“Answer the question,” Vick said.
“But I haven’t,” the girl said defensively.
“Not cooperating with an FBI agent is a crime, young lady. How would you like to go down to police headquarters with me?”
The girl’s eyes welled with tears, and she shook her head.
“You went onto a police website this morning, and posted some unpleasant things on a blog,” Vick said. “I want to know why. Let’s start by you telling me your name.”
“Amber Spears.”
“How old are you?”
“Sixteen.”
“Do you have any ID?”
“No.”
Vick removed a pen and notepad from her purse and placed them on the table. “I want you to write down your name, your address, your home phone number, and both your parents names. While we’re talking, I’m going to have my partner check you out. If I find you’re lying to me, I’ll run you in.”
Amber wrote down her personal information on the notepad. Vick tore off the sheet and crossed the room to where DuCharme slouched against the wall.
“Make yourself useful, and check this out,” Vick said under her breath.
DuCharme left. Vick grabbed a chair and sat facing Amber. The girl’s nostrils were flared, her breathing accelerated. Vick touched her wrist, and Amber lifted her eyes from the floor. Their gazes locked.
“Why did you post that blog? Do you know something about the case?”
“Wayne Ladd’s my boyfriend,” Amber said. “I didn’t like the things the police said about him on their web site. They made Wayne out to be a monster. He never hurt anybody in his life.”
“Wayne Ladd killed his mother’s boyfriend.”
“No, he didn’t.”
“Did Wayne tell you that?”
Amber let out a sniffle and nodded. She was wearing cheap mascara, and her tears were giving her racoon eyes. Vick took a Kleenex from her purse and gave it to her. Had Amber not been in love, Vick would have told her about the police report that said Wayne had been covered in her mother’s boyfriend’s blood when the police had arrived at the scene, the bayonet still clutched in his hand. Or about the confession he’d made with a lawyer present. Vick would have told her those things, only love blinded people to the truth, and let them see only the things they wished to see.
The door to the conference room opened, and DuCharme stuck his head in.
“She checks out,” he said.
Vick rose from her chair. She’d just raced across town to confront a pissed-off teenager. It angered her as much as DuCharme’s blasting it over the airwaves. She started to leave, and Amber touched her sleeve.
“Wayne didn’t do it,” Amber said.
Vick had had enough of Amber’s denials.
“Then why did he confess?” Vick asked.
“He was protecting her.”
“Who?”
“His mother.”
“You’re saying that Wayne confessed to protect his mother.”
“Yes.”
“Is that what he told you?”
“Yes. I know it’s true.”
“How do you know it’s true?”
“Because Wayne wouldn’t hurt anyone. He’s gentle and kind and likes to write songs on the guitar. He’s the sweetest boy in my school. That’s why I love him.”
Vick had read Wayne Ladd’s file. It had been clean except for the boyfriend’s killing. That had bothered her. Boys who killed were usually out of control.
“He’s not a monster,” Amber whispered.
The tears had dried on Amber’s cheeks. In her beautiful eyes was a look of a much older person, of someone with wisdom beyond her years. It took Vick by surprise, then the slow realization of the situation took hold.
Amber was telling the truth.
Chapter 16
Binoculars in hand, Renaldo stood on the roof of the elevated parking garage across from the library. Six cruisers and two unmarked Crown Vic sedans were parked by the entrance, the officers standing on the sidewalk with their chests puffed out.
He knew why the police were here. He’d heard the distress call over his scanner. A serial killer named Mr. Clean was inside the library, and every cruiser in the area had been instructed to go there.
He’d never heard of Mr. Clean. Was there another serial killer in Fort Lauderdale that he didn’t know about? Curious, he’d decided to find out.
Going to the computer in his study, he’d typed Mr. Clean into the Yahoo search engine. Yahoo had taken him to the web site of a company that sold household cleaning products. Mr. Clean was the company mascot, a muscle-bound cartoon character dressed in white. The cartoon looked like a cross between a black man and a Latino, or what some called a mulatto.
Then it had hit him. He was Mr. Clean.
It had scared him. Someone must have seen him abduct Wayne Ladd. The police had done up a profile, and given him a cute nickname. Now, they were hunting for him. This was bad.
Then, he’d had a strange thought. If he was Mr. Clean, who was the person inside the library? He’d decided he’d better find out.
As he’d started to leave his house, he’d realized that Wayne needed to be fed. As part of the Program, he cooked three delicious meals a day for Wayne, and fed him tasty snacks whenever the boy was hungry. Wayne needed to be happy, and keeping his stomach full was a good way to do that. He’d prepared a thick roast beef sandwich, which he’d taken to Wayne’s room. He’d untied Wayne, and watched him wolf down the food.
“I have to go out for a little while,” Renaldo had said. “I will make you a wonderful dinner when I return.”
“Are you going to leave me tied to the chair?” Wayne had asked.
Renaldo had nodded solemnly.
“What about the movies? Can’t you show me something else?”
The TV was showing a gang rape to the accompaniment of Pink Floyd’s The Wall.
“What would you like to see?”
“I don’t know – something normal for a change.”
Renaldo did not know what normal was. He’d tied Wayne back to the chair and left the house.
A movement in front of the library caught his eye. Three people were coming down the front steps, the police letting them pass. Renaldo studied them through his binoculars, one at a time.
The first person was a soft-looking white man wearing a cheap brown suit. Pinned to his lapel was a policeman’s badge.
The second was a cute little blond wearing a dark pants suit. She appeared to be in charge. Another cop, he guessed.
The third was a sexy teenage girl.
The cute blond escorted the teenage girl to a police cruiser. The blond spoke a few words, and the teenager nodded solemnly. The teenager wasn’t wearing handcuffs, and didn’t appear to be in trouble.
Moments later, the cruiser drove away with the teenage girl.
Renaldo focused on the cute little blond. She got behind the wheel of a blue Audi that was parked illegally in a bus zone. A decal on the dash said FBI.
This was really bad.
He did not want to mess with the FBI. They were smarter than the police, and never quit. The FBI would put him back in a mental hospital, or in prison. They were the enemy.
He decided to leave.
“Hey – don’t I know you?” a raspy voice asked.
Renaldo shivered in the brutal summer heat. No one knew him. He did not have a single friend in the entire world. He turned to find an aging black man standing behind him. The old man’s clothes were odd – dark dress pants, a navy button-down shirt, white necktie, red suspenders, and a porkpie hat titled rakishly to one side. Hanging around his neck was a laminated badge with a blurry photograph.
“I don’t think so,” Renaldo said.
“I’ve seen you around town. You drive around at night, picking up hookers.”
He knows, Renaldo thought.
“We talked once. About three months ago, thereabouts,” the old man went on. “You were scouting for tail down by the bridge. I was there, and we struck up a conversation. You asked me about my clothes.”