Deadly Pursuit (28 page)

As Mitch swung into the parking lot at the strip mall that housed Alison's office, Cole grunted from the passenger seat and grabbed his arm.

“Sorry about that.”

What little color had been in the man's face when he'd picked him up fifteen minutes ago had evaporated during the drive, thanks to the bouncing of the car and the waning effect of the pain medication.

“I'll live.” Cole grimaced and slipped his phone back on his belt. “Jake's not answering. Those most-wanted arrests can get hot and heavy. He's probably too busy staying alive to take calls.”

“Maybe this will all be over before we have to freak out any other family members.”

“I hope so. That's why I haven't called our mom yet. If this turns out to be nothing, Alison will read me the riot act for worrying her.”

Mitch didn't think it was nothing. And he doubted Cole did either. But he let the comment pass.

As he pulled into a spot beside a patrol car, he gestured toward the entrance to Alison's building. “The lights are on. The manager must be here.”

He set the brake, shut off the motor, and got out of the car. Cole was still struggling out of his seat when he circled the hood.

Mitch didn't mention the other man's sluggishness. Neither did Cole. But they both knew he wasn't anywhere close to fighting form.

Hopefully, that wouldn't matter. Mitch much preferred to resolve this situation without a fight.

Gesturing to a patrol officer, Mitch started toward him. “Let's get an update.”

After introducing themselves and flashing their credentials, Mitch took the lead. “Any new information?”

“No. We've talked to every business that's still open. No one saw anything suspicious. We also checked to see if there were any security cameras covering the parking lot. No luck there either. The office manager arrived about ten minutes ago, along with the security guard. They're inside.”

“Thanks.” Mitch did a 360 of the parking lot. Most of the activity was at the other end, near Home Depot. This side of the mall contained offices that operated during normal business hours—insurance, brokerage, a career assessment center. There wouldn't have been a lot of traffic—pedestrian or vehicle—at the time Alison left.

Finding any witnesses would be tough.

“You coming?”

Cole had started toward the office building but paused to look back at him.

“Yeah.” In a few long strides he caught up to the other man and indicated the single-story offices on their right. “We need to contact the managers of these places and find out if anyone worked late. The windows look directly onto the parking lot, and since Alison came in so early this morning, it should be safe to assume she got one of the first spots. These offices have a perfect view.”

“I agree.”

Mitch pulled out his phone. “I'll call Sarge and get some of our people on this.”

“And I'll try Alison's cell again. Just in case.”

Mitch didn't respond as he punched in Paul's number. He'd like nothing better than to have Alison answer her phone and berate them all for overreacting.

But even as Cole put the phone to his ear and waited, Mitch knew that wasn't going to happen.

Because wherever Alison was, she was in big trouble.

At the sudden jangle of the phone from inside the social worker's purse, Daryl's hands jerked on the wheel of the truck. The guy in the lane next to him honked, swerving out of the way as he aimed an irate look his direction.

Daryl ignored him.

And wished he could ignore the phone.

But it had been ringing every few minutes.

Keeping one hand on the wheel, he opened the purse and groped for her cell. When his fingers closed over it, he flicked a glance at the face, searching for the off button. Depressing it, he held it down until the display went dark and the ringer was silenced.

Better.

He didn't want any distractions for the next few hours.

Settling back in his seat, he smiled. Things had gone well so far. Like clockwork, in fact. The scene in the parking lot had played out just as he'd planned. And the abandoned storage facility had worked out great. They hadn't seen one person or one car during their brief stay. The single glitch had been Alison's scream. But he'd cut that off real quick.

In a few minutes, about the time he'd be merging onto I-44 to head for his next stop, Bev would be back at the strip mall. The plan called for her to park Alison's car at the other end of the lot, retrieve her own, and drive back to Chuck's.

That would be the end of the show for her.

And he hoped she stuck with the script. She'd done great up until he decked the social worker. Then she'd gotten squeamish on him. She hadn't liked seeing the other woman prostrate on the asphalt, nose and lip bleeding, lying still as death.

His hands flexed on the wheel, and his smile faded. He hadn't liked that either. Physical violence that produced blood hadn't been part of his plan. But what else could he have done when she started screaming? Still, a punch in the face shouldn't have knocked her out. She must have hit her head when she'd fallen.

To assuage Bev, he'd checked Alison's pulse. Pointed out that she was breathing. Assured the other woman she'd be okay.

His partner hadn't been convinced. Instead, she'd gone hyper on him. Started pacing the parking lot, agitated, jumpy, second-guessing what they'd done. Her anxiety had begun to make him nervous too.

Like he needed that.

Finally, he'd offered her some of his meth. She didn't usually snort, but it was the best he could do under the circumstances.

She'd taken it.

And she'd been a lot happier when she left.

He just hoped the stuff didn't muddle her brain. With him, it had the opposite effect. But Bev was kind of a space cadet under normal circumstances. He wasn't certain how snorting would affect her. Not that he cared, as long as she returned Alison's car and left his little present inside. After that, she could do whatever she pleased.

As he approached a traffic light, Daryl eased back on the accelerator. Given his cargo in the back, it was important to drive with extra care. The last thing he needed was to be stopped by a cop. If he was, the lack of a driver's license would be the least of his problems.

Waiting for the light to change, he tapped his left foot on the floor and studied the sky. The black clouds continued to mass in the west, blocking the setting sun. Might not be a bad idea to turn on his lights. Him being such a conscientious driver and all.

As he searched for the headlight switch, the smirk faded from his lips.

According to the fuel gauge, there was less than an eighth of a tank of gas in the truck.

A surge of panic swept over him. Chuck had told him he'd filled it up on his way back from his cook, and Daryl hadn't bothered to verify that.

Now, he had a glitch. A major glitch.

He'd only brought a few bucks with him.

A honk alerted him that the light had changed, and he accelerated, sorting through his dilemma. If he filled up and drove away without paying, the cops would be on his tail in minutes.

He needed some cash.

Checking the passenger side mirror as he switched lanes, his gaze fell on Alison's purse—and the tension in his shoulders dissolved.

Problem solved.

Keeping a firm grip on the wheel with one hand, he rummaged through her purse with the other until his fingers closed over a wallet. He pulled it out, unsnapped it, and flipped it open.

Oh yeah.

His lips curled into a smile as he fingered the bills. There was plenty of money here. For gas. And cigarettes. One pack wouldn't give him lung cancer. Maybe he'd get a few beers too. Not that cheap generic stuff Chuck bought either. There was enough cash here to buy a first-class brand like Budweiser.

A gas station came into view on his right, one he'd stopped at on his last foray into town, and he set the wallet on the seat beside him.

Things were gonna be just fine.

“That was a bust.”

Cole's comment followed Mitch as they exited the state offices into the twilight. He held the door for his colleague, whose complexion was looking more and more like his dad's had in the ER.

“Yeah. But it makes sense that Alison was the last to leave. Otherwise, she would have asked someone to walk out with her.”

And none of this would have happened.

Mitch didn't voice that thought, but it echoed between them as if it had been spoken.

As they walked toward his car, Mitch slowing his pace to match Cole's, the same patrol officer waved them over.

“Looks like he might have something.” Mitch elbowed Cole and motioned toward the man, who was standing next to a kid with a skateboard.

Switching directions, they walked over to the duo.

“Guys, this is Shawn Riley. I saw him skateboarding a few aisles over. He's awesome.” The kid, who appeared to be about twelve, reddened. “Anyway, I asked him how often he practiced, and he said before and after dinner. Every day. Shawn was here from about 4:45 until 5:15, and he noticed an interesting situation. He was just telling me about it. Shawn, why don't you start over so the detectives can hear the story from the beginning?”

The boy shrugged and flipped his too-long bangs out of his eyes. “Yeah, sure. It was just kind of weird, you know? That car over there”—he gestured to a dark-colored sedan backed into a spot about halfway up the first row—“was parked here the whole time I was practicing. I noticed it because there was a dude in the passenger seat wearing a cowboy hat. You don't see a whole lot of cowboy hats around here, you know? There was a woman behind the wheel, and they were just sitting there. They didn't seem to be talking much. I mean, I kinda got the feeling they were waiting for something, you know?”

“I'm Detective Morgan, Shawn.” Mitch held out his hand, and the kid fumbled with his skateboard to take it, reddening again. “This may be very helpful.” He turned to the patrol officer. “Run the plates.”

As the man took off at a trot, Cole stepped in. “I'm Detective Taylor, Shawn. Can you describe the two people in the car?”

The boy eyed Cole's sling and bandaged arm. “The dude was wearing sunglasses and the hat. I couldn't see much of his face. The lady had short black hair.”

“How old would you say she was?”

The kid frowned. “I don't know.”

“Was she a teenager?” Mitch pressed. “Or more like your mom's age? Or your grandmother?”

“More like my mom, I guess. She didn't look like a teenager, but she wasn't real old either.”

Mitch took out a notebook, jotted the boy's name down, and asked for his phone number and address. Then he handed him a business card. “If you think of anything else later, that's my cell number. Call me anytime, okay?”

The boy examined the card. “Did something bad happen here?”

“That's what we're trying to find out.”

Fingering the card, Shawn shoved it in the pocket of his cargo shorts and took another look at Cole. “So did you get shot or what?”

“Stabbed.”

“Whoa.” The kid's eyes widened.

“Remember to call us if you think of anything else, okay?” Mitch slipped his notebook back into his pocket.

“Sure. Listen . . . good luck.”

“Thanks.”

The twentysomething cop rejoined them. “Plates on the car are stolen. You want me to check the VIN?”

Mitch doubted the vehicle identification number would be much help. Whoever had changed the plates had probably changed that too. If that was the case, the National Crime Information Center would only be able to tell them if it was stolen, not who currently had possession. But he wasn't about to leave any stone unturned.

“Yeah. Let's see what we get.”

The young officer took off again, and Mitch looked at Cole. “What do you make of this?”

“If these two were involved in abducting Alison, it plays havoc with our stalker theory. Most of those guys work alone.”