"Pushy ... after a girl says no, he doesn't know enough to let it go. Buys you a drink and thinks you owe him an all-nighter. Well, not in my book, and not the way I was raised."
"Terry—Miss Cross,” said Dean, reading her nameplate, “please keep everything said here this afternoon between us."
"I understand. Not to worry."
"Thank you again. Come on, Sid."
"Where to?"
"Outside."
"Where we going, Dean?"
"I hope this judge friend of yours likes you an awful lot, Sid."
"Come on, Dean, I can't hit her up for another—"
"Just a warrant this time, Sid."
"A search warrant for Hamel's place?"
Dean had scribbled two addresses on a piece of paper and tucked it into his pocket. He now snatched it out and asked Sid if he knew where both were. One address was close by, an apartment complex, the one Hamel jogged from. The other puzzled Sid, It was a P.O. box number, not an address at all, in rural Wekiva, at least an hour away, longer if you ran into traffic.
"Copy these down for yourself,” said Dean. “Dyer and me, we'll be going ahead with a move-in, so get the warrant to cover all known addresses for the man, understood?"
"It could take some time, Dean."
"I thought this case had top priority around here. Get Hodges after the judge, if you have to. We've got to stop Hamel before nightfall."
It's almost five now. We'll never make it."
"Go!"
"Maybe a stakeout at the hospital's in order."
"Done. Now go!"
Dean rushed next door to the police precinct, seeking out Frank Dyer for help. Peggy Carson shouted a hello, but he put her off, going for Hodges’ office, intending to get the Chief behind them, but learning that Hodges was in Tampa and wouldn't be back for hours. Dean put out a call for Frank Dyer. Peggy began to follow him around, sensing something was up, but he tried to avoid making eye contact with her.
Who's the dwarf? Dean kept rummaging about in the back of his mind for an answer. Some poor slob Hamel had roped into his sickness, a former patient under his control? If it came time for a name to be forthcoming from Hamel's patient records at Mercy, a dwarf in therapy shouldn't be too hard to locate. But with time running out, they must concentrate on Hamel. Dean had the distinct impression the guy had a mysterious rural address for a damned good reason. He guessed the bulk, if not all, of the horrid evidence they might gather against the Scalpers could be found at the receiving end of P. O. Box 939 in Wekiva.
"What's happened, Dr. Grant?” asked Peggy at his side. “Dean, I've got a right to know."
"Not now, Peggy,” he put her off. “Dyer, Lt. Frank Dyer,” he told the woman at dispatch, “urgent from Dr. Dean Grant, Scalper case."
THIRTEEN
Dyer was rushing to the scene of a family disturbance, a code 12, when Dean's urgent plea for his return reached him. So far he had not been reassigned a partner. He had to complete the call before he could return. This took time, but not as much as it might have, had Dyer not invoked the new Florida law that allowed an arresting officer to file a complaint against someone causing a disturbance, in this case a man who was a repeat offender at wife molestation. Dyer, with no time to waste on counseling the couple to help settle their difficulties, simply cuffed the man, who started to struggle, but was quickly subdued. Dyer's nose was bloodied by the thrashing man before he finally got him onto the street, where a unit pulled up to help out. They took the man off his hands.
Rushing back downtown, Dyer used his siren. Grant sounded as if he really needed him, and it had come as a surprise that Grant was still in the city. The story Dyer had told him about the pregnant woman must've done it. That, and maybe Peggy Carson.
Grant was outside the station house waving him down when Dyer drove in. Peggy Carson and her partner were in a heated discussion not far from Grant, Peggy no doubt already sick to death of desk duty and the depression that hung over her since Dave Park's death. Dyer drove direct to Dean, who got in, saying, “Frank, we may've just stumbled onto the identity and location of the Scalpers—at least one of them."
Peggy was now within earshot. Overhearing, she said, “I want a piece of this."
"Peggy,” Dean said, “this could be—"
"No more dangerous than trying to sleep at night. I'm in, Dyer, you've got to let me in."
Dyer said, “She's proved herself to me."
"We don't really have time to argue the point,” replied Dean. “All right."
"My partner, too. We'll back you up. Where's the location?"
"At 611 Church, apartment 3C, Dr. Hamel's place."
Dyer's mouth dropped. “Are you sure?” he asked.
"The bastard,” said Peggy. “We're right behind you."
"No sirens, Peggy. We don't as yet have a warrant."
"Gotcha."
The two squad cars, one unmarked, made their way to Hamel's apartment complex. Dean wondered what they might find.
Dean explained to Dyer about the rural box number. Dyer knew the Wekiva area and said he liked to hunt at the reserve there. When they got to Hamel's apartment, no one answered their knock. Reaching into his breast pocket, Dyer pulled forth a set of tools, indicating to Dean that if he was willing, Dyer could get him inside. Dean mulled it over. With no sign of Sid, and with the growing conviction that the apartment was kept for appearance sake only, he gave Dyer the go-ahead.
Peggy and her partner waited back. Dean and Dyer returned to them shaking their heads. “Nothing,” said Dyer.
"Place doesn't even look as if it's been lived in,” added Dean.
"A front, maybe,” suggested Peggy.
Dyer nodded. “If Hamel's what you say he is, that might fit. Let's get out to Wekiva and locate the second house, if there is a house attached to this box number of yours."
They started out. There was still no sign of Sid, no word, and it was nearing 6 P.M. On the way to Wekiva, Dyer asked to be patched through to authorities there, and he got a Sgt. Joseph Staubb, who was excited at the prospect of helping Orlando with such a big case. “Anything, anything we can do—''
Dyer read the box number to him. “Can you shake loose your postmaster? Get some kind of street number to go with this? It could be vital"
"No problem. Don't worry!"
"We need the info immediately—we're on our way to your office."
"Don't worry—we'll get a fix on the location to that box."
"Thanks, Staubb. Over."
"Just hope it's not a postal box,” said Dyer.
Dean didn't want to consider the possibility of yet another dead end. As if the thought were a gremlin come to haunt him, the radio crackled anew and it was Staubb already.
"One question for you all, Lt. Dyer."
"Yeah, shoot"
"You do have a warrant, sir?"
"It will be forthcoming."
"Sticky about warrants over this way since the Pattison thing,” he said blankly. “Best have it before—"
"We'll have it.” Dean wished he could be sure of it.
Sid Corman couldn't find her honor, Judge Karen Markham. He went to her courtroom but it was empty, a single bailiff picking up the day's notes, books, and paraphernalia. He sought her in her chambers, but again had no Luck. Finally, he asked the bailiff.
"She's gone to her dentist."
"It's important I see her, urgent, a matter of—"
"I know, life and death.” The bailiff was dry and calm, a thick-set man with large eyes, a depressed chin, and heavy bags under his eyes.
"I'm the coroner, Dr. Corman, and I need a search warrant to stop a pair of mass murderers. Now do you think you could get her on the phone and back here?"
"For that?"
"Yes, damn you!"
"Oh, all right. But she's not going to like it."