AHMM, Sep 2005

by Dell Magazine Authors

  "You run the Rape and Domestic Violence desk, so I guess this doesn't involve cattle rustling?"

  "I have no sense of humor even when something's funny. Do what she wants and do it cheap."

  "Only because you ask so sweetly, pumpkin. I hope I'm not wasting my time on an imaginary stalker."

  "She tell you about the scar and the white streak?"

  "I didn't ask."

  "Once upon a time, her husband got pissed because she took out a warrant for beating her up one time too many. He bought a.357 Magnum. Luckily for her, he was a lousy shot. Grazed her skull. Unluckily for her, she came out of the coma after two weeks to find he'd shot himself after shooting their two children. So she moved here and does what she does. No other life that I know of."

  "Probably has a desk she sits at all evening too."

  "Stuff it, Simms."

  Bubba hung up. Needling Robin was the only way to get anything out of her. He checked his watch; he could call Rachel now.

  * * * *

  They agreed to meet at Allen's Old Place because she could park on one side of the mall, then walk through Sears to get there. It would be very difficult for anyone to follow her inconspicuously. Bubba had a table in a corner where he could watch the entrance. No one came around the corner after her. In fact, it was a quiet night; no one came by for ten minutes before or after her. She had changed into jeans and a dark gray blouse. She looked efficient and feminine, a quality combination. Not much was said until after their order was placed. Bubba wanted the pork chops, sweet potato fluff, green beans, corn, salad, and unsweetened iced tea. Rachel ordered a Greek salad and coffee.

  "I don't think he followed me here,” Rachel said as she stirred some ice from her water to cool the coffee.

  "No one has appeared since you arrived."

  "This was a good idea. It's out in the open. I tried to think of some out-of-the-way place, secluded, hidden."

  "Those are tricky. A place with a view that you can arrive at from several ways and leave in different ones is the best. How is the women's hideout business doing?"

  Rachel sputtered and then wiped coffee off her chin.

  "What are you talking about?"

  "Underground railroad for abused wives and children. Safe houses for women who are being stalked. Something like that. I talked to Robin Johnson."

  "She told you?"

  "You know better than that; but she said to help you. So I thought about what could be happening that Robin couldn't handle herself. If it were some stalker, Robin would find them, skin ‘em out, and salt down their hide, and that would be the end of that. What could keep Robin from doing her job? Something on the other edge of the law. So I guessed you might be hiding women who are disobeying court orders."

  "Too good of a guess. I don't like that."

  "I know Robin. By telling me nothing she told me too much. You need a cover story. People get curious about the unknown. Become blah and they forget."

  The food arrived. Bubba asked for another basket of rolls and began to eat. His appetite was sufficient for the meal. Rachel finished her salad and one of the rolls. Bubba talked about his attempts to bench press five hundred pounds.

  "Nowadays, everybody is lifting five hundred, lifters half my size. It's embarrassing. My arms are too long. I can't lock out the last few inches. I'm trying to increase my acceleration."

  Rachel nodded. They declined dessert but accepted coffee. The real conversation resumed.

  "Why are you being followed? Why now and not before?"

  "You don't need to know that. I want you to find out who he is and how he's able to keep up with me."

  "The time might come when you need to tell me."

  "And it might not. Here's what I know.” Rachel described a black or dark blue four-door sedan that she had glimpsed several times. Male driver, wearing glasses, and big. Not Bubba big, but big. “There are places I have to go that I can't be followed. This car is in my mirror too often for coincidence. It's been there for the last three days, I'm sure. I've quit doing what I need to do, going where I need to go."

  "We rent you another car and do a switch."

  "That sounds reasonable, but I need to know if I am doing something wrong in the way I operate. He finds me too easily."

  "Meet me at Carl's Garage first thing in the morning. Eight o'clock. We'll go from there. I'll figure something out tonight."

  "How much is this going to cost?"

  "The first day is free. Courtesy of Robin."

  Bubba picked up the check, and they headed out. He told her to return to her car by the same route she had taken. She walked away, quick and focused. Bubba was waiting in his Bronco two rows over when she reached her car, a BMW. She drove away quickly. She lost Bubba at the second light when she slowed and then burst through the light as it changed to red. Bubba thought that whoever was tailing her was a lot better than he was. And there weren't that many around.

  * * * *

  Bubba was at Carl's Garage when Rachel arrived. Carl's father had been a short-track driver all over central Florida during the forties and fifties. Carl had grown up pulling engines and refining suspensions, but he couldn't drive worth a darn. Instead he built cars for others and operated the best garage around. Carl kept the ten-year-old Bronco running better than new; he enjoyed the challenge.

  Rachel arrived with a small girl who carried a large stuffed bear. Bubba raised his eyebrows and Rachel shrugged. “One of the perks of my job, I get to baby-sit some great kids at odd times. Is she going to be a problem?"

  "Not at all. Hi there,” Bubba said after he knelt. “That's a handsome bear you have there. What's his name?"

  The small girl in jeans and a yellow T-shirt that matched the bear stayed mostly behind Rachel and didn't say anything, but she took her thumb out of her mouth and hugged the bear. Bubba smiled and stood up, another child beguiled by his appearance. “Why don't you sit in the waiting room? I want Carl to check your car. I'm guessing someone added something."

  Rachel nodded and took the girl's hand. “Could you have them check the oil? I never find time to get that done."

  Bubba took the BMW's keys from Rachel and found Carl in the service bay.

  "Like I told you, check the chassis for any hitchhikers. And change her oil,” Bubba said. Carl was standing behind one of his mechanics, who was setting the timing on a Dodge Hemi engine that had been transplanted into a pickup truck.

  "And why should I do this free of charge? I missed that part.” Carl spat tobacco juice into a Styrofoam cup. Then he yelled at the youngest employee to get that spill cleaned up, this was Carl's Garage, not his mom's kitchen.

  "Because if you don't, I'll tell the United Way and all the other needy groups how much money you really have and what a soft touch you are."

  Carl spat again and grinned. “You'd do just that. Okay, we'll have her inside in a minute."

  Bubba went into Carl's office, borrowed his phone, and made a series of calls before Carl hollered at him to come see. In the pit area, the BMW was on the rack.

  "Magnetic slap-on. Nice place to hide one.” Carl's flashlight illuminated the small radio transmitter tucked away in the rear of the car.

  "Can you move it so I can grab it when I want?"

  "Pop it off with a screwdriver and set it on the rear floorboard. It'll stay there till you want it. Somebody's been following that lady?"

  Bubba nodded. Carl waited a moment, then said, “We'll have the oil change finished in two minutes. Tell her the front struts are going. To quit braking so damned hard all the time."

  Bubba retreated to the waiting room. The little girl peeked around the bear at him while he talked to Rachel.

  "Someone put a location transmitter on your car. As long as they stayed close, they could find you whenever you stopped."

  "I knew someone was there. I'm glad I was cautious the last few days."

  "Any idea who might do this?"

  "Several. Can you find out?"

  "Perh
aps, with a little help from you. I had a feeling something was going on, so I arranged a meeting for one-thirty this afternoon.” Bubba reached over and scratched the bear's head. An eye looked at him.

  "Will it be dangerous? I have her with me all day."

  "Does she have a name?"

  "You can call her Missy. Is it dangerous?"

  "Not for you.” Bubba drew a map and explained what she needed to do.

  * * * *

  The paved road turned off Blitt Trail through a wrought-iron archway that opened onto an open field grown high with Bahia stalks and hitchhiker bushes, then to an old grapefruit grove that was in disarray. A faded PRIVATE PROPERTY—NO TRESPASSING sign was bolted to the left side of the archway. The land had been cleared and the road built in anticipation of the development of single-family homes, but someone eased offshore with most of the investor money, another Grand Cayman sidestep. The groves had been neglected because of low grapefruit prices and the fact that no one could produce clear title to the land, but the road was a convenient shortcut.

  Bubba had parked a dozen rows into the trees and was watching when Rachel slid to a stop, struts be damned. The small face Kilroyed over the passenger window frame. Bubba wigwagged a hand at her. He climbed out of the Bronco and opened the rear door of the BMW. He took the radio transmitter out and sat it on the Bronco's hood. It produced a sharp click as the magnet attached.

  "You can head on out. The road intersects Highway 27."

  "Call me later?"

  "As soon as I know something. Bye, Missy."

  A small hand waved and a bear's head appeared over the seat before the car was out of sight. Bubba parked the Bronco across the middle of the road. Time to wait. If nothing happened in the next half hour, he would have to fall back on Plan B. Thirty minutes should be enough time to think of one.

  Luckily, after only five minutes, a black Chevrolet drove down the road, crossed the field, and halted a couple of car lengths from the Bronco. The driver started to reverse, then stopped and killed the engine when a Polk County Sheriff's Department patrol car arrived with its lights flashing. A young deputy in a tailored uniform exited the unit and approached the Chevy. He examined the driver's license and registration, before returning to his patrol car to run the tag. Finally, he emerged and put his DI hat on to complete his outfit. He walked past the Chevy and up to Bubba. Though the deputy wasn't quite as tall as Bubba, he was just as bulky but maintained a waistline.

  "I love being your errand boy,” he said.

  "Deputy Marks, you did that stop and check perfectly. It was like I had taught you myself."

  "Detective Johnson said to tell you that you were near the edge. Now, I've got fifteen miles to cover in the next twenty minutes or I'm late for roll call. Here's the dope. He's a private detective out of Orlando. Got turned around, he says. Clean license and everything. I am not going to write him for trespassing unless you want me to."

  "Go to roll call. This is fine. I'll have a conversation with him."

  "See you at Al's?"

  "Tomorrow at ten. Squats."

  Marks nodded and they walked toward the middle-aged man who had climbed out of his car and was leaning against the hood. Dressed in dark slacks and a blue polo shirt, he stood a little over six feet. Balding with a bad comb-over, his face was hard, with bored brown eyes. He looked like an angry cop.

  Marks said there would be no citation for trespassing and to have a nice day. The man said thanks. Marks made a three-point turnaround and roared away. The two remaining men looked at each other.

  "Nicely done. I haven't been mousetrapped in a long time."

  "Welcome to Polk County. I'm Bubba Simms."

  "Jim Larson. Retired Orlando P.D. Private investigator now."

  "Retired County. Private investigator—sole proprietor. Why are you following Rachel Thomas?"

  The man hesitated, then shrugged. “Hired to find a missing child. Father has custody, mother took the child, is hiding out. Thomas knows where they are. Simple."

  "You have papers?"

  The man opened the car and brought out a briefcase. Bubba could see a revolver on top of file folders. Larson handed Bubba a certified copy of a court order that gave sole custody of minor child, Jennifer Maureen Peterson, to the father, Frank J. Peterson. There was a picture of Missy attached to the folder.

  "You seen the little girl?” Larson asked.

  "Why did the mother run?"

  "The usual he did-she did divorce. Mother's a drunken slut, father's a violent pervert. In this case, the father could prove the mother was an alcoholic. Mother couldn't prove anything. So she grabbed the girl and ran. Either she's a hero or a delusional drunk. But my client has the paperwork and the fee. Do you know where the little girl is? This is a legit court order."

  "That is fine, but stalking women..."

  "Tailing."

  "Tailing's when you don't get spotted. Stalking and planting transmitters are considered bad manners around here. You might want to return to Orlando and rethink your strategy."

  Larson nodded. He and Bubba looked at each other. Larson flexed his hands.

  "I don't like being run off."

  "Who does?"

  "I used to box, stayed with it after I became a cop."

  "I thought those scars came from trimming your eyebrows with a weed eater."

  "Not bad.” He smiled. “Other people probably make the mistake of thinking you're fat, like they do about me. I can take you, but I don't think you'll fight fair. And you got those long arms. Might be a nasty few minutes."

  "Guaranteed."

  "So instead, I might drive down to the county seat and file a complaint with the sheriff about the way his deputies conduct business. See how y'all like that."

  "But then you wouldn't get your little gizmo back. You'd be out some real cash. How about I buy you lunch instead?"

  "Works for me. Less like I'm being run off, more like networking."

  "Great diner by Eagle Ridge Mall. Follow this road and turn right. If you say ‘networking’ again, you pay for your own lunch."

  * * * *

  Rachel returned Bubba's call while he drove. She didn't seem surprised.

  "You need to do something with Missy and her mother. That court order carries weight. Robin can't ignore that."

  "Another few days should do it. They'll be out of state by then. Safe."

  "Be careful. Switch cars, at least."

  "Thanks, Bubba. Let me know if you learn anything useful."

  Larson pulled up beside the Bronco in the parking lot and killed the engine.

  "What did Thomas say?"

  "What car phone? The cheeseburgers are hand shaped and grilled to a crisp. Good milk shakes too."

  "They better be, as much trouble as you're putting me through."

  "I wasn't the clumsy one."

  "You try tailing—stalking—her. Like keeping up with a German scout brigade invading Poland. Damn it, I had to use a transmitter on a woman driver. And then to be scooped up by Officer Do-right and the Colossal Fruitpicker. Embarrassing."

  "Don't be. I've caught several people who actually were clever."

  They found a booth in the non-smoking section. The diner was decorated in a retro fifties motif. Larson looked around with a bemused expression.

  "The food's worth it, I promise."

  Larson shook his head and studied the menu.

  A high school-aged girl came to take their order. After they finished, she said, “That's two cheeseburger deluxes each and separate orders of cheese curly fries? A vanilla shake and a chocolate shake. Anything else?"

  She shook her head. “I'm not surprised at you, Mr. Simms. But you, sir, looked like a normal person. I'll bring the dessert menu after you finish."

  Larson sipped some water and twisted his head, stretching his neck. “I think my client is going to be really upset when I report back."

  "Understandable."

  "He'll take it to the state's attorney. Charge his ex-wif
e with kidnapping. Thomas can be charged with being an accessory. And she's not the only one. A warrant changes everything."

  "I have no knowledge of the whereabouts of the child or the ex-wife."

  Larson raised his eyebrows. “You'll go to jail over this?"

  "No jail. That's the truth."

  The food arrived and filled the table. They talked about working out and trying to stay big without waddling. Larson liked skipping rope and punching the heavy bag to keep his heart rate up. Bubba recommended the treadmill set on steep inclines.

  The waitress collected the plates. They were all clean.

  "Like always, Mr. Simms, we have good apple pie. And coconut custard."

  "Let me have a slice of the apple,” Larson said.

  Bubba agreed, even though he felt like taking a four-hour nap instead.

  "And add a scoop of vanilla ice cream to mine,” Larson said as the girl started away from the table. She looked at Bubba, who shook his head and belched. Larson was the winner. But it had been ugly and tough.

  * * * *

  Rachel answered Bubba's call as he drove home.

  "The investigator who was following you thought that the husband will now swear out a warrant for kidnapping. You'll be an accessory if you keep hiding them."

  "A few more days, they're gone. They can arrest me all they want to then."

  "You sound angry."

  "Missy's mother wasn't here when we arrived. No big deal, she'd gone for a drive, but she does have a history of problems so I freaked a bit."

  "I may have to give them this phone number. Kidnapping is serious."

  "The phone number's fine. No one knows where this safe house is located, so we're okay. Thank you for all the help."

  "If I hear anything else, I'll call."

  "Good luck."

  "I don't count on luck."

  * * * *

  Bubba went about his usual business for the next two days. He lifted weights with Deputy Marks, napped in his office, walked his dog Elvis, ate regularly, and waited for the phone to ring. Someone should be calling him. Detectives to question him about Missy's whereabouts, Rachel to let him know everything was all right, telemarketers to sell him free siding for his house, somebody. But when the phone rang, it was none of them.

  "Jim Larson here. I want to talk to you about something."