Ridley Pearson - Cut and Run

He wore CHIEF on the pinned-on nameplate. He had the bone structure of a drill sergeant. The look came complete with a buzz cut of gray hair and the requisite crooked nose. But age had softened him considerably. Beers on the back patio hung from his jaw like saddlebags. He held contempt in his flinty eyes, barely containing a pissed-off attitude brought on by his night being ruined.

There were too many younger kids in the crowd. Spider-Man. Catwoman. Power Rangers. Larson swallowed dryly, knowing you didn’t drag the chief of police out of his house, along with what had to be every emergency vehicle for a few miles, for anything less than a crimes-against-persons felony.

Beyond the crowd, filling Gasparilla’s only access road, Larson saw bumper-to-bumper vehicles backed up more than fifty yards behind the stop sign at the crossroads. Among the trapped vehicles, a NEWS 7 step van stuck out, its ungainly antenna lying on its roof like a giant corkscrew.

Sight of the news van told Larson he was at least an hour behind whatever had happened here.

Squinting at Larson’s shield, the chief said, “Come with me.” It was not an invitation.

“Vacationing?” the chief asked sarcastically, noting Larson’s Marshals Service shield.

From behind the registration desk, a pale, nervous woman in a hotel uniform caught Larson’s eye. She looked sick, and Larson quickly felt this way as well.

“What’s going on here?” Larson asked.

“I thought I was the one asking questions.” The chief made a half-assed effort to stop and shake hands while walking. He squeezed too hard.

“Floyd Waters,” the chief introduced himself. “You are…?”

“Visiting friends,” Larson said. “I saw the cruisers.”

The chief led the way.

Black-and-white photos hung on the hotel walls and spoke of another era. White dresses and wooden golf clubs. Children in knee socks and bow ties.

The chief turned left at the top of the stairs. “Where you out of?”

“ Washington.” Larson found the lie easy, he’d made it often enough. He had no desire to identify himself as FATF just now.

“Where do your friends live?”

“On the bay side. I’d rather leave them out of it.”

“I bet you would.”

The chief rudely pushed past one of his officers. Larson braced for the sight of her sprawled out on the floor. He lowered his eyes, unable to look.

“Medics stabilized the white guy and took him off island by ambulance. One in the leg. One in the lung.”

The white guy . The description echoed in Larson’s head: Tomelson.

The dead guy on the floor had pale Mediterranean skin. Clearly not purebred enough for Floyd Waters. He’d taken a bullet under the chin that would have killed him instantly. Tommy had either fired from the hip or from the floor.

“He say anything?” Larson asked. “The one that lived?”

“Unconscious when I seen him,” the chief answered.

The chief pointed a dull toe of a black shoe at Tomelson’s nine-millimeter Beretta, partially beneath the bed. He said, “That’s a 92FS. Military officers and federal law enforcement.” He looked up at Larson and said dramatically, “I’m going to ask this once and only once. Did you know this white guy?”

“Are you going to give me a name, or should I recognize his piece?”

The big man leaned in close, apparently thinking he might intimidate Larson.

The armoire doors hung open. Larson noticed the TV’s remote on the bed and then, to his surprise, a computer keyboard upside down on the carpet.

Larson scanned the room. On the floor, not two feet from the chief’s pant leg, a hotel laundry bag hung partially open. He recognized Hope’s pants as the ones he’d bought for her at Target.

Had she been abducted? Fled? He felt his breathing quicken.

Larson needed to find a quick and believable way out of here. He thought the dead man on the floor to be the missing Markowitz guard. The man had hurried to the marina, barely an hour after Hope had checked in. Did the Romeros have someone on the staff of the hotel? Was there some other way they might have learned Hope had checked in?

His eyes returned to the keyboard, wondering what that had to do with anything.

“Room’s registered to a couple,” the chief said, studying a piece of paper he’d been handed by a patrolman. “Is this something a U.S. marshal might arrange?” He tried to engage Larson in a staring contest, but Larson wouldn’t give him that. “A marshal carrying a 92FS.”

“I carry a Glock myself,” Larson said. He patted his side, indicating the hidden weapon. “So does everyone on my squad.”

“And that squad is…?”

“Based in Washington.”

“The laundry bag contains a pair of women’s pants, size four.”

For playing into the stereotype, Waters didn’t miss much.

Larson said, “So where is she? If we’re looking at abduction-kidnapping-then I’m required to notify the Bureau… as are your guys.” It was the only card he could think to play, the threat of federal involvement. He hoped it might buy him an invitation to leave without further questioning.

The chief studied Larson a moment with an unwavering eye. Judging by his breath, the man had been party to a few nightcaps earlier in the evening. “Who’d you say your friends were?”

Larson hadn’t said. “The Kempers. They’ve got a pair of beautiful daughters,” Larson added. “Both married, but things change. I try to keep my toe in the door.”

“As long as it’s just your toe,” the chief replied, thinking himself clever.

“Why don’t you head back on over to your friends and wait for the morning paper? Might be better for everyone.”

“Better for me,” Larson said.

“You got a card or something?”

Larson did have a card, but it listed St. Louis as his office address. “I’ll write it down for you.”

He stepped around a patrol officer who was serving as crime technician and found a magazine. A corner of the back page had been torn off. Larson studied this a moment, finding it of interest. The inn was too classy a place for torn magazines to be lying around.

He scribbled out the main Washington number-Rotem’s number-on a subscription solicitation and handed it to Waters.

“You’ve got business cards right behind your shield,” the chief said, pointing to Larson’s chest.

Larson had forgotten he’d hung his shield out, and of course there were also cards in his ID wallet. He quickly said, “And I’d be happy to give you one if you’re willing to spend the next three days in Tallahassee going through debriefing.”

“I know who you are,” the chief said.

Larson doubted he had a clue, though many cops associated the Marshals Service with witness protection, so it wasn’t impossible. “That makes us even. You’re going to get a phone call some time later tonight, tomorrow morning, and you’re going to want to talk with me. Call this number first, before you make a mistake.”

“I don’t take orders from you guys,” Waters said.

“Then take some advice.” Larson said no more. He walked past the man and left the room, wishing he could have taken Hope’s pants with him. Wondering if they offered him any clues to what had become of her.

Larson hurried out the back of the hotel, stopped in the middle of the practice putting green, and turned to inspect the roof outside Hope’s windows, wondering if he might see her cowering up there, hidden in a shadow. He did not. Plagued by concern, he walked around the street side, leaving the relative quiet of the back to return to the more noisy congregation at the front. Dismayed by the circus atmosphere and not seeing her anywhere, he returned to the rental car.