Night Vision df-18

by Randy Wayne White

  “Personally,” Melinski replied, “I don’t think cop haters are funny. I’d slap the shit out of that hippie prick if he gave me a reason.”

  The bitterness in that caused me to raise my eyebrows, and I said, “As entertaining as that sounds, I called to talk about the missing child.”

  “The kid,” Melinski said. “I know, I know. But there’s another piece of news first I think you’ll find interesting. Our guys finished dragging that lake this afternoon. Where you shot the alligator?”

  As I listened, I signaled Tomlinson to pay attention. “You found more bones?” I asked.

  “No, they found a different body. A fresh one. Another female. Latin, probably mid-twenties, but both of her hands were right where they belonged. The only thing missing was the girl’s life. Someone put her in a garbage sack, then used wire and concrete blocks to sink her. Dead two or three days at the most, according to the guys on the scene. Which is a guess, of course, but they’ve seen enough floaters to come close. No obvious injuries, so no telling how she died. We’re still waiting on the medical examiner’s report.”

  To Tomlinson and Emily I said, “It’s official, there’s an AMBER Alert out on Tula. And they found another dead girl-unrelated to the bones we found in the gator. They finished dragging this afternoon.”

  Tomlinson threw his head back, fists against his temples-a silent scream-while Emily shook her head, smile gone.

  To Melinski I said, “That hand belonged to someone. They found nothing else down there that was human?”

  “I was told they did a pretty thorough search, but maybe they’ll try again tomorrow. One of the medical examiner’s guys told me the bones you found might be a month old or a year old. Maybe more. But it definitely wasn’t a fresh kill-assuming the victim died. And they’re not sure it’s female, despite the wedding ring. They’re trying to narrow it down. That’s a job for the forensic lab.”

  I said, “Which means it’s even more important to find that missing kid. The killer-that’s the guy we think abducted her, Leroy. He’s a steroid freak. With a real nasty temper.”

  I had already given him Squires’s name, his number and told him about the text Tomlinson had received. The detective had passed the number along to his staff, and we were awaiting confirmation that the cell phone belonged to Squires.

  “You don’t need to convince me about hurrying,” Melinski said. “When a kid goes missing, there’s a forty-eight-hour window. I don’t have to tell you what usually happens if the search goes longer than two days. Problem is, this morning the family the kid lives with told officers that he wandered off by himself all the time but he’d show up. He always did. So it wasn’t considered a priority until this afternoon. No father, no mother to push for a search, which I’d like to say hasn’t happened before. But it has.”

  I corrected him. “You must have misheard, Lee, this is a girl we’re looking for. Tula, not Tulo. She’s been pretending to be a boy since she left Guatemala because she’s smart. You know how dangerous that border crossing is. The family she lives with knows the truth. And probably a few others but not many. I’d consider it a personal favor if you called out the cavalry on this one. Like I said, the guy she’s with is a chemistry freak. He goes from cold to hot real fast.”

  I could picture the detective reading through the computer files as he replied, “If that’s true, then this whole damn report’s wrong. If the family knew it was a girl, why didn’t they say something? He

  … she was reported as a suspected abductee late this afternoon. The AMBER Alert went out at twenty hundred hours. All the missing-child protocols are in effect, but our people have been looking for a damn teenage boy, not a girl.”

  “Last time I saw her,” I told him, “she was wearing jeans and a baggy blue T-shirt, so most people couldn’t tell the difference.” Then I gave the man the best physical description I could, pausing to pass along details that Tomlinson provided as he paced back and forth.

  I could hear Melinski’s fingers tapping at a keyboard as he said, “That’s something to go on, at least. The problem is-and this is a good example-people in these kinds of places, the immigrant trailer parks, they’re scared to death of our guys. So some of the state agencies, the Immigrant Advocacy people, will be sending people around asking questions. Maybe they’re on it now. Christ, I hope so. We have almost no information on the kid.”

  I could hear his frustration as he added, “For more than an hour, we’ve been looking for a boy. Who knows, maybe some cop stopped them, then turned her loose, not knowing.”

  I said, “But at least you can narrow down the search area. Maybe they’re in Immokalee by now. Or somewhere close.”

  Melinski said, “You said she didn’t type out the whole word. She wrote: I-M.”

  I replied, “What else could it be? Did anything come up on Squires?”

  I listened to Melinski typing as I watched Emily busy herself in my little ship’s galley of a kitchen. She was listening, eyes moving from the teakettle to me, the concern showing on her good-looking face, that jaw and nose, autumn-colored hair swinging loose.

  “There are thirteen Harris Squires in this state,” Melinski said after a moment, “but there’s only one whose mother owns trailer parks. A rich kid, from what I’m seeing. A rich mother, anyway. She owns three mobile home parks… a house on the beach… taxes almost thirty grand a year. And four hundred-some acres of undeveloped land in the Everglades east of Naples.”

  Immokalee was northeast of Naples about thirty miles. Tomlinson’s remark about rednecks liking hunting camps came into my mind.

  “Any houses or cabins on that property?” I asked, thinking a hunting camp would be a good place to disappear with an abducted girl.

  “Uhhh, nope… I don’t see anything here. Nothing that’s been permitted, anyway,” he replied, then began to read from Squires’s file.

  “He got bumped once for possession of marijuana, no conviction, back when he was a kid. Get this”-Melinski paused, and I could picture his face in front of a computer screen as he read-“‘The informant regarding the minor in question was the minor’s mother, Mrs. Harriet Ray Squires. Mrs. Squires had to be restrained by officers when she confronted said minor the morning after his arrest.’

  “Christ, Doc,” Melinski laughed, “the guy’s own mom narced him out. If he’s one of those crazies who only goes for young girls, maybe it’s because his mom was such a hardass. He looks for women he can control.”

  I said, “That’s the only thing on his record?”

  “No,” the detective said, “but he’s not what I’d call real dirty. Not compared to most of the losers who come through here. There’s a DUI arrest, which his lawyer somehow got tossed out when he was nineteen. Then about five months ago he was banged for speeding-doing a hundred and ten on I-75, Pinellas County. If this is the guy we’re after, he’s got a vehicle that can do that and more. It’s an almost new Ford Roush pickup truck. That’s one of those trickedout specials. Big engines and big tires for guys with egos and-”

  I interrupted, “What’s the license number? And the color?” I was leaning over a notepad, making notes.

  There was a pause before Melinski let me know how patient he was trying to be, saying, “Doc, come on, now. You know I’m not allowed to do that. Even if I was allowed, I wouldn’t do it because the last thing we want is some civilian playing detective, upsetting people and probably getting his ass into trouble. Meaning you. Frankly, you’ve got a history of it. No offense.”

  I said, “It was just a question, Lee.”

  “A few months back, you were the suspect in a murder rap, Doc. So excuse me for being careful. I shouldn’t even be talking to you.”

  I said, “I called because I want to help, not get in the way.”

  “Please tell me you don’t plan on looking for this guy, Doc. There’s an AMBER Alert on the kid, what more do you want? What can you do that a state full of trained professionals can’t?”

  I said, �
�I know… you’re right, but-” then listened to Melinski say, “From what you said, this guy Squires is a bad actor. Driver’s license has him listed at six-six, two forty-five, and he has a concealed weapons permit. No weapons registered to him, but that doesn’t mean diddly-squat. In this state, you can buy freaking grenades if you know who to talk to. Why risk inviting that kind of trouble? What’s this girl to you?”

  I was looking at Emily as I told him, “Like you said, the girl has no parents around. No one to act as her advocates. I’ve spent a lot of time in Guatemala. I speak the language and I like the people. So why not? The point is, I don’t give a damn about Squires-arrest him or don’t arrest him, that’s your business. But I care about the girl. If I can help find her by asking around, talking to people in the Guatemalan community, what’s wrong with that?”

  Melinski said, “Hang on a second,” sounding impatient. A moment later, he said, “Okay, here it is. The number that sent Tomlinson the text? It’s his phone, Harris Squires’s. As of now, every cop in the state will be looking for that fancy-assed truck of his. And we’ll find him. I can guarantee you that.”

  To Tomlinson and Emily I whispered, “It was Squires’s phone,” as Melinski continued, “My next move is to contact our hostage-negotiation guys and ask them how we deal with this. Risk calling Squires and asking him if he’s got the girl? Then try to talk him down, convince him the smartest thing he can do is turn himself in. Or keep everything under the radar until we locate the truck. I’m not the officer in charge of this, but I know who is, and she’ll listen to me.”

  I said, “If you have the right kind of person talk to him, someone trained-definitely not the tough-guy type-it could work.”

  “But what if it doesn’t?” Melinski asked me, sounding angry or frustrated-a man who had been in a tough business for too long. “Jesus Christ! A thirteen-year-old girl a thousand miles from home. No family to look after her, and some steroid freak jerk grabs her. These Latin American kids, man-oh-man, Doc. The undocumented girls, particularly, they’re the easiest targets in the world-you’re right about that one.

  “Some of these gangbangers,” he continued, “the Mexican coyote types. To them, snatching female illegals is like a sport. Like hunting rabbits or doves-something soft and harmless that can’t bite back. And the sad thing is, hardly anyone even knows this shit takes place every day. Let alone cares.”

  To Melinski I said, “I don’t envy you guys the choices you have to make.”

  I meant it.

  “Doc,” the detective said, “I’ll give you my cell number, if you want. And I’ll call you the moment we get anything new. But I don’t want you nosing around, asking people questions about that girl. And I don’t want you messing with this Harris Squires dude. Give me your word?”

  I replied, “I have no interest in finding Squires. I don’t ever want to see the guy again. I’ll promise you that.”

  A few minutes later, we were in the lab, discussing ways to help find the girl, which, of course, meant finding Harris Squires. Try as I might, there was no separating the two.

  My lab is a wooden room, roofed with crossbeams and tin sheeting. The place smells of ozone and chemicals, creosote and brackish water that I could hear currenting beneath the pine floor as Tomlinson lectured us.

  My friend was trying to hurry us along, doing his best to sound rational and reasonable, telling me, “It’s not even ten yet, and it takes less than an hour to drive to Immokalee. Faster, if we knew someone who had a big fancy car. We could be there way before bar closing time. Right on Main Street there’s a good barbecue place, too, that stays open. I wouldn’t suggest it, but they have a salad bar.”

  He turned to give Emily a pointed look, obviously aware that her Jag was parked outside the marina’s gate. But if the lady noticed, she didn’t react. She was going through a file I had started years ago, a file on bull sharks that inhabit a freshwater lake one hundred and twenty-seven miles from the sea in Central America.

  We had gotten on the subject of sharks earlier in the evening when I was showing the lady a gadget I was testing that might repel attacking sharks. Laser Energetics of Orlando had sent me the thing, a palm-sized tactical light called a Dazer. Its green laser beam was hundreds of times more powerful than a legal laser pointer and could drop a man to the ground with one blinding blast. A test victim had described the pain as “like a screwdriver in the eye,” which is why a special federal license was required to possess it. If the Dazer affected sharks the same way, it might save sailors, pilots and divers who found themselves in a bad spot.

  On the file Emily was holding I had written in ink Sharks of Lake Nicaragua.

  “You have some fascinating stuff here,” Emily told me, looking at a black-and-white photo of a fisherman I had interviewed a few years back. He was missing a scarred-over chunk from his right thigh. Attacks in Lake Nicaragua are not uncommon. Water is murky, private bathing facilities are rare and backwater bull sharks have the feeding instincts of pit bulls. Males of the species, Carcharinus leucas, have a higher concentration of testosterone in their blood than any animal on earth.

  In the background of the photo, tacked to a wall, were several sets of shark jaws. The largest of them was opened wide enough to cut a man in half.

  The fisherman I’d interviewed had lost his thigh as a kid and had dedicated his adult life to getting even. The fact that Japanese buyers paid top dollar for shark fins only made his work sweeter-until he and other fishermen had all but depleted the landlocked shark population. The man was dead broke when I met him but still thirsty for revenge. By then, though, a rum bottle provided his only relief.

  I know a quite a bit about Central America and the varieties of sharks that thrive there-finned predators and two-legged predators, too. For several years I had lived in the region, traveling between Nicaragua, Guatemala and Masagua during the endless revolutions. I was in the country doing marine research-a fact that I made public to anyone who asked because I was also working undercover on assignment for a clandestine agency composed of a tiny, select membership.

  By day, I did collecting trips, wading the tide pools, and I maintained a fastidious little jungle lab. By night, I shifted gears and did a different type of work. I attended village celebrations and embassy functions. I wore a dinner jacket and went to parties thrown by wealthy landowners. I wore fatigues and trained with a counterinsurgency group, the Kaibiles. Less often, I roamed the local countryside on the hunt for gangster “revolutionaries” who, in fact, were little more than paid bullies and assassins.

  On those occasions, I carried a weapon for a reason.

  I’ve spent my life doing similar work in other Third World countries-Indonesia, Southeast Asia, Africa, Cuba. The study of marine biology has served me well in my travels, both as my primary vocation and as a believable cover. When a stranger inquires about local politics, residents are instantly suspicious, and for good reason. But when a stranger asks about the local fishery-where’s a good place to catch sharks?-he is instantly dismissed as just one more harmless, misguided fisherman.

  I’ve never really confided in Tomlinson, but he’s perceptive, so knows more about my background than most. And he probably suspects that I’m still involved in that shadow world of hunter and hunted-which I am. But he doesn’t know the truth and he never will.

  No one ever will.

  I was looking at Emily, thinking about the complications my sort of life brings to a relationship, as Tomlinson intruded again by saying with exaggerated patience, “I don’t expect your full attention. You both have the same rosy glow, which tells me you’ve had yourselves a really fabulous first date, so congratulations. But have you heard even a single word I’ve said?”

  Emily looked up from the folder, her expression empathetic. “I know you’re worried about the girl. I don’t even know her and I’m worried. But I’m going to follow Doc’s lead on this. Something tells me he’s got better instincts than most when it comes to these things.”
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  She looked at me as she added, “Trust me, I understand what it’s like to have a family member go missing.”

  Tomlinson gave her a curious, questioning look, as if trying to decipher the implications. Then he got back to business, saying, “Okay, I agree with Doc. If every cop in Florida is looking for Tula, what good can we possibly do? It’s a valid point. But here’s another fact that’s valid: Cops aren’t welcome in immigrant communities. How many times have we talked about this? Why not at least go to Immokalee and have a look around? An hour in a car together-a four-beer drive, depending on traffic, and traffic shouldn’t be bad on a Wednesday night that far inland. Hell, it could be fun.”

  Emily was studying my face, her expression now asking me What do you think?

  She had dressed, but looked less formal in her white slacks, copper blouse, because her jacket was still hanging in my bedroom closet. I hoped it would stay there for the rest of the night-along with the woman-if we could manage to get rid of Tomlinson.

  The trouble was, Tomlinson was right. Guatemalans would probably talk to us, but they would vanish the moment police appeared. If Squires had indeed taken Tula to Immokalee, someone would have noticed a big gringo with an Indio child. Why he would risk doing something so stupid, I had no idea. But if he had, the locals might trust us with the truth, which we could then pass along to police.

  I said to Tomlinson, “It’s been a while since I’ve been to Immokalee, but I remember it being farther than an hour.”

  Tomlinson was sitting at my desk computer. He’d been doing a lot of typing and printing as I showed the lady around the lab, enjoying her reaction to rows of aquaria that contained sea anemones, snappers, filefish, sea horses, scallops with iridescent blue eyes and dozens of other brackish-water creatures that I had collected from the grass flats around Dinkin’s Bay.

  “Immokalee seems like a long way to you because your truck’s so slow,” Tomlinson replied, not looking up from the keyboard.