Last Call

by James Grippando

  Charger got naked first and walked to the bars. Theo was mindful of the eyes-front protocol, but his curiosity got the better of him. He stole a quick glance at his cell mate's back, checking for the tattoo.

  "Like what you see?" said Charger.

  For a moment it seemed that the dude had 360-degree vision. "I don't see nothin'."

  "It's okay," said Charger, "you can check out my ass if you want to."

  "Just shut your mouth."

  For more than forty-five minutes they stood at the bars, unclothed and in silence, as a team of guards moved from one cell to the next. Time was something the inmates had plenty of, and the guards wasted it freely. It was a bizarre sight from Theo's perspective, staring out across the block at cell after cell of stark-naked men waiting at the bars. Black, white, and Hispanic. Young and old, fat and slim, many of them cut like bodybuilders, and nearly all of them bearing some kind of tattoo.

  Charger spoke softly, his voice barely above a whisper. "Is it true you're in here for helping Isaac escape?"

  Theo shook his head, as if losing patience. "You think I'm gonna tell you anything? What are you, an informant?"

  "I'm pretty sure you know what I am," he said, his voice still low.

  Theo tried to ignore it, but one question had been burning in his mind ever since he'd found the cream under the mattress. "How well did Isaac know what you are?"

  Charger scoffed. "That homophobic jerk. He'd beat the living hell out of me just for thinking about him."

  Deep down, Theo had figured as much: The bottom bunk and the cream had belonged to Charger, and his boyfriend was from another cell – not Isaac.

  "But you seem nice," said Charger.

  "Shut it, fool."

  "Arms out," the guard told Theo.

  Officer MacDonald was suddenly standing on the other side of the bars, and he treated Theo the same as any other inmate. At the same time, a second guard did a visual search of Charger. The beam of a high-powered flashlight swept the prisoners' front side first. The guards ordered them to turn left, right, and then all the way around, inspecting the entire body. Apparently the prison officials did not want the inmates to know that the search pertained only to the back. Or maybe they'd opted for a whole-body scan to account for the possibility that Theo was mistaken, and that he'd actually seen the tattoo on someone's arm or chest.

  "Towels on," the guard said. "Showers in ten minutes."

  The search team moved to the next cell. Theo wrapped himself in a white bath towel and waited at the locked cell door. Again, he looked across the cell block at the other inmates – scores of caged sex offenders who had spent the last hour staring straight at his fully exposed equipment.

  Shower time, he thought. Oh joy of joys.

  FLORIDA STATE TROOPER Mel Stratton was twenty minutes from the end of his shift, and he was way below his normal pace for writing speeding tickets. He couldn't figure it out. This was his favorite spot, just east of orange grove country hiding beneath the Minute Maid Road overpass on Interstate 95. It was a clear night, no rain or fog to slow down traffic. Still, he'd issued far too few citations for a decent day's work.

  It was downright embarrassing.

  Suddenly a car was racing toward him in the northbound passing lane. His radar gun chirped like a parakeet in orgasm. Ninety-five – no, ninety-seven – miles per hour. Didn't slow down one bit as it whizzed past him. Either the Jeff Gordon wannabe hadn't noticed the patrol car in the darkness, or he didn't care. Either way, he'd just made Trooper Stratton's night.

  Hot damn!

  He tripped the siren and lights. Gravel flew and the engine roared as his car gripped the shoulder and tore onto the interstate. In seconds, he was in hot pursuit, but the target only accelerated. Trooper Stratton radioed in the information, but he didn't have much to say. He had no license plate number, no make or model of the vehicle. It had been a blur in the night flying past him.

  In two minutes he was closing in. The speeding car hit the exit at over ninety miles per hour, ran a red light at the bottom of the ramp, and continued down the highway. Trooper Stratton gave chase, lights and siren blaring. It was a lonely road, just a gas station on one side and a fast-food joint on the other. The car was three miles beyond any sign of civilization when it made a quick right turn down a dirt road.

  The car had disappeared from sight, but barbed-wire fences lined the road and prevented escape. Trooper Stratton continued in pursuit, his car jumping down the bumpy dirt road like a dune buggy. Then he stopped short, skidding to a stop.

  The car was dead ahead, parked – stuck in a rut or ravine, he presumed.

  The trooper switched on his spotlight and keyed his public address system.

  "Remain in your vehicle," he said.

  He reached for his radio transmitter to call in the information, but the license plate was too dirty to read. All he could say for sure was that it was a Florida tag. And that it was a red car. With some kind of gang symbol etched onto the rear window.

  It looked like an upright knife.

  His pulse quickened; he'd seen the statewide BOLO for a red car with the O-Town Posse gang symbol.

  The last sound he heard was a deafening pop and the shattering of glass, as the windshield exploded into a thousand pellets that showered his face and landed in his lap.

  Some were clear as diamonds; others, red as rubies.

  THE BUZZER SOUNDED. The announcement over the PA system informed the entire prison population that the lockdown was over. The cell doors opened, and a stream of towel-wrapped inmates moved from their cells to the showers.

  Theo exited his cell ahead of his cell mate and walked briskly across the cell block, trying to put some distance between himself and Charger. One man after another hung his towel on a hook and went straight into the community showers. Theo stayed by the sinks, still wrapped in his towel. The only mirror was the dome-shaped security mirror mounted on the ceiling. It was for the guards' benefit, not the inmates'. Theo used it as best he could to check his stitches. The doctor was supposed to remove all of them in a few days. There would definitely be a scar, especially if it was a prison doctor.

  The shower area was directly behind him, and the security mirror offered Theo a panoramic view. Lots of naked bodies, lots of tattoos. Surely the inmate-by-inmate search during lockdown had turned up the O-Town Posse tattoo, but Theo was a skeptic when it came to authority, particularly in prisons. Maybe the guards had missed it. Maybe they'd found one, quit the search, and missed a second or a third inmate with the same tattoo. Or maybe a cool bribe had persuaded some guard to overlook it altogether. Theo couldn't trust corrections officers – not when it appeared that at least one of them had helped Isaac Reems escape. He had to check for himself.

  Theo remained under the dome mirror, pretending to examine his stitches. He used the mirror to search for the tattoo. It was more difficult that way, but less risky than prowling through crowded showers and eyeing the backs of naked inmates. He shifted strategically from left to right, working the reflection to his full advantage. No matter how he maneuvered, however, he couldn't quite get a direct view into the deepest recesses of the shower area, where he seemed to recall seeing that O-Town Posse tattoo the other night. He tried standing on the balls of his feet, closer to the ceiling mirror and farther to his right – so far that he almost lost his balance.

  "You're doing a lot of looking around tonight," said Charger, as he stopped at the sink beside Theo.

  Theo caught himself and quickly resumed the pretense of examining the stitches in his head.

  Charger leaned over the basin and splashed water on his face – delicately, the way a personal trainer might spritz a client's face with Evian. Then he removed his towel and said, "You know what they say: The ass is always greener…"

  Theo ignored him as he sauntered away.

  Steam from the hot showers was soon fogging the mirror. Theo's search was turning up nothing anyway, so he abandoned it and took a quick shower, looking at
no one. He was on his way back to his cell before 9:00 p.m., but he didn't feel like dealing with Charger. Lights-out was still more than an hour away, so he decided to pay Moses a visit. The cell door was open, and Moses' cell mate was reclining in the lower bunk, alone in the cell when Theo arrived.

  "Where's Moses?"

  "Gone/' he said, never looking up from his magazine.

  "TV room?" said Theo.

  "Uh-uh. He's outta here."

  Theo glanced at the top bunk, and only then did he notice that the bedding had been removed. An image flashed through his mind – the O-Town Posse tattoo on the muscular back of a black man, his identity obscured in the crowded, steamy shower.

  "Are you saying they took him away during the lockdown search?"

  "Uh-uh. He left this morning."

  "So he got reassigned to another cell?"

  He lowered his magazine, as if Theo's interrogation was getting on his nerves. "Moses had a court hearing to reduce his bail a week or so ago. Judge's decision came down this morning. He's a free man, dude. Outta here. Get it?"

  It took a moment for the words to register. Theo looked away, speaking more to himself than to Moses' old cell mate. "Yeah," he said quietly. "I think maybe I do."

  Chapter 29

  The orange and yellow swirl of police beacons led Andie Henning through the darkness. Rural crime scenes tended to be large, and this one stretched almost the entire length of dirt road that jutted from the main highway Andie flashed her credentials to the deputies working perimeter control, ducked under the yellow tape, and headed up the dusty road for a closer look. It was one of those lonely trails to nowhere in the middle of a pasture. On the other side of the barbed-wire fence a herd of cattle slept while standing, which made Andie think of high school and late-night adventures in "cow tipping" back in her home state of Washington. Little mental diversions like that helped her cope with the grim side of her job.

  Homicides were always a priority, but even off-duty law enforcement volunteered their services when a state trooper was murdered. Andie also noticed more gray hair than usual, a sign that a few retired officers were kicking in their time as well. They worked in the glow of portable vapor lights that all but turned night into day. A long line of uniformed officers and volunteers paced across the surrounding prairie, searching methodically for a murder weapon or other evidence that the shooter might have tossed or dropped. The suspect's vehicle was long gone, but investigators were making a cast of tire tracks that had been left: behind. The center of activity was the Florida Highway Patrol vehicle. The driver's-side door was open, and Trooper Stratton's body was still in the front seat, slumped over the steering wheel. His face happened to be turned away from Andie, which was just as well. Blood was everywhere, telling of a grievous wound, and glass pellets from the shattered windshield glistened beneath the spotlights. An investigator was snapping photographs as Andie approached. The lead homicide detective stopped her before she got too close, introducing himself as Lieutenant Peter Malloy. They had already met by telephone, so he dispensed with the pleasantries.

  "You should see the videotape," said Malloy.

  All FHP vehicles were equipped with dashboard video cameras, and Andie was eager to see the tape. "Do you have a copy for me?"

  "Techies will have some extras ready in thirty minutes or so. You can watch mine."

  He led Andie to his unmarked car, took a video camera from the front seat, and held it at eye level. Andie watched the three-inch LCD screen as the action unfolded in silence, the image shaking from the vibration of a high-speed chase up the turnpike. The trooper blew past one car, then another, before making a quick exit. He didn't slow down a bit on the county highway, but the red car was nowhere in sight as the trooper cut a sharp turn onto a dark, dusty road. Suddenly, he came over a small hill and the red car was right in front of him. The patrol car skidded to a halt. In a split second, a gun emerged from the driver's side window, and the trooper's windshield exploded. Tires spun and the red car spit dust as it pulled a one-eighty and sped away.

  Lieutenant Malloy turned off the camera.

  Andie said, "Looks like the shooter sat there and waited for him with the driver's-side window open. Probably kneeling in the front seat and facing backward when he fired his gun."

  "I've watched it half a dozen times, and I agree," said Malloy. "Even so, that was one hell of a shot."

  "The file on Moses tells me that he knows how to handle a firearm," said Andie. "That's just one more factor that points toward him as the shooter."

  "Unfortunately as you just saw with your own eyes, there's no clear image of the shooter's face, and the license plate is completely covered in dust and cow manure. I've got our tech people trying to work through that crap, literally"

  "I can get the FBI to help with that."

  "I'll let you know if we need it," said Malloy.

  Her phone rang. She recognized the incoming number. It was Jack. She excused herself and stepped away from Detective Malloy to take the call.

  "Where are you?" said Jack.

  "In the middle of nowhere," she said.

  "You were supposed to call me an hour ago with an update."

  "Sorry. I got diverted." She paused to remind herself that all dealings with Jack had to be on a need-to-know basis. This, she decided, was something he needed to know. So she told him.

  Jack said, "Any doubt in your mind who the shooter was?"

  "We're waiting to confirm some things."

  "Did the lockdown search for the O-Town Posse tattoo turn up anything?"

  She knew he wasn't changing the subject – just coming at her from another angle to get a response to his original question. "No," she said, just answering his question.

  "You mean Theo didn't see what he thought he saw?"

  "Not exactly. The warden ordered an inmate-by-inmate search just to see if more than one prisoner had the same tattoo. Somebody who the guards might have missed when they inventoried scars, marks, and tattoos upon each prisoner's arrival."

  "So it was in the inventory?"

  "Yeah. We pegged it to a guy named Moses Carter."

  "I'm confused. If the tattoo was in the inventory, why didn't the guards find it when they searched the inmates?"

  "Moses was released this morning."

  "I assume you're going to bring him in for questioning."

  "That's going to be difficult."

  "Why?"

  Andie could almost hear the wheels turning in Jack's head, and he spoke before she could frame a response.

  "Do you think this Moses shot the trooper?" said Jack.

  Again she paused to assure herself that this was something he needed to know. She wasn't sure, but with Theo working undercover, she gave Jack the benefit of the doubt. "I'm thinking bigger than that."

  "How do you mean?"

  "Let me put it this way" she said. "So far we have Trooper Stratton's videotape of a red car that meets the description in our BOLO from Theo's shooting. The symbol for the O-Town Posse is clearly visible."

  "But Moses was in jail when Theo was shot."

  ''The rest of his gang wasn't. Could have been done on his order."

  "A good connection, if you can make it."

  Andie was on a roll, her theory continuing to gel, and the words kept coming even though she wasn't certain that Jack was in the need-to-know circle. "I'm not saying there's any connection yet," she said. "But for no reason I know of, just this morning the judge reconsidered Moses' bail, and suddenly the leader of the O-Town Posse is out on the street."

  "But he's forbidden to leave Miami-Dade County," said Jack, seeming to follow her chain of thought.

  "Exactly. Which means that if Trooper Stratton hauled him back to jail for violating his terms of release, he would have been facing thirty years in prison on charges that are a slam-dunk conviction. Not even a lawyer like Jack Swyteck could help him beat the rap."

  "Sounds to me like Moses never had any intention of coming back to sta
nd trial. His only hope was to make a run for it."

  Andie glanced toward Trooper Stratton's body, which the medical examiner's team was now pulling from the vehicle. "Yeah," she said softly. "And shoot to kill anyone who gets in his way."

  MOSES AND HIS RED car were in an Orlando chop shop before midnight. The O-Town Posse leader had contacts in every major Florida city. Organization was the key to success.

  It was difficult to maintain that organization, however, from behind prison bars. Sure, Moses had heard of mob bosses running the Mafia from jail. But O-Town Posse didn't have that kind of structure. Not yet, anyway. Things had been breaking down in Moses' absence, and tonight's run-in with the state trooper was proof of that. Moses' Overtown soldiers had neglected to tell him that they'd used his car to carry out the drive-by hit on Theo Knight. This precious little detail came out in a phone conversation with his right-hand man, minutes after Moses shot Trooper Stratton in the forehead.

  "How could you not tell me?" Moses had said to him.

  "Dude, we – I don't know. You ordered the hit, we did the hit."

  "Yeah, and you fucked that up, too."

  "The brotha' went down on the sidewalk like a rock. Blood was coming from his head. Was dead for sure, we thought."

  "You just wasn't thinking period. Use my wheels? How crazy is that?"

  "It seemed to make sense at the time. We figured if somebody spotted the car, we'd tell the cops it was stolen. No way you coulda' pulled the trigger. You was in jail, dude."

  Moses knew that was a crock. His soldiers were smart enough to understand that any acts of O-Town Posse would be linked to Moses, whether he was in or out of prison. They obviously realized how stupid they'd been, were afraid to fess up, and were hoping that no witnesses had given the cops a description of the vehicle. That hope had bordered on delusional. Had Moses known that there was even a possibility of a BOLO, never in a million years would he have gone flying up the interstate at ninety-plus miles per hour. Fortunately for Moses, his car was equipped with a police radio (no self-respecting gang lieutenant traveled without one), so he heard Trooper Stratton radio in the vehicle description in response to the BOLO. Moses had reacted accordingly.