Matt Hilton: Cut and run

I was looking for a nondescript light grey sedan. It had been following me all the way across from Cypress Point Park, where I'd gone for my morning run. It was only a couple of months since Kate Piers died and I still missed her like crazy. I'd intended clearing my head with a burst of physical effort, the only thing that could shift the troubling thought that Kate died because I'd failed to keep her safe, but that wasn't to be. When I'd arrived at the park the sedan was waiting for me, and had tucked itself in behind me all the way here. Only my unscheduled stop had forced it to continue on by.

Down on the Hillsborough River, birds dived at shoals of fish and I could hear their raucous calls even over the swish of passing traffic. There was a tang of citrus and exhaust fumes on the air, and the sun was hot and still. Sunbeams bounced off the windows of the beer can, sending razors of light back at me. All these things were distractions and, like the memories of Kate Piers, I blocked them out.

The sedan returned within a minute. I leaned against my Audi, and had a full-on argument with my unheeding phone. As the car swept past I allowed my gaze to skim over it. I had all of a second to identify those within the car, but I'd trained myself to snap-shoot a scene and replay it through my mind at my leisure. The car continued on by and already its driver was looking for somewhere to stop.

I got back in my car and set off over the bridge, heading into downtown Tampa. Behind me, those in the sedan would be frantically searching for somewhere to turn. I could easily have given them the slip at that point, but I wanted to know who these people were. More than that, I wanted to know what they wanted. I drove slowly, giving them an opportunity to catch up.

Four blocks on and I saw the grey sedan in my mirror. I turned right on to Florida Avenue, then continued straight ahead until I was stopped by a red light at Whiting Street. The sedan was three cars back behind a Jeep and a Ford and I saw the passenger lean out of the window to get a better look at me. This action was amateurish or it was contrived.

While I waited for the light to change, I ran the snapshot image I'd shelved through my mind. The driver was a man in his late thirties, muscular build, short dark hair, broken nose. His front-seat passenger was a shade older, stocky build, but his hair was a tad longer and flecked with grey. Despite the heat, they wore sports jackets over formal shirts, ties knotted at their throats.

Going on green, I followed the road under the Crosstown Expressway as though I was going to head out on to Harbor Island, but at the Garrison Channel I took a left and headed for St Pete Times Forum, a hockey stadium I'd been to a couple of times with my friend Rink. The sedan followed me on to Ice Palace Drive towards the arena with the benefit of only one car between us. I flicked on my indicators to show I was pulling over into a lay-by adjacent to the public park opposite the stadium.

There was no game today, so the parking lot across the way was almost deserted and nobody was wandering through the park next to the water. It was a good place to get myself killed if the men in the sedan were better than they looked. But I didn't think they were. When weighing up the seclusion against my own needs, it was just the spot I needed to get to the bottom of things.

The grey sedan drove past. As it did, I played at being interested in the park. From under my shirt I pulled out my SIG Sauer P226 and racked the slide. Normally I'm good to go with one in the chamber, but it wasn't a great idea to be driving round with the gun ready to discharge, particularly when my modified gun comes with no safety.

Waiting for the road to clear of traffic, I watched the sedan draw to a halt twenty feet in front of me. As soon as it did, I walked quickly up to the driver's window and slammed it with the butt of my gun. Even as glass sprayed over the driver's legs, I pressed my gun against the man's neck.

'Show me your hands.'

Both men threw their empty hands in the air, stunned by the manner of my arrival.

'OK. Both of you get out of the car now.'

They clambered out. I kept my gun close to the driver and made the other walk round towards me. He did so without lowering his hands. There was a car passing the front of the ice stadium but it was going the other way. I glanced at the nearby Marriott Hotel, but we were unobserved. I waved them in the direction of the park with a jerk of the gun barrel. Then I concealed my gun beneath my shirtfront: just in case.

They went without argument, as if perhaps they were expecting this from me. I quickly glanced about, searching for any other car I might have missed. There was nothing evident.

Winding gravel paths snaked their way round the park. We followed one until we were at the water. I made them get down on the grass, while I stood over them.

'Sit on your hands. Anyone makes a move without my say-so and he gets shot. Are we clear?' The men sat on their hands, looking back at me as though nonplussed by the situation. I had expected fear, anger and argument. It made me reappraise them. They weren't the amateurs I'd surmised: this was definitely planned. 'So what's the deal?'

The older man gave me a weary smile while the other just sat there. I nodded at the older one.

'We're not your enemies, Hunter,' he said.

'I'll decide that after you tell me why you were following me.'

'We're under orders to follow you.'

'You weren't doing a very good job.'

'We weren't hiding.' He smiled at me again. 'In fact, back there at the lights, I leaned out the car so you could see me.'

We could have gone on like that all day. It was a beautiful day, none of it to be wasted.

'Let's get to the point.'

'I'm Castle, my friend's called Soames. We're cops,' he said, as if that should explain everything. 'Homicide.'

I gave him a slow blink. Maybe that revelation was supposed to make me put my gun away. I'm not the type to be intimidated by the presence of cops, though.

'I already guessed that.'

'So why the gun and the games?'

'Not all cops have my best interests at heart.'

'Not now.' Soames looked at me with hard eyes, challenging me. I could see how he'd probably earned the broken nose.

Taking his words as a result of my treatment of them, I ignored him and asked Castle, 'What do you want from me?'

'If you'd let me get off my ass, that'd be a start.'

'Not yet.'

'Can I show you my badge so you know we're real cops?'

Studying their clothing, I said, 'That's already a given. Keep your hands where they are.'

'We don't want trouble with you, Hunter.'

'What do you want?'

'We need you to come in with us and answer a few questions.'

It wouldn't be the first time I'd been invited to the local precinct house on Franklin, but the manner this time was a first.

'So why didn't you just approach me instead of following me like this?'

Castle raised his eyebrows at the barrel of my SIG. 'It was either us, nice and easy like this, or it would've been a SWAT team. Knowing the way Joe Hunter is rumoured to work, our guess was there'd be less blood spilled this way.'

A worm of unease clawed its way through my guts. SWAT team?

'You're saying that I'm under arrest?'

'Prefer it if you came in under your own steam,' Castle said. 'But if you'd rather I Mirandise you and do everything by the book, that's OK by me, too.'

I put my SIG away. I'm licensed to carry, but that didn't allow me to hold police officers under threat. 'What am I supposed to have done?'

'Assaulted officers and damaged county property for a start,' Soames muttered. The man didn't like me, but he was here under orders to keep his opinions to himself. Castle seemed much easier with the situation but even he shot Soames a frown of disapproval.