For the next five or six minutes, they listened to the anxious chatter of officers and wailing sirens. Then suddenly it was over, the young deputy’s voice dominating the others as he announced that the Monte Carlo had clipped a semi, went airborne and flipped until it was nearly cut in half by a tree. With a small break in his voice he ended his transmission with, “both suspects appear to be DOA.”
Mobley keyed the radio and asked for the exact location of the roll-over. He was told the pursuit had ended two miles north of the Collier County line, in Lee County.
Mobley’s turf. Mobley’s headlines.
Mobley turned the radio down, walked to the open door and told the secretary to schedule a press conference in an hour. He came back to his desk and dropped into his chair.
“You got about thirty seconds before I get slammed,” he said.
“The panther wasn’t dead,” Louis said. “It was illegally darted, fell from a tree and went looking for water.”
“Sounds like hunter trying to poach a trophy.”
“It’s not a poaching incident,” Louis said. “The wounded panther was not the same cat Fish and Game put the BOLO out on. That was a female cat named Grace. And we know for a fact that she’s been abducted, probably by the same person who tried to take Bruce.”
“Bruce?”
“The male cat in Lehigh Acres.”
Mobley’s eyes came up to Louis’s face, flickering with disbelief. “I’m about to coordinate the processing of an armed robbery scene with multiple fatalities and you’re giving me some fairy tale about kidnapped cats?”
“I can appreciate your position,” Louis said. “But there’s only a handful of panthers left out there. Fish and Game monitors them very closely. It’s a federal crime to even mess with the cats.”
“But not our crime, Kincaid.”
“You’re wrong,” Louis said. “It is our crime. You gave it to me.”
Mobley smiled. “You thought I was serious?”
Louis felt sucker-punched. He had thought Mobley was serious, at least as far as seeing just how much shit Louis would take to wear a badge again.
“Yeah,” Louis said. “I thought you were being straight with me because I thought you were a man of your word. Even when you were drunk.”
Mobley’s smile vanished and his face flushed with color as he glared at Louis. The phone started ringing but Mobley made no move to answer it. Finally, the secretary intercepted it and the office was quiet again. Mobley was still staring at him so Louis decided he’d simply keep arguing.
“I don’t think the cat-napper is a trophy hunter,” Louis said. “I think he wanted to mate the male and female panthers. But the male, Bruce, got away from him.”
“Okay, I’ll bite,’ Mobley said. “Why would a guy want a litter of panther kitties?”
“Maybe he wants his own family of cats,” Louis said, thinking of the strange people who lived in the Everglades in shanties and tents. “Maybe he’s trying to help stave off extinction. I don’t know. But I do know that if I’m right about him wanting to mate two panthers, he will come back for another male. And when he does, someone could get hurt.”
Mobley’s phone started ringing and again he ignored it. His gaze dropped to Louis’s hand. “What do you have in that envelope?” he asked.
Louis opened the envelope and dumped the photographs Katy had given him on the desk. Most were shots of Bruce and Grace, obviously taken with telephoto lenses, but with an artist’s eye for the beauty of the lithe animals.
The last four pictures were of Bruce lying half-dead on the Lehigh Acres patio, Bruce with his leg splinted, a close-up shot of Grace’s severed collar and last, a picture of Katy holding a spotted panther kitten, back-dropped by the green foliage of the Everglades.
“Who’s this?” Mobley asked.
“The Fish and Game officer in charge of the panthers.”
Mobley sifted through the photos. The phone started up again, this time followed a second ringing on the other line. Voices echoed from down the hall. Louis knew his time was running out.
“Sheriff,” Louis said. “Everyone loves a good animal rescue story. Think of the great PR you’ll get when we find Grace.”
“It’s only great PR if you find the thing alive, Kincaid.” Mobley tossed the photos down and stood up. “What do you need?”
“A CSI team in the Everglades as soon as possible,” Louis said. “I could use some techs who specialize in tire and animal tracks.”
Mobley gave him a withering look. “What else?”
“I want to talk to people who’ve been arrested for animal abuse or poaching in the glades,” Louis said. “So, I’ll need access to your criminal database.”
“I’ll have Ginger arrange authorization.”
“I’ll also a four-wheel drive vehicle.”
A clamor of voices rose in the outer office. Louis glanced over his shoulder to see a huddle of men in suits and sweaty uniformed officers waiting to see Mobley. Behind them, he spotted a TV cameraman.
When he turned back, Mobley was holding out a small leather wallet.
“You’ll need this, too,” Mobley said.
Louis took the wallet and opened it. On one side was a gold deputy’s badge with the Lee County Sheriff’s seal. On the other, where the official ID would go, was a white card with the sheriff’s office logo embossed across the top. Underneath, it read: The courtesies and law enforcement authority of this office have been temporarily extended to Louis Kincaid. It was signed by Sheriff Lance S. Mobley.
“I do keep my word, Kincaid,” Mobley said. “Now go find that damn cat. Alive.”
CHAPTER SIX
After leaving Mobley, Louis felt the need to burn off the extra adrenalin of the day so he stopped by Gold’s Gym and did a quick hour in the weight room.
That wasn’t enough so he swung by Fowler Firearms and killed another hour target shooting with his Glock. It was Friday — Ladies Shoot Free! — and the place was packed with women laying waste to paper Zombies with pink Sig Skeeters.
He didn’t mind being the lone male. He had been avoiding going to the Lee County Gun Range lately because he didn’t want to run into any cops who might get curious about why he was sharpening his shooting skills. Not yet at least. Not until he was sure he had a permanent deputy badge on his chest.
Eventually he’d have to break down and go to the Lee County range. He was going to have to do the tactical training course, test his accuracy shooting at the computer-controlled moving targets that mimicked what a cop might encounter on the street. It was one thing to shoot at static paper silhouettes. It was something else entirely to make split-second decisions on random moving targets.
He hadn’t done tactical training since the academy. He knew he was rusty. Just like he knew his body had gone a little soft and his credit needed cleaning up. It didn’t matter. He was willing to do whatever it took to get back inside.
It was past five by the time he got home. He fed Issy, peeled off his sticky clothes and took a long cool shower to get rid of the film of sweat and Avon Skin So Soft.
A breeze was blowing in from the Gulf when he emerged from the bathroom, towel around his waist, so he didn’t bother to turn on the air conditioning. When he went to the refrigerator to get a Heineken he caught the faint scent of gunpowder. His Glock was lying on the kitchen counter where he had left it.
He had planned to go through his mail and phone messages but all that would have to wait.
He pulled what he needed from a kitchen drawer, tucked the towel tighter around his waist and sat down on a stool at the counter.
The ritual was always the same. And there was something oddly calming about it.
He grasped the Glock firmly and dropped out the magazine, setting it aside. Next he made sure the chamber was clear. He’d never accidently fired a weapon while cleaning it but he once knew a cop who did. The stray bullet had killed him.