James Swain - The King Tides

“You can identify one of them,” he said.

“That’s right. I’d heard their voices and could identify one of them. They went dark for thirteen years, and satisfied their cravings in other ways. Then I got promoted at the FBI. They found out, and decided to enact a payback.”

“The Saint Jude medal they put on their victims’ necks before they kill them is to taunt you. It’s their way of saying that your investigation is a lost cause.”

She nodded solemnly. “Correct. That’s not just my opinion. It’s also the bureau’s. Our profilers looked at the evidence and determined that’s their motivation.”

“I’m surprised they left you on the case.”

“In the beginning, I was too. But then I realized how much sense it made. If anyone was going to catch them, it was going to be me.”

The study was starting to feel claustrophobic. He rose and soon was standing with his stomach pressed to the balcony railing, breathing sweet salt air. She joined him holding two glasses of OJ and handed him one. She clinked her glass against his.

“What are we celebrating?” he asked.

“I’ve been chasing these fuckers for a long time, and now I’m going to take them down,” she said, unable to hide the satisfaction in her voice.

“How? You don’t have any evidence.”

“No, but I can still arrest them, and get a DNA swab, and make a match.”

“On what charges?”

“When Rhoden and Butler moved to Fort Lauderdale they didn’t register themselves as sexual predators. The Sex Offender Registration and Notification Act requires that all sexual predators register when they change addresses. They’re also required to make in-person appearances with local law enforcement to verify and update their information.

“They didn’t do that. The authorities in Atlanta should have checked up on them, since that was the last place where they lived, but it never happened.”

“They slipped through the cracks.”

“Uh-huh. I’m guessing they moved here and waited to see if the law would catch up with them. When it didn’t, they went on their killing spree.”

She had made the pieces of the puzzle fit. Rhoden and Butler had lived in Hanover during the first killings and also lived in the cities where the subsequent killings had taken place. And, they were sexual predators with criminal records. All the road signs pointed to them, which 99 percent of the time meant it was them. It was a solid piece of investigative work born out of years of frustration and failure. He hardly knew her, but that didn’t lessen how proud he felt for her. She had gone down the long road, and now the finish line was in sight.

“I have their current address,” she said. “Got it from DMV and reconfirmed it on the property appraiser’s website. They live in a house in Oakland Park they bought seven years ago. I’ve asked a team of agents from our North Miami office to help me bust them. I’d like you to join us. I think you deserve it.”

For a cop, there was no greater honor than to be asked to join a bust. Whatever lingering bad feelings he’d had for her evaporated, including her breaking his grandmother’s ladle.

“Count me in,” he said. “Would you like me to draw them out? It’s my specialty.”

“How do you plan to do that?”

“Easy. I’ll pretend I work for Amazon.”

In Lancaster’s experience, there was no better way to get a suspect inside a dwelling to drop their guard than by posing as an Amazon delivery person. This was especially true in South Florida, where Amazon was the preferred online retailer for many residents.

Delivery people for Amazon did not wear uniforms but did their jobs in street clothes. The vehicles they drove were their own, and had no decals or roof signs. Best of all, they did not have assigned routes but constantly moved around. A customer might receive a package from an Indian gentleman wearing a turban one day, a fetching college coed with purple hair and a brass ring in her nose the next. Customers were accustomed to not seeing the same delivery person, and as a result, they did not become suspicious when a stranger showed up on their doorstep holding a clipboard and carrying a cardboard box with the iconic Amazon logo stamped on its sides.

There was another plus. Amazon delivered every day of the week, including Sundays, often at odd hours. No other delivery company did that.

“Are you sure you want to do this?” Daniels asked.

They sat in Daniels’s rental a block from Rhoden and Butler’s residence in Oakland Park. The neighborhood was a testimonial to suburbia, with two cars parked in every driveway and landscaping so well maintained that it looked artificial. It was just past nine o’clock in the evening. It had taken two hours for Daniels’s team of local FBI agents to assemble. The backup unit consisted of five male agents ranging in age from early thirties to late forties. Apparently, Daniels liked them big, and the men looked like the offensive line of a college football team.

A few minutes earlier, Daniels had done a drive-by of Rhoden and Butler’s house. An older vehicle sat in the driveway, and the windows were lit up. Through a filmy curtain covering the front window, dancing images on a TV screen were visible.

“Of course I’m sure,” he replied. “Drawing suspects out is my specialty. When I was a SEAL, my unit commander always sent me in first. My appearance threw people off, and they’d let their guard down.”

“I still want you to wear a vest,” she insisted.

“Beneath my shirt? That won’t work.”

“You could get shot.”

“I’ve dealt with worse people than these two, and no one’s put a bullet in me so far,” he said reassuringly. “Stop worrying.”

“Don’t tell me not to worry,” she said.

The concern in her voice was not the professional kind. She cared about him. He had helped her find her adversaries, and now there was a bond between them. He reached across the front seat and gave her arm a squeeze.

“I’m also good on the draw,” he said.

“You’re carrying?” she asked.

He lifted the front of his shirt to reveal the Ruger tucked beneath his belt.

“When did you put that there?” she asked.

“When you weren’t looking,” he said.

“How good a shot are you?”

“I’ve won medals for my marksmanship, and I don’t miss at close range. If Rhoden or Butler get Western on me, I’ll take them both out of the picture.”

“Let’s hope it doesn’t come down to that. Promise me you’ll be careful.”

“I promise.” He paused. “Now let’s get these monsters.”

They got out. He walked around to the driver’s side where she stood. She handed him the keys and crossed the road to where a pair of matching black sedans carrying the backup unit were parked. She gave him a parting nod before climbing into the lead sedan.

“Good luck,” her lips said.

He got into the rental and started the engine. Adrenaline was pumping through his veins, and his face was burning up. The world was filled with clever killers who mistakenly believed that they’d never be caught. This was not true. Karma had everyone’s address, and it was only a matter of time before a killer tripped up and was apprehended. He knew of no greater pleasure than of seeing the shock register across a suspect’s face when the cuffs got slapped on his wrists. He did a U-turn in the street, drove down the block to their suspects’ house, and made the front tire kiss the curb. Killing the engine, he found the button to pop the trunk and pressed it. Then he got out.

From the trunk he retrieved the brown cardboard Amazon delivery box that he’d gotten from his apartment, along with a clipboard. He was a Prime member and regularly got shipments sent to his condo. The Amazon box was the size of a hardcover book. He held the box in his left hand next to his body. He placed the clipboard on top of the box so it faced him. On the clipboard was a sheet of paper that contained blurred photographs of Rhoden and Butler, which he’d printed off their Facebook pages. Rhoden had a bald crown and a reddish discoloration on his neck that suggested he might suffer from eczema. Butler had a full head of hair and wore a pair of shades, which Lancaster guessed he wore when having his photograph taken to hide his discolored eye. Both men’s faces were soulless.