No Good Deed, page 5
part #2 of Lancaster & Daniels Series
The information was slow to load. He finished the flatbread and washed it down with iced tea. Some things never changed. Logan had driven the car in the botched convenience store robbery that had gotten him sent to prison, and now he was driving for the guy who’d murdered Elsie Tanner and kidnapped her granddaughter. Hadn’t twenty-five years in the joint taught him anything?
The information appeared. Logan’s parole officer was named Ricky Dixon, and he worked out of the Tampa office. He was making progress, and he closed his laptop, weighing his next step. He couldn’t just call Dixon and ask him where Logan was living. He needed to be circumspect so as not to raise suspicion.
He’d kept in contact with dozens of law enforcement officers after retiring. Mike Andon with the Florida Department of Law Enforcement’s missing persons division in Central Florida was a friend, and he gave him a call.
“Hey, Jon. It’s been too long. How you been?” Andon answered.
“Keeping busy. How about you?” Lancaster replied.
“Just finished an undercover job. A Tampa real estate agent got tied to a cold case murder. I spent a week pretending to be a cleaning man, so I could go through his garbage. I found a soda can with his saliva, and we matched it to the old DNA.”
“Did you bust him?”
“That happens bright and early tomorrow morning. Just so we can ruin his day. And all the days following. So what can I do for you?”
“I need you to call a parole officer named Ricky Dixon, and get the address for a parolee. Dixon works out of the parole office on North Florida Avenue in Tampa. I need you to leave my name out of this.”
“Why’s that?”
“Because the parolee is my brother, Logan Lancaster. Logan got paroled two months ago from Raiford. I need to talk with him.”
“Is your brother in hot water?”
“Logan was spotted on a surveillance video at the Citrus Park Mall with a suspect in the murder of a lady named Elsie Tanner, and the kidnapping of her granddaughter. You probably saw it in the news.”
“Your brother was involved in that? That’s heavy, Jon.”
“I know. Just so we’re clear, I plan to turn Logan over to the sheriff after I talk with him. If Logan goes back to prison, so be it.”
“No love lost, huh?”
“Logan got paroled two months ago, and never called me. We’re not close.”
“What story do I tell Ricky Dixon?”
He gave it some thought. He didn’t want Andon to get any blowback. Logan was an accomplice to murder and kidnapping, and might not go willingly to see the sheriff. If Ricky Dixon heard about it, he might think Andon had played him.
“Tell Dixon that an agent with Team Adam contacted you, and said that Logan might have information about a kidnapping, and that you need Logan’s address so the agent can talk to him,” he said. “All of those statements are true. Just leave me out of it.”
“How soon do you need this?”
“Tonight.”
The line went silent. It was late, and Andon was probably ready to hit the sack after they hung up.
“I’ll make it worth your while,” he added. “A Hollywood studio is making a movie about me. I’ll get you a part as an extra. What do you say?”
“You can really get me a part in a movie?” Andon asked, sounding starstruck.
“You bet I can.”
“Can it be a speaking part? I just want a line or two.”
“The studio sent me a shooting script the other day. There’s a part for an undercover cop with a few lines. You’ll be a natural.”
“My kids are going to go nuts when I tell them,” Andon said excitedly. “Let me track Ricky Dixon down and get your brother’s address. Call you right back.”
He bought a diet soda from a vending machine in an alcove outside his room. He was a producer on the movie being made about his life, and planned to leverage it to the hilt. Back in his room, he was channel surfing when Andon called back.
“You work fast,” he said.
“Ricky Dixon is a lady, and she was more than happy to help,” Andon said. “Your brother is staying at the Jayhawk Motel on Nebraska Avenue. It’s not far from Dixon’s office. She said a lot of parolees stay there when they first get out.”
“Thanks, Mike.”
“Just so you know, that’s a scummy part of town. Half the homicides in Tampa took place there last year.”
“Sounds like my kind of place. I appreciate the warning.”
“When does the movie start shooting?”
“This summer. I’ll email you all the details.”
“Can’t wait.”
He went to his car while googling the Jayhawk Motel on his cell phone. The reviews were less than stellar. “Dirty rooms crackheads and whores.” “Don’t waste your money.” “Wish I could give them no stars.” He decided to take Andon’s warning to heart, and popped his trunk. In the space for the spare tire was a plastic box lined with carpet that contained a tactical shotgun and several special handguns.
The latest addition was a GLOCK 17 9mm handgun. It was made of synthetic materials and nearly indestructible, and the seventeen-round magazine was also a plus. He got into his car, and slipped the GLOCK beneath his seat.
As he started the engine, he realized his hand was shaking. Logan had been a messed-up teenager, and he could only imagine his current state of mind. He asked Google for directions to the Jayhawk, and learned the trip would take thirty minutes.
An automated voice directed him to the expressway. Staring at the highway, he imagined seeing his brother again. They’d been best buddies as kids, and perhaps the euphoric recall would erase the ill feelings from later on.
He was kidding himself. Logan hated him for the betrayal, and Lancaster hated his brother for destroying their family. It wasn’t going to be pleasant, and he didn’t think it was unreasonable that they might end up wrestling on the floor.
So help me God, he thought.
CHAPTER 8
Nebraska Avenue had more slime than the beach at low tide, the street teeming with dealers and streetwalkers. The strip clubs were housed in windowless buildings that could have been bomb shelters, while the pawnshops were open all night.
Following Google’s instructions, Lancaster turned into the parking lot for a joint called All Night Long. The Jayhawk Motel was nowhere to be found, and he realized he was lost.
A lady of negotiable affections sauntered over to his car, and he lowered his window.
“Hey, sugar.”
“Good evening. I could use some help,” he said.
“You came to the right place. What’s your name?”
“Jon.”
“How novel. I’m Chantelle. Nice to meet you.”
“I’m looking for the Jayhawk. My GPS said it was around here.”
“The Jayhawk’s not far. Want me to hop in? I can show you the way.”
“No thanks, officer. I just need directions.”
Her playful manner evaporated. He’d worked stings as a cop, so he knew that she was wired, and that a surveillance camera was recording them from a van in the lot, the video to later be used in court after she busted him for attempted solicitation.
“I’m not a cop,” she said stiffly.
“Oh yes, you are. Your smile gave you away.”
She shook her head and played dumb.
“You have all your teeth,” he said.
“Is that supposed to be a joke?”
“No, ma’am, it’s an observation. You’re also not strung out on drugs. I was a detective, and ran in my share of streetwalkers. They were all high on something.”
“Well, aren’t you a fund of useful information. Anything else?”
“Your necklace.”
“What about it?”
“It looks real. Most streetwalkers don’t wear jewelry. If they do, it’s fake.”
“I’ll remember that. The Jayhawk is on the next block, same side of the street.”
“Much obliged. Can I make one more comment?”
“Save it,” she said, and walked away.
As promised, the Jayhawk was on the very next block. The marquee advertised XXX FILMS, CABLE TV, DAILY & WEEKLY RATES. He counted eight vehicles in the lot, but didn’t spot the sedan Logan had been driving at the Citrus Park Mall. Removing the GLOCK from beneath his seat, he slid it into his pants pocket and got out of his car.
The night manager buzzed him into the office. He had a blond ponytail and bloodshot eyes. Lancaster flashed his old detective’s badge, which the sheriff’s department had given him in a shadowbox when he’d retired. “I’m looking for a guy named Logan Lancaster. His parole officer told me he was staying in your motel.”
“I talked to Logan a half hour ago,” the night manager said. “Came into the office needing a pack of matches. He’s in room sixteen.”
“Which car is his?”
“Doesn’t have a car, at least not one that I’m aware of.”
“Logan has a friend, a guy with a mustache and sideburns. Is he here as well?”
“I don’t know about any friend.”
“You smell like weed. Did you sell Logan some dope?”
The night manager looked like he might cry. “Yeah.”
“What’s your name?”
“Richard. My friends call me Skip.”
“How much did you sell him, Skip?”
“A couple of joints. You’re not going to bust me, are you?”
A couple of joints would get Skip the equivalent of a parking ticket. But the laws were harsh for repeat offenders, and he guessed that Skip had gotten busted before, and would go down hard for a second arrest.
“Not if you cooperate,” he said.
“What do you want me to do?”
“Get Logan to open the door to his room without looking suspicious.”
“How the hell am I going to do that?”
“You’ll tell him he got a delivery. Do the doors to your rooms have peepholes?”
“Yeah, they have peepholes.”
“Good. I need an envelope. And a pen.”
Skip produced a manila envelope and a magic marker, which he put on the counter. Lancaster wrote his brother’s name in big, bold letters in the center of the envelope. Below his brother’s name he wrote Jayhawk Motel, and below that, the motel’s address. In the upper left-hand corner he wrote the name of his brother’s parole officer, Ricky Dixon, also in big, bold letters. Finished, he handed the envelope to Skip.
“Here’s the plan. We’re going to pay a visit to Logan’s room, and you’re going to knock on the door, and then you’re going to identify yourself,” he said. “When Logan comes to the door, hold the envelope up to the peephole, and tell him a courier delivered it to your office. Can you remember that?”
“I’ll remember. What happens then?”
“When Logan opens the door, I’ll take over.”
“This sounds tricky.”
“Don’t worry, I’ve got your back. Let’s go.”
The parking lot was unlit, and their muffled footsteps were drowned out by the traffic on Nebraska. Logan’s room was at the end of the row, and the curtain was drawn across the window. Skip stood in front of the door and spent a moment getting his courage up. Lancaster stood with his back to the wall by the door, out of the peephole’s range. He drew his gun, then motioned with his other hand for Skip to knock.
Skip rapped on the door. “Hey, Logan, it’s Skip. A guy came by with a delivery, asked me to give it to you.”
The door cracked open. Lancaster pressed his back to the wall.
“What the fuck are you talking about?” his brother asked.
Skip played it cool, and held the envelope up. “It’s for you.”
“Fuck. It’s from my parole officer. What does that stupid bitch want?”
“I don’t know, man.”
“Did a cop deliver it?”
“Some kid on a motorbike,” he said.
“Fuck. All right, give it to me. You got any more doobie?”
“Yeah, back in the office.”
“Can I buy another joint off you? It’s the only way I can sleep.”
“Sure. No problem.”
The door opened wide, and Logan stuck his hand out. Lancaster peeled himself off the wall and stepped between the two men, aiming the gun at Logan’s forehead as he did. Logan’s eyes went wide, and he raised his arms without having to be told.
“Back up,” Lancaster said.
He followed Logan into the room and shut the door with his heel. Logan wore nothing but a pair of Jockeys, his body hairless. From the waist up, he was built like a gladiator, with bulging biceps and monster shoulders. Below the waist, he looked like a poster boy for a rare disease, his legs thin and underdeveloped. Guys in prison who lifted weights rarely exercised their leg muscles, focusing instead on what they saw in the mirror, and he thought back to Black Bart, who had a similar physique.
“Remember me?” he asked.
“No. Should I?” Logan replied.
Something inside of him snapped. Their parents had died on the same night, in the same hospital, victims of a head-on crash. He’d been with both of them as they’d passed. Each had expressed sorrow for what had happened to their oldest son, as if blaming themselves for the litany of bad things he’d done. They’d both died worrying about Logan, and that worry had been passed on to him. Whenever he thought of his brother, be it his brother’s birthday, or on Christmas, or some other important date, the thought was filled with pain, and left him feeling depressed. He often wondered if his brother had thought about him on those dates. Probably not.
“It’s Jon,” he said. “Your brother.”
The words sparked a flicker of recognition. Logan lowered his arms and grinned. The marijuana he’d been smoking took over, and he let out a cruel laugh.
“Well, look at you. The little fat boy, all grown up.”
They’d been together five minutes, and his brother was already insulting him. Some things never changed. He tossed the GLOCK into his left hand and made a fist.
“Take your best shot,” his brother said with a sneer.
Moments later, he lay motionless on the floor.
CHAPTER 9
Lancaster checked the room. He would have bet good money that Logan had a gun, but he didn’t find one. But he did find something strange instead. On the night table was a glossy brochure for a brand-new real estate development in Sarasota. His brother had circled one of the model houses with a pen—the house had a $300,000 price tag.
Logan lay on his back on the floor and stared at the ceiling. His eyes were swimming in his head, and he rubbed his jaw. He acted more surprised than hurt.
“Where the hell did you learn to punch like that?”
“In the navy.”
“Man, you should have warned me.”
“Shut up.”
His brother’s cell phone lay on the unmade bed. A call was in progress, and he realized that Logan had been talking to someone when Skip had knocked.
“Hello?” he said into the phone.
Silence. He looked at the number on the screen. It had an 813 area code, which was for the Tampa Bay area.
“Hello?” he said again.
The person on the other end hung up. He slipped the phone into his pocket and glanced down at his brother. There was blood in Logan’s mouth, the sight of which made him wince. He grabbed the room’s only chair and sat in it.
“You and I need to talk,” he said.
Logan pulled himself off the floor and sat on the edge of the bed. They spent an uncomfortable moment appraising each other.
“Did you start lifting weights or something?” his brother asked.
“Why does that matter?”
“Because you were always a wimp. We fought when we were growing up, and you never won.” Logan laughed at the memory. “When you came to the prison and said you were joining the navy, I figured you’d wash out for sure. Did you?”
“I became a SEAL. It toughened me up.”
“You were a SEAL. Fuck. I’m impressed. How long were you in?”
“Five years. When I got out, I became a cop. That lasted fifteen years. I got sick of the bullshit, and retired. Now I’m a private investigator.”
“Can’t say it surprises me. Pop thought you might get into law enforcement after what happened to you at the mall. That was a close one, wasn’t it?”
“It was. You saved the day.”
Logan grinned. It made his face hurt, but he did it anyway. “We probably never would have seen you again. I think about that day a lot. Best thing I ever did.”
“You were a hero.”
“Just looking out for my baby brother.” Logan paused. The stroll down memory lane had ended, and his eyes grew unfriendly. “So what the hell do you want? Or do you just like sneaking around, punching people in the face?”
“I want to talk to you about a teenage girl named Skye.”
“Never heard of her.”
“Her grandmother was murdered on her farm in Keystone, and Skye was abducted. I want you to tell me where the girl is.”
“Like I said, I’ve never heard of her.”
“About an hour before she was murdered, the grandmother went to the mall to do some shopping. There’s a videotape of her inside a health and nutrition store, buying supplements. While she was at the register, a guy wearing a black cowboy hat showed up, and started tailing her. The cops are calling him Black Bart.
“Black Bart followed the grandmother for a while. When the grandmother went to the parking lot to get her car, Black Bart followed her. He stayed by the mall entrance. A black sedan pulled up, and the driver got out to let Black Bart take the wheel. It was just long enough for the driver’s face to get caught by the mall’s security camera.”
Logan cursed under his breath.
“Did you finger me to the cops?” his brother asked.
“No, I didn’t.”
“Thanks, man.”
“I have a reason. I want to know where Skye is being held. If you help me, I’ll work my magic, and get the police to cut you a deal.”
“If you didn’t finger me to the cops, then how will they know who I am?”
“Your face is in the video.”
