munched on flatbread while doing his search.
His first stop was the Florida Department of Corrections Offender Network website. Florida’s prisons housed more than one hundred thousand inmates, and the FDC Offender Network was the easiest way to keep tabs on them. He typed in his brother’s full name and ID number, which was Logan’s birth date, shortened to six numbers. He clicked the “Submit” button, then leaned back in his chair to wait.
He tried to remember the last time he’d seen Logan. It was right before he’d gone into the military, twenty-two years ago. He’d borrowed his father’s car and left at three in the morning so he could be there when the prison opened. Logan had been housed in Raiford with murderers and rapists, and the armed guards and oppressive razor wire fencing had scared the hell out of him.
He’d waited in the visitors’ room for his brother. When Logan finally shuffled in, he’d been handcuffed and wearing leg shackles. His cocky attitude was gone, replaced by a withering sneer. Instead of saying hello, he’d grunted.
The reunion had gone downhill from there. Logan didn’t show any interest in his enlistment, nor did he acknowledge the money their parents sent to his account at the prison canteen each month so he could purchase snacks and cigarettes. All Logan had wanted to talk about was the trial, and why Jon hadn’t testified in his defense.
Thinking about the conversation made him uncomfortable. Logan had wanted him to lie, to say that he was at home with Jon watching TV during the robbery. But that wasn’t true. Logan had come into the house and demanded that Jon get his father’s handgun from the gun box. Then Logan had gone off with his friends and driven the getaway car for the heist. That was what Jon had told the police, and he wasn’t going to change his story on the witness stand.
The visit had ended on a bad note. Logan had called him a fucking rat, and shuffled out of the room. It was all he could do not to cry.
Logan’s file appeared on his laptop. It included his brother’s headshot and details of incarceration, including date of parole, and the name of his parole officer, which he scribbled on a notepad. Prison had robbed Logan of his looks, and most of his hair. But the withering sneer was still there. Like the world owed him a favor.
Next stop on the site was the Supervised Population Information Search, also called SPIS. SPIS kept tabs on every inmate released on parole, of which there were many. He entered his brother’s name, DC number, and the terms of the parole, which was probation felony supervision. Then he hit “Enter.”
