Now, having followed Doil from Overland Trucking's Miami depot to his home, Ainslie and Zagaki were waiting for whatever happened next.
"Mind if I doze off for a while, Sergeant?" Zagaki asked.
"No. Go ahead." It made sense to take some rest if possible on a long double shift, particularly since Doil, after his eight-hour truck journey, was inside and probably sleeping.
"Thanks, Sergeant," Zagaki said as he leaned back and closed his eyes.
Ainslie, though, had no intention of sleeping. He was still not totally confident of the young detective, and the reason he had paired himself with Zagaki was to keep an eye on him throughout the surveillance. To be fair, though, Ainslie reminded himself, Zagaki's performance so far could not be faulted. He had done everything required of him, including long spells of driving. Just the same. . .
It was Zagaki's manner that made him uneasy, and while it was difficult to point to anything specific, Ainslie's finely honed instincts told him that Zagaki's studied respectfulness, which he overdid by saying "Sergeant" a few times too often, was wafer-thin and bordering on fawning.
Or was he himself, Ainslie wondered, being excessively critical?
"Thirteen hundred to thirteen-ten." The call came crisply through his portable police radio.
It was Lieutenant Leo Newbold.
Ainslie answered, "Thirteen-ten. QSK."
To help out during the task force personnel shortage, Newbold had filled in on several shifts, pairing with Dion Jacobo. The two served as backup to Ainslie and Zagaki, and were now positioned a few blocks away in an eightyear-old Ford sedan with dented fenders, peeling paint, and a supercharged engine that enabled it to keep up with anything on the road.
Newbold's voice came back, "Is anything happening?"
"Negative," Ainslie said. "Subject is " He stopped abruptly. "Hold on! He's just come out of the house, heading for his pickup." He reached over and shook Zagaki, who opened his eyes and sat up straight, then started the van's motor.
Outside, Doil lumbered across the yard, his hands pushed deep into the pockets of his jeans, his eyes downcast.
After a few moments Ainslie continued, "Subject now in pickup, pulling away, moving fast. We're following."
Doil's departure was unexpected. But Zagaki already had the Burdines delivery van in gear and was pulling out into the road, keeping the battered pickup truck in sight.
"We're rolling," Newbold responded. "Will be behind you. Advise direction of travel."
Ainslie transmitted, "Subject has reached North Miami Avenue, now turning south." And soon after, "He is crossing Twenty-ninth Street."
From Newbold: "We are on Second Avenue, parallel with you. Continue advising cross streets. Ready to cross and take over when you want."
Two surveillance vehicles traveling on parallel streets and switching periodically was a regular, though sometimes tricky, surveillance technique.
The rain was heavier now and the wind rising.
Newbold again: "This is your show, Malcolm. But do you think we should call in a third team?"
Ainslie answered, "Not yet. Don't believe he'll go out of town again . . . He is now crossing Eleventh Street; we are a block behind. Let's switch at Flagler."
"QSL."
Ainslie again: "Approaching Flagler Street. Subject continuing south. You take him, Lieutenant. We'll drop off."
Newbold: "We are on Flagler facing west, making a left turn onto South Miami Avenue . . . Yes, we see him. He's behind us . . . has now passed us . . . two vehicles between us; we'll keep it that way." A few minutes later: "Subject crossing Tamiami Trail, seems to know where he's going, probably west. Suggest we switch again at Bayshore. "
"QSL. Closing on you now."
Thus it happened that Ainslie and Zagaki were in the lead car when Elroy Doil's pickup truck, after driving briefly west on the heavily traveled Bayshore Drive, slowed near Mercy Hospital, then turned right into the wealthy residential area of Bay Heights.
Ainslie reported, "Subject has left Bayshore Drive, entered Halissee Street, driving north, very little traffic." He told Zagaki, "Stay well back, but be sure not to lose him."
It was becoming harder to see, though. While the rain had eased, the light was going, and it would soon be night.
Halissee, like most of Bay Heights, was a street of large, elegant residences, the whole area thickly wooded. A twoway cross street appeared ahead; Ainslie knew it was Tigertail Avenue, with similar style homes. But before reaching Tigertail, the pickup pulled over to the right and stopped under a large, overhanging ficus tree fronting one of the spacious houses. The pickup's headlights went out as Zagaki stopped the Burdines van and switched off his headlights, too. They were about five hundred feet behind, with several parked cars between, but were high enough to see over their roofs and observe the head and shoulders of Doil in the pickup, outlined by a streetlight.
"Subject has stopped on Halissee near Tigertail," Ainslie reported. "He is still in pickup cab. No sign of moving out. "
Newbold responded, "We are a block behind you. Have stopped, too."
They waited.
Ten minutes passed and Doil had not moved.
"He doesn't seem so restless anymore, Sergeant," Zagaki said.
After a few more minutes the police radio came alive and Newbold asked, "Anything going on?"
"Negative. Pickup still stopped, subject in cab."
"I've received a message, Malcolm. I need to talk to you. Can you walk back? If anything happens, we can get you back fast."
Ainslie hesitated. He was not happy about leaving Zagaki alone to watch Doil, and his inclination was to stay. But he knew the lieutenant would have good reason for wanting him.
"I'm coming now," he transmitted, then said to Zagaki,
"I'll be as fast as I can. Don't take your eyes off Doil, and use your radio to call me if he gets out or drives on, or if anything else at all happens. If he does move, follow him closely and above all keep in touch."
"Don't worry, Sergeant," Zagaki said brightly. "My mind will be on nothing else."
Ainslie left the van, noticing as he stepped down that the rain had stopped. In near darkness he walked briskly back the way they had come.
Watching him go, Dan Zagaki thought, Christ, what a Bucking bore you are, Sergeant, don't hurry back!
From the start, Zagaki had wished he was paired with someone more with-it and exciting. Ainslie, in Zagaki's opinion, was an overly cautious plodder, and not very smart. If he were, he'd be a lieutenant by now, maybe captain ranks that Zagaki had his eye on. He knew he had the smarts to go right to the top hadn't he made it quickly out of uniform to become a Homicide detective? The main thing in any kind of force, police or military, was to think promotion, promotion, promotion, remembering that advancement didn't just happen; you had to make it happen! Coupled with that, it was essential to be noticed, frequently and favorably, by the brass above you.
Dan Zagaki had absorbed those rules and tactics by watching his father get promotion after promotion in the U.S. Army, and then his big brother Cedric move up similarly in the Marines. Cedric, like their father, was going to be a general someday he made no secret of it. Cedric had also been contemptuous of young Dan's choice when he joined the Miami Police a ''pissant outfit,'' he had called it. The general hadn't been quite so blunt, but Dan sensed he was disappointed in his younger son's decision. Well, he would show them both.
He smiled, remembering how skillfully he, Detective Dauntless Dan, had buttered up Ainslie these past two weeks, calling him "Sergeant" with almost every other breath. and still the dimwit hadn't noticed. He'd even finagled his way back onto the serial killings caper by pretending to eat humble pie. And Ainslie ate it up. Fool.