Judged

by E. H. Reinhard

  “Wait, wait, wait,” Beth said. “Your phone is in your car?”

  “It must be. I don’t know.”

  “What’s the number?” Beth pulled her cell phone and brought it to her ear.

  The guy started rattling off his cell-phone number, but Beth held out her finger for the guy to wait a moment.

  “Couch, this is Beth. We need a phone number tracked via GPS.”

  She made the guy give her the number again and repeated it to Couch. Beth clicked off from the phone call and looked at me. “He’s calling it in to the Miramar office. We should know where it is within a few minutes.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  Tim sat in the stolen Ford, waiting in the parking lot of the Fort Lauderdale police department. Directly across from where he was parked was the small side street that Lieutenant Peterson always drove down to leave the facility from the employee parking area.

  Tim checked the time on the dash—a couple minutes after six. He knew Peterson would be coming by any minute—the lieutenant never stayed late.

  Tim looked down and inspected his leg through the rips in his pants. The four-inch-long and inch-wide laceration just below his knee was still pumping blood. He could feel it gathering in his sock, making each movement of his foot squish. He tried moving his left arm to check the range of motion. Sharp pains shot through it from fingertip to shoulder and then up to his neck. Tim figured something was definitely broken—what it was, he didn’t know, and it didn’t matter.

  Tim brought his pistol onto his lap and leaned back. He cracked his neck from side to side and then reached for the car’s glove box. He flipped it open and rummaged through the contents until he found a pen and a piece of paper. Tim took the paper in his hand and looked it over—an oil change receipt. He flipped it over and pressed the paper against the steering wheel. Tim spent the next few minutes writing what he had to write. Then he tossed the paper into the backseat.

  Tim focused his attention back down the street, waiting to see Lieutenant Peterson’s vehicle—a moment later, he did.

  Tim clicked the Ford into reverse and pulled from the lot to follow Peterson.

  CHAPTER FORTY

  “Dammit.” Beth clicked off from the phone call she was on and immediately started dialing again. She brought the phone to her ear and looked at me. “I’m calling the Fort Lauderdale police department. Have Harrington get a hold of Lieutenant Peterson directly. The damn GPS signal came back from there.”

  “He’s targeting Peterson,” I said.

  Beth confirmed and went to her phone call.

  “Harrington,” I shouted.

  Harrington stood talking with the patrol sergeant near the shoulder of the freeway. He must have caught the tone of my voice and jogged toward me.

  “Yeah?” he asked. “Did we get the location?”

  “Do you have a direct number to Lieutenant Peterson over at Fort Lauderdale?”

  “It should still be in my phone from earlier. Why? Do we think that’s his next target?”

  “The GPS track we ran on this guy’s phone came back to the Fort Lauderdale PD,” I said.

  Harrington fumbled his cell phone from his pocket and went through his call log, looking for the number. He hit a few buttons and held the phone to his ear. I waited, but Harrington never started a conversation.

  “Shit,” he said. “He didn’t answer.”

  “Was that his desk phone or cell phone?” I asked.

  “I don’t know. It’s the number he called me from.”

  Beth waved me toward our car.

  “Come on, we need to get over there,” I said. “Try calling the PD and get put through to his desk on the way. If you get the same result, ask for a mobile number.”

  Harrington agreed and then relayed to Sergeant Shields that we needed to go, and we jogged toward the cars. Beth was behind the wheel with the motor running by the time I got to the passenger door. We left the accident scene to drive back to the Fort Lauderdale PD. Harrington led. With his lights and siren, I was hoping we could make the fifty-minute drive in under forty.

  “Fort Lauderdale PD is aware,” Beth said. “They’re sending officers outside. Did Harrington get a hold of the lieutenant?”

  “Not on the first try. He was going to try making contact again on the drive. Let me call him and see what he got.”

  I dialed Harrington, who picked up right away.

  “I just got off the phone with someone at the department,” Harrington said. “I had the woman I was talking to check his office. He’s gone. She gave me the number for Peterson’s cell phone. He didn’t answer there, either.”

  “Beth said that the station was sending officers outside. I need to call Agent Couch back and make sure that the signal hasn’t moved. Do you have Peterson’s cell-phone number?”

  “I do. Are you ready?”

  I pulled my notepad from my inner suit pocket. “Yeah, give it to me.”

  He did, and I wrote it down.

  “We’ll keep heading for the station until we hear otherwise,” I said.

  “Okay,” Harrington said and clicked off.

  Beth glanced over at me. “Harrington didn’t get a hold of him?”

  “No. I’m going to have Couch try to run the lieutenant’s cell location.”

  “Good idea.”

  I dialed Couch, and the phone rang in my ear.

  “Yeah, Hank,” he answered.

  “I need a current location on that GPS signal for the last number I gave you. I also need the same on a different number.”

  “Who does the new one belong to?” Couch asked.

  “It’s the lieutenant’s that we think Wendell is after.”

  “Okay, give it to me,” Couch said.

  I did.

  “I’ll have both for you in a second. The last I heard, the first cell-phone signal hadn’t moved. We sent the birds to the area to get a visual. Let me make the call and call you back.”

  “Thanks.” I hung up.

  I turned to Beth. “How far away from the station are we?” I asked.

  Beth looked down at the navigation running on her phone, sitting on her lap. “Twenty minutes.”

  My cell phone rang. I clicked Talk without looking at the screen.

  “Hello,” I answered.

  “Um, is this Agent Rawlings?” a man asked.

  “It is. Who’s calling?”

  “This is Officer Cabral. You saw me earlier at the home of the Ridley woman.”

  “I remember,” I said.

  “Well, about an hour ago, an older woman came and took both children.”

  I looked through the windshield at Harrington weaving in and out of cars ahead of us. Beth did her best to stay on his tail.

  “Okay, so someone came and took the kids. Just keep your eyes on the woman, I guess.”

  “Well, that’s what I’m doing. She left a few minutes after the old woman left with the kids. Mrs. Ridley was wheeling two suitcases.”

  I was quiet for a moment. I figured her leaving, along with her children, wasn’t out of the question if they thought they were in some kind of danger. “Just, um, give me a call back after a while and let me know where she goes. We’re kind of right in the middle of something here.”

  “Well, I would if I had any idea where she’s going. I’m behind her car now, pulling into the airport,” Cabral said.

  Beth glanced over at me. “Who is that?”

  “One second, Cabral.” I clicked the button to mute the mouthpiece on my phone and looked at Beth. “Cabral, the cop that was at Ridley’s wife’s house is who is on the line. He says that someone picked up the kids from the house, and now he’s following Ridley’s wife into the airport.”

  “Airport?”

  “Correct.”

  “Hmm,” Beth said. “Damn. I forgot that I said that I would call her. I’m betting someone already did, from the scene of the accident. If that’s the case, why is she getting on a plane instead of seeing what happened to her
husband? Separated or not.”

  “Maybe she’s scared the same fate awaits her,” I said.

  “I don’t know,” Beth said. “The not questioning why Wendell thought her husband had something to do with his sister’s deaths still kind of irks me. It wasn’t a normal response.”

  “I agree. And I’d like to talk to her again prior to her hopping on a plane and going who knows where.”

  I clicked the button on my phone to unmute the call. “Cabral, are you still there?” I asked.

  “Still here. She’s pulling into long-term parking right now. I mean, she can’t not know that I’m following her. I’m in a marked car.”

  “Stop her. Ask her a couple questions. Ask her where she’s going and why. See if she knows what happened to her husband.”

  “What happened to her husband?” Cabral asked.

  “He’s deceased.” I heard the beep in my ear from another phone call coming in. I glanced down at the screen—Harrington calling.

  “Oh, um, you want me to tell her that?” Cabral asked.

  “If she doesn’t know that her husband is deceased, yes, tell her.”

  “Okay, and if she still insists on getting on a plane?”

  “Don’t let her. Take her back to your station. If she doesn’t cooperate, let me know.”

  “Sure,” he said.

  “Thanks for the call. I’ll be in touch in a little while to get an update.” I glanced down at the screen of my phone—Harrington was still calling. I swiped the screen to switch over to his call. “Yeah, Harrington.”

  “I just got a call back from the Fort Lauderdale PD. Peterson and his truck aren’t there. Neither is anyone in our stolen vehicle. Officers searched the parking lot and are now expanding out. But so far, they aren’t seeing Wendell or the stolen vehicle.”

  “I wonder if he followed the lieutenant from the station.”

  “Possibly,” Harrington said.

  “Okay. Just keep driving. Let me call back to Couch and see if he’s gotten an update yet.”

  “Yup,” Harrington said.

  I clicked off from the call and dialed Couch. The phone rang in my ear.

  “It’s Couch,” he answered.

  “Rawlings. How are we looking on those two GPS signals for the cell phones? Word back from the scene is that they’re not there.”

  “I haven’t heard anything from Joe since I called to ask him for an update and gave him the new number,” Couch said. “Give me a minute. I can try calling him back.”

  “Hold on. Joe from your tech department is who is tracking the numbers?”

  “Yeah, Joe Payton. Same guy who found your van on the video.”

  “Okay. I have his number,” I said. “Let me just call him. Probably easier than having to go back and forth.”

  “Right,” Couch said.

  “Thanks.” I hung up and dialed the number I had for Joe Payton. He answered right away.

  “This is Joe,” he said.

  “It’s Agent Hank Rawlings, working with Agent Couch. I need the locations on those two phone numbers.”

  “You’ll have to give me a second here. We’re having some computer issues. We should be back up in a second.”

  “Call me back at this number when you have locations for both phones,” I said.

  “Will do,” Joe said.

  I clicked off. “Damn.”

  “What’s going on?” Beth asked.

  “Nothing. No one has anything. Tech guys are calling me back when they have locations on the phones.”

  “And no one can get a hold of Peterson?”

  “Harrington said he couldn’t, and as far as anyone at the station, well I guess that’s a no as well.” I stared down at my phone, and then my eyes went to Peterson’s phone number on my notepad, lying in my lap. I punched it into my phone and held it to my ear.

  “You’re trying to call him?” Beth asked.

  “Hell, at this point, I guess it’s worth a shot.” The phone rang in my ear repeatedly—no one was answering. I took the phone from my ear, glanced at the screen, and was about to hit End when the icon on the screen told me I was connected. I figured it was the voice mail picking up and briefly debated not leaving a message but then thought a warning, even if he didn’t get it, was the prudent thing to do. I brought the phone back to my face.

  “Hello?” I heard.

  “Peterson?” I asked.

  “This is. Who is this?”

  “Agent Rawlings. Where are you?”

  “I’m driving home, sitting in traffic.”

  “We’ve been trying to get a hold of you,” I said.

  “Oh, I saw my voice mail light on my phone just light up a second ago. It’s been dead most of the day. I just plugged it into my truck and powered it on a second ago. What’s up?”

  “Wendell killed Kenneth Ridley and stole a car. We tracked the car owner’s cell phone, which was left inside the vehicle, to the Fort Lauderdale police department.”

  I got only silence from his end of the phone.

  “Are you there?” I asked.

  “I’m here. Do they know?”

  “They know, and he’s no longer there,” I said.

  “Okay. What, um… What should I do?”

  I heard a beep from my phone—a call was coming from Joe Payton at the Miramar FBI office’s tech department.

  “Keep driving. Don’t go home but stay on the line. I have another call here. I’ll be back with you in a second.”

  “Okay,” he said.

  I clicked over to Joe’s call. “Rawlings,” I said.

  “Hey, we’re back up. I have locations on both cell phones. They’re right behind each other. Looks like they’re on I-595, headed west. Not really moving too fast, though.”

  “Can you see how close together they are?”

  “Close,” Joe said.

  “All I need. Thanks.” I clicked back to Peterson.

  “Peterson,” I said.

  “Still here.”

  “Look for a blue Ford in your rearview.”

  “Car, truck?” he asked.

  “Ford Focus. Small car.”

  “Ah. I don’t know. I have a wall of cars behind me. I’m sitting in pretty much bumper-to-bumper traffic right now. Probably a crash or something. There’s a couple of blue ones back there.”

  “Where exactly are you?” I asked.

  “I’m on 595, headed west. I just went over Highway 441 a minute or two ago. Coming up on the turnpike in a second here.”

  “Hold on.” I took the phone from my face and brought up its GPS. After finding where he was, I clicked the button to navigate from our location. My phone told me the drive would take twenty-five minutes with traffic. I looked to see how far away we actually were—four miles. Still ahead of us, Harrington had his lights flashing and siren going. On the phone, I spotted a possible location we could intercept Peterson and Wendell. I brought the phone back to my mouth. “Exit on highway 84 east.”

  “Okay,” he said.

  I continued with my instructions for Peterson as we drove.

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  Tim sat in the Ford, gridlocked by traffic. Peterson’s truck was seven or eight car lengths up and a lane over to the right. The car ahead of Tim moved—maybe a car length, not much more. Tim grumbled, keeping his eyes locked on the lieutenant’s truck. Then a gap in the lieutenant’s lane, behind his truck, allowed Tim to see that he had his directional on to exit the freeway.

  “Shit,” Tim said.

  He looked to his right—a sedan and a minivan were blocking him from getting into the lane. He clicked on his blinker and pointed the nose of the car to the right, awaiting the sedan moving forward.

  “Come on,” Tim said.

  Looking forward again, he saw Peterson’s truck veering to the right toward the exit lane.

  He nosed his car forward though no more space had become available. The front bumper of the Ford was just inches from the back of the sedan. Tim’s front fender wa
s blocking the minivan from coming forward. He glanced at the woman driving the minivan, who held her arms in the air, looking confused.

  Tim glanced back toward Peterson’s truck—it was gone from sight.

  “Son of a bitch!” Tim hit the center of the car’s steering wheel, sounding the horn.

  The man driving the sedan looked back over his shoulder and shot him an annoyed look out the window.

  “Let’s go! Move!” Tim shouted.

  The vehicles did nothing.

  Tim looked back up toward the exit and the line of cars slowly creeping forward. The truck in front of the sedan moved, and the sedan inched forward. Tim stomped the gas, shot through the right-most lane to a honk of the minivan’s horn, and pulled the wheel to the left before making contact with the metal barrier at the freeway’s shoulder. He kept the gas pedal pinned and rode the shoulder until he veered right into the exit lane. He sped to the bottom of the exit ramp, locked up the brakes at the red light, and snapped his head right to left, searching for Peterson’s truck. To Tim’s left, the lieutenant’s truck was waiting to make a right into a park and ride on the opposite side of the freeway.

  “What the hell is he pulling in there for?” Tim asked.

  He drummed his fingertips on the top of the steering wheel, waiting for the light to turn green. He would have just run the red if there had been the slightest gap between passing cars. Tim looked down at the gun in his lap. He grabbed it with his right hand and rested it on his thigh. The passing cars slowed. Tim could see the yellow light showing for their lanes. He pulled out while the arrow was still red and floored the gas toward the entrance to the park and ride. Tim pulled into the parking lot and swiveled his head, looking for Peterson’s truck. He found it parked near the front and weaved through the parking lot so he could pull in facing him.

  Tim slowed as he approached and saw Peterson sitting in his truck. The empty parking spots in front of the lieutenant were designated handicapped and were also empty. Tim didn’t pull into one of those stalls. He stopped dead in the center of the parking lot. To his left were the vacant handicap parking spots, the nose of Peterson’s truck beyond them—to his right, a glass-covered bus stop. Tim glanced over at the bus stop. A man and a woman were sitting there, waiting—the man read a paper, and the woman looked like she was doing something on her cell phone. Tim pulled his door handle and stepped from the car. He brought the gun up and advanced on Peterson.