“Excuse me, Mr. Hogan,” I said. “Can we speak to you?”
He glanced at us and he glanced at his watch.
“Right now? I’m heading off to lunch.”
“It won’t take long. I promise.”
But he was already out the door.
We followed him out to the parking lot and Julie caught up to him. He listened as she spoke a mile a minute. She told him about the two new developments in Max’s case. First she described the video that showed a boy’s hands communicating in sign language. Then she talked about the fingerprints on the safe at the mall.
“Mr. Hogan, we just want to see the autopsy photos.”
“The assistant coroner can help you with that. He’s the one handled your son’s case. Not me.”
“He doesn’t return our phone calls.”
“Stan’s been out sick.”
“When will he be back?”
“Whenever he feels better.”
“We can’t wait that long. Can you help us now?”
He glanced at his watch again.
In his office he waved us to chairs. We sat down and watched him hit a few computer keys. He paused for a moment to sip his Snapple. And not quietly.
Before long he pressed a button and his printer began to work. He took the sheet of paper out of the printer. He examined it.
“Here you go,” he said, and handed it to Julie.
She passed it to me without looking at it.
“This is just a summary of the autopsy report,” I said when I had looked it over. “Where’s the autopsy photos? Can you print those out too?”
The coroner patted his fingertips together. He sighed as if I had asked him to climb Mount Fuji. Then he held up his hand.
“My mistake. I’ll print them out now.”
He tapped some more computer keys.
He froze.
He stared at the computer screen.
“You’re not going to believe this,” he said. “Those autopsy photos have been deleted from the system.”
CHAPTER 13
“SPECIAL AGENT GRIGGS speaking.”
“Griggsy, it’s Rip.”
“Hey, pal. Where ya calling from?”
“The Sunshine State.”
“Sweet.”
“Need a favor, Griggsy.”
“What—no small talk first?”
“How’s the family?”
“Good.”
“How’s the job?”
“Good.”
“What’s new?”
“Same old same old.”
“Need a favor, Griggsy.”
“Okay. What is it?”
“Check your email. I just sent you a photo.”
“Check my email? That’s the favor?”
“Griggsy . . .”
“Okay okay. I’m looking at the photo now. Who’s the boy?”
“Name’s Max. He’s three in that photo. Photo was taken about five and a half years ago.”
“So he’s eight now.”
“If he’s alive.”
“If?”
“Max was abducted shortly after that photo was taken. They found a body three months later. Supposedly it was Max. But I’m not so sure about that.”
“How can I help?”
“I need you to forward the photo to the Forensic Imaging Unit at the National Center for Missing and Exploited Children. Ask their Forensic Imaging Specialists to develop an age-progressed photo of Max at age eight.”
“His current age. If he’s still alive.”
“Yep. That’s what I need.”
“No problem. I’ll send it to ya soon as I get it from them.”
“Appreciate it, Griggsy.”
“You bet, pal.”
I hung up and sat back in the driver’s seat of my RV. I swiveled around so I could look out my window at the sea. I put my feet on the dash, sipped my second cup of coffee. It was just as good as the first cup.
After a while I picked up my phone again. I dialed the number of another former colleague. I needed another favor.
When I had retired I never imagined I would need to call in so many favors from former colleagues. With retirement my access to the tools of the trade became extremely limited. I try to return the favors when I can.
“U.S. Marshals Service Florida/Caribbean Regional Fugitive Task Force. How can I be of assistance?”
“Rip Lane calling for Marsha Lopez.”
“One moment, please.”
Marsha came on the line and I told her I was trying to find the whereabouts of two men. First I gave her the name and description of Julie’s brother. Then I gave her the name and description of Julie’s ex-husband.
“The brother’s a career criminal,” I said to Marsha. “The ex-husband’s been off the grid for over five years. Tampa cops have been trying to find both of these guys, but you know how limited their department resources are.”
The resources of the U.S. Marshals Service are extensive. The agency employs ninety-four marshals and over four thousand deputy marshals, and it has roughly five hundred domestic and foreign offices. The Warrant Information Network, the central information system for the Marshals Service, links together the whole network of offices. The Technical Operations Group conducts electronic surveillance better than any other manhunting organization in the world. The Sex Offender Investigations Branch tracks and pursues sex crimes, especially those that involve minor children.
The extensive resources of the U.S. Marshals Service could help me find the brother and the ex-husband.
Marsha told me she would get back to me if they found either of the two men. I thanked her and hung up.
There was a knock at my door and Julie walked in.
“Mom and I made some lunch. Want to join us?”
“Depends.”
“On what?”
“What’d you make?”
“What you really want to know is if it’s healthy. Right?”
“Maybe.”
“We made grilled tilapia.”
“Count me in.”
“But we also made key lime pie. Which isn’t all that healthy.”
“I have a different set of rules for key lime pie.”
“Which are?”
“No rules.”
In Julie’s RV the three of us ate lunch and talked about the Hillsborough County Coroner’s Office. We wondered how they had managed to delete the autopsy photos from their system. Had it been a mistake? Or had somebody done it on purpose? And if so, who? And why? We had plenty of questions but no answers.
After lunch Julie checked Facebook to see if Kirsten Love had replied to her message.
There was still no reply.
CHAPTER 14
THE BEACH WAS crowded. Somehow I managed to shoehorn my beach blanket into an area the size of a hand towel. Inches away from me lay a snoozing man who sporadically snorted like a warthog.
It was a blazing day with a high sun and it shone pink through my eyelids. The waves rumbled in. Somewhere a radio played softly. A jazz station. I was about to fall asleep when I heard another snort.
I opened my eyes and sat up.
My electrolytes needed replenishing. I guzzled some Gatorade.
As I stared out at the sea I thought about the rising sea levels in Florida. St. Augustine and other Florida cities are slowly being buried by the sea. Higher tides have led to flooding, water contamination, wetland destruction.
Florida has other problems too. Other ecosystem nightmares. Nightmares like the Burmese pythons eating their way through the Everglades. Nightmares like the world’s two most destructive termite species swarming South Florida.
Even paradise has its problems.
I thought about these things as I sat baking in the sun glare.
Then I saw a dream wade out of the water. Water droplets sparkled on her bronzed skin. She used both hands to palm back her dark wet hair. The thin layer of white zinc on her nose covered more fleshy area than the thong bikini that
was wedged between her buns.
I stared.
In my reverie I could hear nothing. No rumbling waves. No radio music. No warthog snorts.
It was as if time had stopped for a moment. One dreamy moment. Like a moment captured on a photo.
There was an erotic arrogance about the woman. Her movements were slow and lazy. She knew men would stare. They always have. They always would.
I knew she would marry a billionaire and end up with half of everything. There would three or four more billionaire husbands and she would be set for life. She would own a Lamborghini Veneno, a Cessna Citation Mustang jet, a Tibetan Mastiff puppy. She would ski in Switzerland, sun in Rio, shop in Paris. She would wear fancy hats, and develop a Harvard accent, and greet friends with air kisses, and receive numerous honorary degrees, and swim in infinity pools, and wear monogrammed driving gloves.
I stared at her some more. I pictured the two of us in her Lamborghini. I imagined myself in her life. In her arms. In her bed.
She turned her head and caught me staring. Her eyes flickered with a moment of appraisal, then a lifetime of dismissal. She slid her eyes away and I was forever gone. I had slipped into oblivion.
Her future billions weren’t going to come from me. She had sized me up in an instant. She had decided I wasn’t built like a CEO. She might have thought I was a military man. Or a linebacker. Or a lumberjack.
But definitely not a billionaire.
I didn’t cry when she sauntered away.
But I did feel the need for a cold shower. So I packed up my beach blanket, my Gatorade, my suspense novel. I snorted at the snoozing man, then began to make my way across the hot sand.
My air-conditioned RV was going to feel good. So was a cold shower. And a cold drink.
I like moderate temperatures. Summer and winter are too extreme for me. I prefer spring and fall. But if I had to choose between the extremes of the temperature range, I would always choose extreme cold over extreme heat.
I have been like that for as long as I can remember. Probably because I grew up in a house where the thermostat was always set to arctic blast.
Extreme cold is easier to deal with than extreme heat. When it gets too cold you can always add more layers of clothing. But when it gets too hot you run out of options fast.
The blacktop burned hot under my bare feet. I hopped from one foot to the other as I crossed the parking lot.
But then a Volkswagen camper van caught my attention. I stopped for a moment to watch the little vehicle rock back and forth. I could hear loud grunts and low moans coming from inside, and the shocks absorbers sounded like a squirrel being skinned alive.
When I got back to my RV I noticed that two new families had arrived at the campground. Their RVs were parked in adjacent sites. I watched as the two families introduced themselves to each other.
Smiles. More smiles. Handshakes.
They seemed to be hitting it off.
I kept watching.
Every cop learns how to size up people precisely and quickly. It is an important part of the job. It is necessary for survival. You never lose the habit.
It seemed to me the two families were very different from each other. They were polar opposites. Like Oscar and Felix on The Odd Couple.
One family seemed messy, noisy, unruly.
The other family seemed neat, quiet, orderly.
Yet the two families seemed to get along.
I should have had some kind of premonition. A feeling in my bones. Some sense of impending misfortune. Something.
CHAPTER 15
“THE MALL MAP says YOU ARE HERE.”
“Which means the Spencer’s store is that way.”
“Let’s go, Julie.”
Malls all have the same look. If you have seen one, you have seen them all. Inside a mall you have no way to know whether you are in Boston or Dallas or Los Angeles.
The new mall in the Channel District of Tampa was no different. There was a sameness to it. A familiarity. A sense of déjà vu.
Julie and I walked along the marble floor, past American Eagle Outfitters, Banana Republic, Cinnabon, Disney, Eddie Bauer, Foot Locker, Gap, Hair Cuttery, Infinite Beauty, Journeys, Kay Jewelers, LensCrafters, Macy’s, Nordstrom, Old Navy, Perfect Eyebrows, QVC, Rockport, Sunglass Hut, Things Remembered, Under Armour, Victoria’s Secret, Wetzel’s Pretzels, Xbox, Yogen Fruz, Zales.
Just like every mall you have ever seen.
Spencer’s was located near the food court. We went in and browsed the merchandise. We saw colorful lava lamps, funny T-shirts, kinky sex toys.
I looked at Julie.
“Why would your brother have chosen this store to rob? There must be over a hundred stores in this mall. Why rob this one?”
She turned her palms up and shrugged.
“Who knows?” she said. “Maybe because Spencer’s has always been Moe’s favorite store.”
“My favorite store’s always been Victoria’s Secret. Doesn’t mean I want to rob the place.”
We browsed some more.
I spotted the store security cameras. According to Detective Woods the camera lenses had been covered with duct tape during the robbery. It would have been nice to have seen the footage. It would have made everything easier.
A door at the back of the store said PRIVATE on it. I suspected the safe was located in that room. I wondered if Moe and Max had been in there.
On the store shelves I saw marijuana books, marijuana bracelets, marijuana posters, marijuana signs, marijuana T-shirts, marijuana watches. There was a Rick James T-shirt that said COCAINE IS A HELL OF A DRUG. Another T-shirt said AS SEEN ON LSD.
It occurred to me that Moe would like these products. All druggies would. Now I knew why his favorite store was Spencer’s.
Behind the counter stood a twentysomething-year-old with a lot of piercings and tattoos. She had on black clothes and wore her hair like the Statue of Liberty. I am sure her mother still loved her.
“Ever been to Liberty Island?” I said to her.
“Yeah. You musta seen me there before. I’m there all the time. I’m the one holdin the torch.”
She had a sense of humor. I liked her already.
“Lemme guess,” she said. “You’re here to buy some of our sex toys. Am I right or am I right?”
“I don’t need sex toys. I was born fully equipped.”
Julie joined us. She touched my arm.
“Learn anything, Rip?”
“I was just getting ready to ask this lovely young lady some questions,” I said, and turned to Lady Liberty. “I understand you had a robbery here the other night. You work that night?”
“Yeah, I was here. But not durin the robbery. That happened after the store had already closed. Nobody was here durin the robbery.”
“Except the robbers.”
“Yeah, right. Except them.”
“Those security cameras over there, were they covered with duct tape when you left work that night?”
“I don’t think so. I mean I think I woulda noticed. But I don’t remember seein no duct tape on the cameras.”
I reached into my pocket and took out two photos.
One was a photo of Julie’s brother. Julie had given it to me a couple of days before.
The other photo was an age-progressed image of Max at age eight. Special Agent Griggs had emailed it to me earlier that morning. The image had been developed by the Forensic Imaging Unit at the National Center for Missing and Exploited Children.
“Can you do something for me,” I said to Lady Liberty. “Can you take a look at these two photos, tell me if you recognize the faces.”
She studied them. Then she shook her head.
I thanked her for her help.
“Julie, you ready to go?”
She nodded and we left the store.
“It was worth a try,” she said as we threaded our way through the crowded mall.
“We can ask other mall workers. Maybe somebody in another store saw Moe a
nd Max that night.”
We spent some time asking around. None of the mall workers recognized the faces in the photos. We had reached a dead end.
Julie plopped down on a bench. She sighed.
“Hot pretzel?” I said.
“As long as I don’t have to get up.”
Minutes later we sat eating pretzels and watching the foot traffic.
When Julie had finished she patted her lips with her napkin. She picked up the age-progressed photo of Max. She stared at it.
“So this is what my baby would look like now. At age eight. He looks like my father. He has my father’s eyes. Those blue blue eyes.”
Her fingers ran gently over the photo.
“I can’t help but to think about all the moments I missed out on with Max. Like teaching him how to tie his shoes. Walking him to the bus on his first day of school. Helping him with his homework after dinner. Putting Band-Aids on his cuts. Holding him. Hugging him. Loving him. Being his friend, his teacher, his confidante. Tucking him in at night. Reading him stories. Taking vacations together. Making memories together. Being there when he needs me . . .”
Her eyes filled but she didn’t cry.
“You okay, Julie?”
She put out her hand, patted my leg.
“I’m okay, Rip. Are you ready to go home?”
“As long as I don’t have to get up.”
It made her smile. Just a little one. But a good one.
We got up from the bench and began to walk toward the mall entrance where we had parked. It was a big mall. The walk would take us maybe three or four minutes.
We were halfway there when something caught Julie’s eye. She stopped. Her eyes went round. Her mouth opened and shut.
I followed her gaze.
At the far end of the mall stood a boy. He was maybe eight years old. His cap was red and his sneakers weren’t cheap. He wore a white T-shirt with a cartoon character on the front.
He stared at Julie. His eyes were blue blue.
She stared at him. Her eyes were hopeful.
I had a feeling in my stomach. Deep down in my gut. I didn’t know whether to listen to it or ignore it. It was a strong feeling. Cops would call it a hunch. Psychics would call it a warning. I didn’t want to trust the feeling. I didn’t like what it was telling me.
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