The doctor said, “I’m sorry to inform you that Mr. Cole passed away during the night from his injuries.”
Lynn felt a burst of energy and joy surge through her, but she knew not to express it. She gripped the edge of the nurses’ counter and said, “Oh my God, I just missed him.” She thought the doctor might say some words of comfort, but he remained silent. Lynn looked up at the doctor and said, “Did he ever regain consciousness?”
“Not fully.”
She wasn’t sure what that meant. “Was he able to speak at all? Did he have any last words?”
The young doctor shook his head. “No, I’m sorry. He never spoke.”
Lynn couldn’t believe her good fortune. She managed to fake a sob, wave to the doctor, then march off to the elevators.
It was over. Now all she had to deal with was Leon.
Stallings swerved to miss a car that didn’t acknowledge the small interior blue light flashing on the dashboard of his Impala. There were so many things running through his head it was hard to concentrate just on driving. Would they be able to link this guy, Leon Kines, to any of the deaths besides Zach Halston? Would he talk? Had he done it at the request of Josh Hickam’s father? It wasn’t unlike most of the cases he’d worked, but this one had come together much faster.
Patty, as usual, had kept her head and done all the practical tasks. She called Sergeant Zuni and advised her where they were and the lead they were following. Then she called Tony Mazzetti, who was predictably bent out of shape at the prospect of being left out of another major arrest. Stallings would have to remind him how he protested wasting detectives on interviewing owners of Suburbans. Mazzetti had all but accused Stallings of dreaming up the entire Suburban scenario. Mazzetti couldn’t deny that Zach Halston was dead as a result of a hit-and-run in St. Augustine, but he’d argued that Stallings could have seen any car, not necessarily the one that hit Zach. Stallings hated to admit it, but the look on Mazzetti’s face would be very satisfying if this all worked out.
The Daytona Police sergeant’s plan had worked beautifully. He’d sent the patrolman in a marked unit down the main road to attract the suspect’s attention. The sergeant and the motorman traffic cop had walked through the lot, then crept down below car level until they were almost on top of the Suburban. It looked like the suspect’s attention was still through the windshield. The sergeant pulled his issued Glock and motioned for the motorcycle cop to stay low behind the Cadillac parked next to the Suburban.
The sergeant was surprised when the door of the Suburban opened unexpectedly. Holy shit, the guy had a pistol in his hand. Out of instinct he shouted, “Police, don’t move.” In an instant he let his eyes scan behind the suspect to make sure there were no pedestrians or cars on the access road or in the field. The suspect turned, looking as shocked as the cops, but he still had the pistol.
The sergeant knew he didn’t have time to give another command and let his training take over. At this range he only focused on the front sight of the pistol, tried to breathe naturally and squeezed the trigger of his forty-caliber. He fired twice at the man’s chest. Center mass. He’d had to explain to too many people, at too many parties, that shooting the gun out of someone’s hand was just a Hollywood invention.
On the other side of the Cadillac the motorcycle cop also fired. But he kept pulling the trigger. It sounded like an automatic weapon even though he was firing the same model Glock. It seemed like it went on forever with the sound hammering his eardrums. Finally there was silence.
The sergeant stepped from behind the trunk of the Cadillac. The suspect was flat on his back and made one wheezing sound as he went limp. He’d been hit at least five times in the chest. The sergeant did a quick look to see where all of the motorman’s extra rounds had gone. There were at least three holes in the open door of the Suburban.
The other patrolman in the marked Dodge Charger had jumped the curb and was racing across the open field toward them.
The sergeant took a deep breath to calm himself, pulled the radio microphone off his shoulder, and hesitated, knowing whatever he said would be recorded. This was an opportunity to show how cool he was under stress. He depressed the mic button and said, “Clear traffic, clear traffic. We have a signal zero, shots fired and a suspect down in the parking lot of the hospital.” It would have been the perfect thing to say if his voice hadn’t cracked up two octaves to make it sound like he’d been breathing helium. Damn it.
FIFTY
It had taken most of the day and three separate buses coming up US 1, but Lynn was now back at her car in the front parking lot of the Thomas Brothers supply company. She was lucky she’d parked in a lot that didn’t require an access card. No one would even notice her car. If anyone did, she’d claim a dead battery and giggle like she didn’t know what she was supposed to do about it.
No one had seen her leave with Leon. She’d been careful about that earlier in the morning. After her surprise at learning Alan Cole had died, she was startled by the commotion in the parking lot with police cars arriving every minute. She casually waited inside until she heard the security guard telling a nurse the police had killed someone in the parking lot. She knew exactly who the victim was. She wondered if Leon was wanted or if it was related to her mission. She’d find out soon enough. Lynn was surprisingly unconcerned about the whole situation. In fact, she felt lighter and happier than she’d felt in some time.
Lynn had come to the concrete decision that no matter what happened she was done with her mission. Bobby Hollis had suffered and could be forgotten. She hoped. That left her free to pursue whatever she wanted. It could be a domestic life raising kids or going back to school and learning to do something else. She was pretty certain she didn’t want to be a bookkeeper the rest of her life.
Once she was out of the Thomas Brothers Supply lot, she turned toward the interstate. She decided to visit her parents unannounced.
Just the idea made her smile.
Stallings sat next to Patty at the conference table in the D-bureau. He felt like he often did when one of these cases was resolved. He was exhausted. The physical and mental drain always caught him on that final day. Now it was up to Mazzetti to do the real work and piece everything together, but knowing the crafty New Yorker, he’d find a way to clear virtually every unsolved homicide in the history of the county. Leon Kines would be responsible for murders that had occurred before he was born if Mazzetti had his way.
Mazzetti was already trying to determine Bill Hickam’s role in the killings. Initial assessments indicated that Leon Kines had acted alone. The DEA could find no contact between the two men. That helped a lot.
Everything had come together so quickly, Stallings had not digested all the information.
Sergeant Zuni stood at the end of the table, saying, “They could use this at the police academy to show how little details lead into big breaks in the case. We’ve had three analysts running all types of information since Kines was shot in the parking lot of the hospital. We’ve gotta get everything together in case the Daytona cops let something slip at their news conference. We’re all hoping to keep this as quiet as possible.”
The sergeant looked down at some notes and Stallings realized she was going to tell them everything she couldn’t say in front of the cameras.
The sergeant said, “Kines worked for Josh Hickam’s father. He was doing time in Atlanta for smuggling pot and was released to a halfway house just before one of the fraternity brothers died in the fire in Atlanta. He came back to Jacksonville one month before the shooting of the auto parts store manager. Even though he used a different gun, the time line matches up perfectly. We have him in the Suburban for the St. Augustine hit-and-run of Zach Halston.” The sergeant looked up at the attentive detectives. “We’re hoping to get more records from Thomas Brothers Supply showing that he had the Suburban on the day Alan Cole was struck. The problem is the record-keeping at the company is very shoddy.”