Three veteran FBI agents shared the car with her. Special Agents Ayer and Padgham sat in back, while Special Agent Cunningham rode shotgun. Middle-aged and gray, the three men had fifty-plus years experience between them. In a small way, each reminded Vick of her father, which was strange. She despised her father, yet had chosen to lean on men similar to him for help.
The light turned green. Vick drove thirty feet before it turned red. She hit her brakes hard. Up ahead, a car backed out of a parking spot in front of the RaceTrac. Vick felt her heart skip a beat. Was Mr. Clean getting away?
The car pulled onto 84. It was a convertible with the top down, the driver a balding white male talking on a cell phone. Mr. Clean was still inside, talking to Crutch on a payphone. Vick decided to make things happen.
“I’m going to burn the light,” she said.
She put hand on the horn and kept it there. Cars parted, and a space magically opened up in front of her. She floored the gas and reached the intersection.
The turn arrow was red, the cars in front of her braked. She considered hopping the median and driving on the wrong side of the road. Only too many cars were coming in the opposite direction, and she might get in a wreck.
She kept her hand on the horn and flashed her brights. The drivers in front of her got the message, and ran the light. She did the same, taking the turn on two wheels. The entrance to the RaceTrac was right on top of her. She spun the wheel in the opposite direction. Her Audi rocked like a carnival ride.
She braked in front of the service center, her breath caught in her chest. She glanced at Cunningham, then the others. They were cool, calm and collected. Bastards.
“Badges,” Vick said.
The agents pinned their badges to their clothing so they were plainly visible.
“Everyone set?” she asked.
“Ready when you are,” Cunningham said.
They piled out of the car. The service center was a rectangular building with a wall of windows in the front. Inside, there was a food court, bathrooms, and aisles of chips and snacks. The payphones were behind the food court, next to the rear entrance. Standing at the windows, Vick spotted a large Latino male talking on a phone.
“There he is,” Vick said.
Her partners stared through the glass. Mr. Clean was hard to miss. Six-foot-three and approximately two hundred and forty pounds, he wore a white tee-shirt over his muscular chest, acid-stained jeans with holes in the knees, and his kinky hair cut short. Clutched in his hand was a super-sized fountain drink.
Vick said, “I want Ayer and Padgham to cover the back entrance while Cunningham and I go through the front. I’ll give you fifteen seconds to get around the building. Remember gentleman, our suspect is armed and very dangerous.”
Ayer and Padgham took off running. Both agents had their weapons drawn and were moving faster than their years.
Vick silently counted to fifteen. Her heart was pounding in her chest, and she tried to stay calm. Cunningham had the front door open, and she followed him inside.
Time was relative to the speed you were traveling, and how fast your heart was beating. Vick felt like she was moving in slow motion as she and Cunningham passed through the food court. She drew her Glock from the harness inside her sports jacket, and held it in front of her chest. Every movement felt painfully slow. All around her, people were ducking under tables for cover.
Mr. Clean didn’t see them coming. He was the only person at the payphones; the closest bystander an elderly woman extracting cash from an ATM machine. She got her money and teetered away, having no idea how close she’d come to a killer.
Mr. Clean raised his drink and sucked through the straw. He shook the ice cubes, trying to get the last drops of soda out of the cup. The phone’s receiver was clutched in his other hand and held down by his side. Like he’s on hold, Vick thought.
There was a wall of windows behind the pay phones. Ayer and Padgham were behind it, aiming their weapons at Mr. Clean. Vick made a quick motion with her hand, and they slipped inside the back door.
Mr. Clean was surrounded.
Finally, their suspect reacted. He placed his drink on the ledge beneath the pay phone and stared at Vick. Genuine surprise registered across his face.
“You guys filming a TV show?” he asked.
“Put your hands behind your head!” Vick shouted.
“Me?” he asked, sounding shocked.
“Yes, you! Do it now!”
Their suspect dropped the phone and clasped his hands around the back of his head. The phone was on a metal cord, and banged noisily against the wall. To Vick, it sounded like a cannon going off.
The four FBI agents quickly closed around him. While Ayer pressed his gun against Mr. Clean’s back, Cunningham made their suspect turn his pockets inside out, then frisked him. He was not armed. A cheap plastic wallet was produced. Vick pulled out a handful of credit cards and a Florida driver’s license.
“Is your name Wilfredo Pruna?” she asked.
Sweat pancakes had formed on their suspect’s tee-shirt. His breathing was labored, his eyes blinking rapidly. He looked ready to pass out.
“Yeah,” he mumbled under his breath.
“You’re under arrest,” Vick said.
“Look, I told the judge that I’d get the payment to her soon.”
“What payment is that?” Vick asked.
“The alimony payment to my ex-wife. I lost my job, got behind a few months. You know how it is.”
“We’re arresting you for kidnap and murder,” Vick said.
Pruna gave Vick a wide-eyed stare. He twisted his head to look at the other agents.
“That bastard set me up,” Pruna said angrily.
“Cuff him,” Vick said.
Cunningham made Pruna lower his arms and put them behind his back. The FBI agent put a pair of plastic handcuffs around Pruna’s wrists and pulled them tight.
“Don’t you want to hear my story?” Pruna said indignantly.
“Sure, we do,” Cunningham replied.
“I was going into the bathroom to take a leak,” Pruna said. “Guy was standing by the phones, said he’d give me ten bucks to hold the phone so he could get something from his car. I said sure. Sounded like an easy way to make some cash, you know?”
Something hard dropped in the pit of Vick’s stomach. The story sounded lame enough to be true. She thought back to the casual way Pruna had been holding the receiver. Not on hold, but waiting for someone.
She said, “Describe this guy.”
Pruna perked up. “My height, real strong-looking, had a Cuban accent. He was wearing tinted glasses and a baseball cap. He had some kind of uniform on.”
“What kind of uniform?”
“I don’t know.”
“Was he a policeman?”
“No, I’d recognize that.”
“Anything else stick out?” Vick asked.
“He was shy. He didn’t look directly at me when he spoke.”
Vick looked at her partners. Their faces said it all. They’d been set up.
“You said he went outside to his car,” Vick said. “Where was he parked?”
“I saw him walk across the field to the tire store next door,” Pruna said.
“Did you see what he was driving?”
“No. I just saw him cross the grass to the lot.”
“Show me where he went.”
Vick put her hand on Pruna’s back and turned him around so he faced the windows. Behind the convenience store were a line of cars. Beyond them, a field of knee-high grass that led to the parking lot of a Tire Kingdom. Pruna put his face up to the glass. Vick did the same. Then she saw him. A large Cuban man wearing shades and a baseball cap passing between two parked cars, walking toward her. His movements were lithe, and reminded her of a fish moving effortlessly through the water. In his outstretched right hand was a huge pistol that looked like something out of a cowboy movie.