by Bill Craig
“I can see that, but why?”
“It’s the killer. He’s taunting us. He did this. He thinks that he is smarter than us.”
“You seem sure of that.”
“I am. I have seen his kind before, Captain.”
“This guy is really out there, Garrett.”
“Yes, he is, Captain. I’m still the best chance you have to catch him,” Moseby said softly.
“I know that. How is Detective French?” Captain Stanley asked.
“Possible concussion, a few cuts, and bruises. She knows the score.”
“Well, shit.”
“That pretty well sums it up, Cap,” Moseby told his superior.
“Get this guy, Moseby. Whatever it takes.”
“I was hoping you would say that,” Moseby smiled thinly.
“I just did. Too many have died already.”
“I agree, but I can’t guarantee that more won’t die before I catch him.”
“Do the best you can,” Stanley said, patting him on the shoulder before heading across the lot towards headquarters.
Harry Dove was grabbing supper at a fast food joint when a television in the place cut to a bombed-out car in Police headquarters. Harry tossed his food uneaten into a trash can as he headed for the door. Shit was starting to go down and he wanted in on it despite what Moseby had promised him.
The bombing of an off-duty officer’s car was news and news was what Harry was in Tampa to get! He pulled out his phone as he drove and dialed his editor. The phone rang three times before Regan picked up. Harry fed him the story of the murders and the shooting when they went after a known gang banger. Harry ended it with a promise that he would give the editor everything they had once the case was solved.
Captain Luke Stanley had just settled in at his desk when the phone rang. He scooped it up. “Stanley,” he answered.
“Hey Luke, I just heard the news. Are you okay?” the voice of Rebekah McCabe sounded in his ear. Normally he would have enjoyed hearing the voice of his former trainee now turned Tampa Private Investigator[1], but he wanted her nowhere near this case.
“Somebody blew up Lucy French’s car out in the parking lot,” Stanley told her.
“That’s terrible! Was she hurt?” McCabe asked.
“A few cuts, a possible concussion. Listen, Rebekah, this is tied to an active investigation, so I really can’t talk about it.”
“I understand.”
“How are things going with Dr. Prince?” Stanley referred to the specialist in post-traumatic stress that he had recommended to her after she had been injured on a case and nearly killed.
“So far so good. It seems to be helping a little.”
“I’m glad to hear it, Kid. Keep in touch.”
“I will, Luke. Be careful out there.”
“I always am,” he replied hanging up. That bullet was dodged. Now he had to assign somebody to look into the bombing of Detective French’s car. Moseby and French had their hands full with the slasher case. He walked out into the squad room. Vincent Morales and Mario Ramirez were standing at the window watching the firefighters work.
“Morales and Ramirez, get with Hudson on the bomb squad. You guys are going to find who put the bomb on French’s car,” he told them.
“Yes, Captain,” Morales replied. Ramirez nodded and both men grabbed their suit coats and headed out of the squad room. Stanley shook his head. His department was under attack and he wanted to know why.
Tara Sweet was glad to be off work for the day. She tied her hair up in a ponytail to get it off of her neck. She was wearing workout clothes, blue spandex running shorts and a blue sports bra, ankle high socks and pink Nike running shoes. She usually ran the Suncoast Trail, but after hearing about the murder out there a couple of days ago, the idea of running there frightened her. The Waterworks Park on North Highland was closer to her apartment anyway, so she had decided to go there for the evening.
The sun was still out when she started her run and she was glad for it. She wanted to be done before dark if possible. Running at night, at least with this slasher on the loose, frightened her. Tara climbed out of her car where she had parked and began stretching and warming up.
Ten minutes later, she was warmed up and ready to run. She started off at an easy trot, glad to feel the air moving across her bare skin as she ran, lulling herself into the zone with every footfall as she moved deeper into the park.
Soon everything was just gliding past, a peripheral blur as she ran. She had found her rhythm and settled into a mile-eating lope, much like that of a wolf as it runs. She reached the far end of the park and turned and started back the other direction towards her car. The sun had sunk lower past the horizon and now there were pits of deep shadows beneath the trees. The wind had picked up as the sun went down and she relished the feel of the cooling breeze on her skin.
Sweat was running down across her face and she wiped it away with blue terry cloth bands around her wrists. She reached a point where she could see her car and she broke into a sprint, running as hard as she could, slowing about twenty yards out to a walk, her hands behind her head to help her get her breath back. She was sweating freely as she reached her car. She reached into her car and pulled out a blue terrycloth towel and began wiping the sweat from her exposed skin. She would be glad to hit the shower when she got home.
Finally, she climbed into her car and started it up and backed out of her parking spot and headed for home, totally unaware that she was being watched and followed.
He liked this one. He had followed her at a distance while she ran and she was never even aware of her vulnerability, or that she was being followed. She was making it easy for him. He liked it that way.
He had spotted her at work. It was dangerous, going after someone that he worked with, but she had been discourteous to him the other day in the break room. He disliked people who couldn’t offer common courtesy.
Common courtesy was the foundation of civilization. If people couldn’t extend common courtesy to each other, the world would descend into anarchy. He followed her to her home and made not of the address. He would follow her for a few days before he made his next move. Maybe the cops would think he had moved on, a transient killer in a transient world. He liked the idea of it.
Garrett Moseby waited stoically for the doctor to emerge from the emergency room and deliver him news about Lucy French. He had insisted on following the ambulance to the emergency room and had waited patiently for some word on his partner’s condition.
The killer had made it very personal for him. Garrett Moseby would not stop hunting the motherfucker until he was in a body bag. What most civilians didn’t understand; was that cops that were partnered were like a married couple. They were together in high-stress situations for eight hours a day. More often than not, they could finish each other’s sentences and knew exactly how their partner thought. Lucy French was his work wife for all intents and purposes. He loved her like a brother, even though she was a woman. Nobody from the outside could even begin to understand that. It wasn’t just husband and wife, it was brother and sister at the same time. Call it incestuous if that was your bag, but it was what it was.
Finally, the doctor emerged, looking tired and drawn. “How is she?” Moseby asked.
“She has a concussion. Most of the surface wounds were superficial. Give her a couple of days and she will be back to a hundred percent,” the doctor told him.
“Thank you, Doc. That is good to know,” Moseby told the surgeon.
“She is one tough Lady, Detective.”
“I know that, Doc. She’s my partner.”
“I’m sorry, Detective. I hate it when any law officer gets hurt,” the doctor said.
“Me too,” Moseby told him. Okay, Lucy would live, but she was out of commission for at least a day, maybe two. Moseby had to figure out what the hell was going on.
What was the killer up to? Now that he had side-tracked the police force with this second attack and blow
ing up Lucy’s car?”
Garrett Moseby frowned as he looked at the beige wall across from where he sat. When word came, and he knew that it would, it would come through the doors across from him. He needed to keep an eye on them, considering the fact that the bad guys had eyes on them all.
Chapter Eleven
Moseby pulled out his phone and called Captain Stanley to give him the good news. “She’ll be okay in a day or two, Cap,” Moseby said when Stanley answered the telephone.
“I’m damned glad to hear that Garrett. I’m sending a couple of uniforms to stand guard outside her room just in case. This son of a bitch is really out there. So, what are you going to do next?” Stanley asked.
“I’m gonna hit the streets and put some feelers out. Somebody somewhere has to have noticed this freak.”
“Be careful, Garrett. I can’t afford to lose any more officers. Losing Grimm was bad enough; even though he was dirty as shit.”
“I know that, Luke.”
“Don’t let this guy fuck with your head, Garrett. I need you to stay focused.”
“Right now, I am as focused as a laser-guided missile, Luke. I’m gonna bring this fucker down no matter what.” Moseby broke the connection and dropped his phone into his pants pocket. He would come back to check on Lucy later, but for now, he was going to hit the streets and see if he could shake anything about their perp loose!
There were some people that he could talk to. People that would keep their eyes open and report back anything that seemed off or strange. Most cops had built up networks of informants, and Moseby was no different.
Moseby worked the streets until nearly eleven before he called it a night and went home. He would swing by the hospital and check on Lucy in the morning before he went into the station.
It was eleven fifteen when he pulled into his driveway and cut the engine and lights on his car. His gun was in his hand as he climbed out. He didn’t plan on taking any chances after what had happened with Lucy. Moseby circled his house with a very bright tactical flashlight washing away any and all shadows. Once he was sure his property was clear, he unlocked the front door and slipped inside. He then made it a point to clear the entire house before returning to the living room and turning on the lights.
He had locked the front door right after he entered, so he was satisfied that he was alone in the house. He stripped off his jacket and hung it on the coat tree, and then he shed the shoulder holster after removing his .45 and placing it on the end table next to his chair. Moseby went to the kitchen and poured himself two fingers of bourbon and carried it back to the living room. He dropped into the chair and turned on the remote for the television and satellite system.
One of the local channels was showing reruns of The Rockford files, starring Jim Garner. Moseby had always enjoyed that show. He turned the sound down and flipped on his stereo. He had Chet Baker in the CD player and pretty soon the mellow strains of a sax were filling the air. Moseby sipped the whiskey until he drifted off to sleep.
Lucy French glared at the latest nurse that had awakened her to take her vitals. She hated being in the hospital and knew that she would have been far more comfortable and rested if she had been allowed to spend the night in her own bed.
She was angry, to say the least. The bastard that they were after had come after her personally, had blown up her fucking car! She could guess that Moseby had hit the streets and put the word out for everyone to be looking for the cock sucker. That wasn’t enough. She wanted to be out there looking for him too!
The sun was already shining through the blinds that hung over the windows so she knew it was daylight already. She reached over to the telephone and dialed Moseby’s home number.
He had gotten up with the sun, excited about the events of the day before and the picking of his next victim. Tara Sweet. She would be fun. Tara was one of those girls at work who thought that her ass was gold plated and that she was far too good to even notice the likes of him. Well, he would disabuse her of that notion soon enough. He might even suggest that they run together tonight. He smiled at the thought. Running beside her and then taking her out. It had a certain symmetry about it. Then he would cripple her and humiliate her just like she had humiliated him the other day in the break room. He licked his lips in anticipation.
All he had to do was to convince her to meet him after work for a run. She made no secret of the fact that she liked having a running partner, but most of the guys at the office found her snobbishness to be a real turn-off. It was something that he knew that he could use to get her alone on some running trail!
And when he did, she would suffer for the way that she had treated him the other day. He smiled to himself as he drove. It would be very satisfying, much more than the girl that he had killed just to throw the cops off. That one had been a diversion and he had taken no real pleasure from it. But Tara, that one would indeed be as sweet as her last name…
Garrett Moseby scooped up the phone from the cradle on the first ring. “Moseby,” he said.
“About time you got up. Why the hell am I still in the hospital and you’re still snuggling in bed?” Lucy French asked.
“You are there because the Doctors said that you couldn’t leave until they got back test results,” Moseby told her.
“Yeah, I figured you’d fall back on that.”
“Somebody had to,” Moseby told her.
“Are we any closer to catching this motherfucker?” Lucy asked.
“Not so far,” Moseby told her.
“Why not?”
“Because the fucker is damn good and hasn’t left a whole lot of evidence behind for our forensic people to find,” Moseby explained.
“I’m getting out of here today, Garrett. Come and get me.”
“Are you sure that’s a good idea, Lucy?”
“I don’t care if it is or not. Just come and get me.”
“Okay,” he told her, hanging up.
Garrett Moseby climbed out of bed and headed for the shower. He knew how impatient that Lucy could be.
Tara Sweet was wearing a beige knee-length A-line skirt and a mint green blouse and champagne colored heels as she walked from the parking lot and swiped her ID card at the entrance to the call center where she worked. Her blonde hair was gathered behind her head in a messy bun. She was anxious, given what she had seen on the news the night before about a second victim of the Tampa Slasher.
“Hey, Tara, would you like a running partner after work?” Douglas Carrington asked as they both headed to the area that they had to swipe their cards to clock in.
“You run?” she looked at Carrington in surprise.
“I do. I’ve got a few marathons under my belt,” Carrington told her. He had the build of a runner. She hadn’t noticed it before.
“Which ones?” she asked, suddenly curious despite herself.
“The Brass Tap Half, and the Monster Challenges. 5 K, but still challenging,” he shrugged.
“I run those too. Okay, you have a deal,” Tara told him and walked off. Douglas Carrington smiled like the cat that had swallowed the canary as he walked to his cubicle.
“What’s got you all smiles this morning?” Mike Charles asked.
“I finally found a chink in the Ice Queen’s armor.”
“Yeah?”
“She likes to run and doesn’t like running alone. I overheard her telling Sally Marcum in the break room that she was looking for somebody to run with,” Carrington smirked.
“Smooth move, Doug. Of course, Woody will be disappointed. He was trying to put the make on her the other day,” Charles grinned.
“Like that would ever happen,” Carrington chuckled. Neither of them noticed the slight, curly-headed man with glasses a few cubicles away that was listening to them, his face turning red with anger as he dropped into his chair and logged into his computer. Soon they forgot the conversation as they got to work and started answering calls.
Tara Sweet had been caught off guard by Douglas Carring
ton’s question. She had no idea before now that he was a runner. Sure, he had an athletic build, but he also had a reputation around the call center as a skirt chaser and a whore dog. Sure, she had accepted his offer, but only because she didn’t want to run alone at night. She would talk to Carly and make sure that she would be along just in case Doug had more than running on his mind.
Moseby had called Captain Stanley to get his okay before going to pick Lucy up from the hospital. He didn’t want a shit storm landing on his head when they showed up at the station. Surprisingly, the Captain had cleared it, giving Moseby the impression that Lucy had had already talked to him. He knew that his partner could be very persuasive when she put her mind to it. And apparently, she had enough dirt on the Captain to get him to bend to her will. He wondered if any of that dirt involved Rebekah McCabe. There had certainly been a lot of rumors about the two of them.
Moseby pushed those thoughts away as he entered the elevator and hit the button that would take him up to Lucy French’s floor. He could only imagine the reactions of the nurses when he told them that he was here to take Lucy home. He shook his head, sure that it wouldn’t be pretty.
The doors to the elevator opened and Moseby stepped out into the corridor. There were no screams or bodies scattered about. Moseby took that as a good sign. Slowly he walked down to the nurse’s station, surprised to hear them chatting gaily. He stopped in front of an older nurse with graying hair and a kind face. She looked up at him over the top of her glasses. “May I help you?” she asked.
“I’m here to pick up Detective Lucy French. I was given to understand that she was going to be released today,” Moseby said.
“Thank God! She is an impossible patient!” the nurse whose name tag identified her as Linda said.
“I figured as much,” Moseby said sympathetically.
“How quickly can you get her out of here?”
