A midnight-black Chrysler 300 SRT pulled up to the sidewalk. The car was a favorite among criminals, with a cheap luxury feel, but dialed down enough to go unnoticed. It also had a Hemi V-8 engine that could produce over 470 horsepower.
The driver jumped out, and let Black Bart take the wheel. The driver ran around to the passenger side and hopped in. He looked to be in his midforties, and wore a baseball cap with the rim pulled down — an attempt to keep his face hidden.
It didn’t work. Just as the passenger door closed, his face became visible. It lasted no more than a second. Just long enough for Lancaster to recognize him.
The Chrysler took off. The Prius was sitting at a traffic light, trying to leave. The Chrysler came up behind it. The light changed, and together they drove away.
“Let’s see if we can get a read on the Chrysler’s license,” Stahl said.
Woody replayed the video. The back end of the Chrysler was never visible to the camera, and they could not make the plate.
“I need a copy of this video,” Stahl said. “My boss needs to see this.”
Woody made a copy and emailed it to the deputy. Stahl thanked the two guards for their help, and he and Lancaster left the mall. They didn’t speak again until they were in the deputy’s car.
“You got real quiet back there. Is something wrong?” Stahl asked.
He looked at the raindrops on the windshield and said nothing. Stahl had picked up on his anxiety, and stared at his passenger with murderous intensity.
“I said, is something wrong?”
He shook his head but avoided making eye contact. Telling Stahl the truth would only make the situation worse. He decided it was time to end the conversation.
“You need to share the video with the FBI,” he said.
“Like hell I will,” Stahl said, now on the defensive.
“That’s a mistake. The FBI agents know what they’re doing, even if they are jerks.”
“I’ll be the judge of that.”
“It’s withholding evidence.”
“Screw you.”
Stahl was steaming, and he drove Lancaster back to the District III parking lot without another word being spoken between the two men.
Lancaster’s head felt ready to explode. Getting into his car, he drove up the street to a Key West — themed restaurant called Ballyhoo, and parked in the lot. The skies had opened, and the rain was coming down so hard that he couldn’t hear himself think. Logan had been gone for twenty-five years, and yet it felt like he’d never left. Balling his hands into fists, he pounded the steering wheel.
“You stupid son of a bitch,” he roared.
Chapter 7
He only stopped when his hands were sore.
He needed to track Logan down before the police found him. His brother was garbage, but that didn’t mean he was going to throw him to the wolves.
He checked out the nearby hotels with his cell phone, and made a reservation at the Holiday Inn Express in nearby Oldsmar. Forty-five minutes later, he checked into his room, and placed a bag of takeout on the bed, then used the hotel Wi-Fi to get on the internet on his Team Adam laptop. He munched on flatbread while doing his search.
His first stop was the Florida Department of Corrections Offender Network website. Florida’s prisons housed more than one hundred thousand inmates, and the FDC Offender Network was the easiest way to keep tabs on them. He typed in his brother’s full name and ID number, which was Logan’s birth date, shortened to six numbers. He clicked the “Submit” button, then leaned back in his chair to wait.
He tried to remember the last time he’d seen Logan. It was right before he’d gone into the military, twenty-two years ago. He’d borrowed his father’s car and left at three in the morning so he could be there when the prison opened. Logan had been housed in Raiford with murderers and rapists, and the armed guards and oppressive razor wire fencing had scared the hell out of him.
He’d waited in the visitors’ room for his brother. When Logan finally shuffled in, he’d been handcuffed and wearing leg shackles. His cocky attitude was gone, replaced by a withering sneer. Instead of saying hello, he’d grunted.
The reunion had gone downhill from there. Logan didn’t show any interest in his enlistment, nor did he acknowledge the money their parents sent to his account at the prison canteen each month so he could purchase snacks and cigarettes. All Logan had wanted to talk about was the trial, and why Jon hadn’t testified in his defense.
Thinking about the conversation made him uncomfortable. Logan had wanted him to lie, to say that he was at home with Jon watching TV during the robbery. But that wasn’t true. Logan had come into the house and demanded that Jon get his father’s handgun from the gun box. Then Logan had gone off with his friends and driven the getaway car for the heist. That was what Jon had told the police, and he wasn’t going to change his story on the witness stand.
The visit had ended on a bad note. Logan had called him a fucking rat, and shuffled out of the room. It was all he could do not to cry.
Logan’s file appeared on his laptop. It included his brother’s headshot and details of incarceration, including date of parole, and the name of his parole officer, which he scribbled on a notepad. Prison had robbed Logan of his looks, and most of his hair. But the withering sneer was still there. Like the world owed him a favor.
Next stop on the site was the Supervised Population Information Search, also called SPIS. SPIS kept tabs on every inmate released on parole, of which there were many. He entered his brother’s name, DC number, and the terms of the parole, which was probation felony supervision. Then he hit “Enter.”
The information was slow to load. He finished the flatbread and washed it down with iced tea. Some things never changed. Logan had driven the car in the botched convenience store robbery that had gotten him sent to prison, and now he was driving for the guy who’d murdered Elsie Tanner and kidnapped her granddaughter. Hadn’t twenty-five years in the joint taught him anything?
The information appeared. Logan’s parole officer was named Ricky Dixon, and he worked out of the Tampa office. He was making progress, and he closed his laptop, weighing his next step. He couldn’t just call Dixon and ask him where Logan was living. He needed to be circumspect so as not to raise suspicion.
He’d kept in contact with dozens of law enforcement officers after retiring. Mike Andon with the Florida Department of Law Enforcement’s missing persons division in Central Florida was a friend, and he gave him a call.
“Hey, Jon. It’s been too long. How you been?” Andon answered.
“Keeping busy. How about you?” Lancaster replied.
“Just finished an undercover job. A Tampa real estate agent got tied to a cold case murder. I spent a week pretending to be a cleaning man, so I could go through his garbage. I found a soda can with his saliva, and we matched it to the old DNA.”
“Did you bust him?”
“That happens bright and early tomorrow morning. Just so we can ruin his day. And all the days following. So what can I do for you?”
“I need you to call a parole officer named Ricky Dixon, and get the address for a parolee. Dixon works out of the parole office on North Florida Avenue in Tampa. I need you to leave my name out of this.”
“Why’s that?”
“Because the parolee is my brother, Logan Lancaster. Logan got paroled two months ago from Raiford. I need to talk with him.”
“Is your brother in hot water?”
“Logan was spotted on a surveillance video at the Citrus Park Mall with a suspect in the murder of a lady named Elsie Tanner, and the kidnapping of her granddaughter. You probably saw it in the news.”
“Your brother was involved in that? That’s heavy, Jon.”