James Swain - The King Tides

“What if he recognizes you? What are you going to say, that you came to Sistrunk on a vacation? Stay put.”

She was chomping at the bit to nail Mates and Holloway, and she reluctantly fell back in her seat. Several minutes passed as they waited. The silence was unbearable.

“You never explained how the Cassandra videos were created,” he said.

“We used the Reality Thief,” she said.

“Is that a person?”

“Yes, he’s a person, and my boyfriend. It’s a long story.”

He thought back to Daniels’s Facebook page and the shadowy figure of the man running beside her posted in her photo album. Had she met the love of her life while conducting her investigation? She deserved a reward considering what she’d been through, and he felt happy for her, even if he hardly knew her.

“You’ll have to share it with me one day,” he said.

“I’ll do that,” she said.

Five minutes later, Mates exited the grocery store carrying a brown paper bag overflowing with groceries. Sticking out of the top of the bag was a loaf of Cuban bread and what appeared to be a head of lettuce. Mates went to the curb, halted, and glanced suspiciously over his shoulder before crossing. Years of criminal behavior had instilled a sixth sense in him, as it did in many criminals. Mates sensed that he was being watched, and his eyes scanned the street and the lot but did not touch upon the rental.

Mates shrugged it off and crossed. He opened the gate to his property and walked up the brick path. As he reached the front door, it swung in, and a man with silver hair greeted him. They briefly spoke before Mates went inside and the door was shut.

Daniels watched through her binoculars, which she now lowered.

“That was Holloway,” she said. “He hasn’t changed.”

“They’re both home,” he said. “Is that usual? I would think they’d need to be at work.”

“They may be part-timers. Many senior agents do that before applying for full retirement. It sweetens their package.”

“They’re working cases when they’re not abducting girls and killing them. That’s really sick.”

Daniels pulled out her cell phone and started to make a call.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

“I’m calling my boss in DC to ask them to grant me permission to run a surveillance on the house,” she said. “We can’t just barge in there and search the place without probable cause. We need to build a case.”

“But what if they’re preparing to kill Ryean Bartell?” he said. “Waiting isn’t an option.”

“I have to follow the law, Jon. There’s no other choice.”

She made the call. Her boss was tied up in a meeting, so she left a message asking that he call her back immediately. Lancaster’s mind was racing, and as she ended the call he undid his seatbelt, opened his door, and started to get out.

“Where are you going?” she asked.

“Inside the grocery store. Care to join me?”

She caught up to him halfway across the lot.

“Would you mind telling me what you’re doing?” she asked.

“Did you see the bag of groceries Mates was carrying? There was a loaf of bread sticking out of the top and a head of lettuce. Like he was getting ready to cook a big meal. Isn’t that part of the ritual? To feed their victim a last meal before the lights get turned out? I want to see what else was in that bag.”

“How do you plan to do that?”

“I’m hoping the owner will show us the receipt of what Mates purchased.”

“Will he do that?”

“He should. Many of the groceries around here run illegal numbers games. If we tell the owner you’re with the FBI, he should play along.”

“I’m the leverage.”

“Yes, you’re the leverage.”

An annoying buzzer rang as they stepped inside the store. There were aisles of canned goods and nonperishable items, while produce was kept in bins in the back. Behind glass counters were the meats and poultry and freshly caught fish. The husky Cuban manager working the register wore a white guayabera shirt with a big fat cigar sticking out of the pocket. He eyed them suspiciously as they approached the counter.

“Good morning,” Lancaster said. “My name’s Jon Lancaster and I’m a private investigator. This nice lady is Special Agent Daniels with the FBI.”

The manager stared at Daniels. Lancaster nudged her with his elbow.

“Show him your badge,” he said.

Daniels took out her wallet and flipped it open. A silver badge rested inside. She held the wallet in front of the manager’s face and let him have a look.

“What’s your name?” Lancaster asked.

“My name is Alejandro. My friends call me Alex,” the manager replied. “Is something wrong?”

“There was a man in here a few minutes ago,” he said. “We need to see the receipt from the items that he purchased.”

“You mean Don?” Alex said.

“Yes, Don. You know him?”

“He’s one of my best customers. What did he do?”

“Nothing. We just need to see a copy of the receipt. Can you print out one for us?”

“Do you have a warrant?”

In Lancaster’s experience, only people who broke the law asked to see warrants. He leaned over the counter and put on his best mean face. “Do you want trouble? We can give you trouble, and shut you down for running an illegal numbers operation. Or you can play along, and print the god damn receipt.”

“I don’t want trouble,” Alex said.

“Prove it.”

Alex quickly typed a command into the keyboard on his register. A receipt was spit out of the printer, and Alex tore it off and placed it on the counter. Lancaster and Daniels read it at the same time. Mates had purchased a loaf of bread, a head of lettuce, three New York strip steaks, mushrooms, Hungry Jack instant mashed potatoes, a quart of chocolate Breyers ice cream, a box of brownies, and a product called U by Kotex.

Lancaster pointed at the last item. “What’s this?”

Alex acted embarrassed. Instead of explaining, he came out from behind the counter and walked down an aisle. They both followed him. He stopped at a section that sold feminine hygiene products and pulled a box off the shelf and showed it to them.

“Here you go,” the manager said.

It was a box of tampons.

Alex was a problem. He’d admitted that Mates was an excellent customer. They may have even been friends. There was a good chance he would call Mates and alert him that an FBI agent and private investigator were asking questions about him the moment Daniels and Lancaster walked out of the grocery store.

It was a risk Daniels and Lancaster weren’t willing to take. Mates and Holloway were keeping a girl against her will inside the house across the street, and it was their responsibility to make sure no harm came to her. They moved away from the counter and stood in the chips aisle, talking in hushed tones.

“This guy could ruin our investigation,” Daniels said, referring to the manager.

“I was thinking the same thing,” he said. “We need to get someone in here, and watch him while we figure out how to deal with Mates and Holloway.”

“I can do that.” She took out her cell phone and started to make a call.

“Who are you calling?” he asked.

“Special Agent Moore. He’s dependable.”

“He works out of the FBI’s North Miami office, doesn’t he?”

“What are you thinking? That Moore might know Mates and Holloway, and tip them off? Come on, Jon. Don’t be so paranoid.”

“Mates and Holloway have been living in South Florida for eight years. They’ve probably made plenty of friends and established allegiances with the other agents working here. They’re con men. It’s one of the reasons they’ve lasted so long.”