Loitering with Intent

DINO PUT HIS head up and caught a glimpse of a motorcycle turning the corner from Simonton Street. “Motorcycle!” he yelled, pointing. He got a glimpse of a black helmet, before the machine disappeared down the block.

Stone tossed him the car keys. “Go!” he yelled. “I’ll call Tommy!” Dino ran, as Stone grabbed his cell phone. Evan was giving Annika CPR.

Dino got out of the restaurant in time to see the bike turn left at the next corner. He leapt into the rental car, which was parked in front of an antiques store across the street, and burned rubber. He was turning the corner when his cell phone rang. “Yeah?”

“Yeah, that’s it,” Dino said, checking the sign at the next corner. “Now he’s turning right on that busy street, what is it?”

“I’m going to block the bridge from the island,” Tommy said. “I’ll call you back as soon as I’ve given the order.”

“Okay.” Dino slapped his phone shut and made the turn onto Eaton, scaring the life out of a woman trying to cross the street. He could see the motorcycle, three or four blocks up the straight street, passing cars with abandon. His phone rang again. “Yeah?”

“I’ve got two cars on the way to the turnoff for U.S. One. Anybody leaving the island has to go that way.”

“The bike is red, looks Japanese,” Dino said. “I can’t get close enough for a plate, but he’s wearing a green windbreaker and a black helmet. He’ll be at the entrance to the Navy base in a few seconds.”

“I’ve got another car headed to the intersection of Eaton and Roosevelt Boulevard,” Tommy said. “I’ve told them to ram him, if possible.”

“He’s past the Navy entrance,” Dino said, “headed toward the bridge over Garrison Bight, where the sports fishermen dock.”

“I’m closing in on him just a little,” Dino said. He whipped around a car and jammed the accelerator to the floor as he ran up the bridge. He had to slow for a curve after leaving the bridge, and he looked up to see the intersection ahead. A police car on the other side of Roosevelt was plowing through the intersection as the motorcycle reached it. The rider braked, slid sideways, then regained balance, missing the cop car by inches. He turned onto Roosevelt and accelerated.

“Your guy at Roosevelt missed him,” Dino said. “He’s headed up the boulevard now, and he must be doing eighty. Your car is backing up to get onto Roosevelt.” Dino turned on his flashing caution lights and began using his horn.

Dino eased off and got stuck behind a line of traffic. Ten seconds later, he was in oncoming traffic, blowing his horn over and over. Now he was free and up to ninety miles an hour. He saw the bike make the curve to the right. By the time he got to the turn, he was in the wrong lane again, signaling for a left turn onto U.S. 1. He made the corner with a great screeching of tires and saw two cop cars blocking the bridge. The motorcycle was on the sidewalk, getting past them.

“Shit!” Dino yelled, slamming on his brakes. He held his badge out the window, blowing his horn, but he had to come to a complete stop. “That’s the guy!” he yelled at the two policemen, who were watching the motorcycle disappear down the road. The cops dived into their cars and got them turned around, then Dino was bringing up the rear of a procession, as the two police cars headed up U.S. 1.

“Tommy,” Dino yelled into the phone, “the bike got past the cops on the bridge, and he’s headed north.” Then, as they passed a wide street forking to the right, Dino thought he caught a glimpse of a motorcycle down that road, turning a corner. He put his car into a four-wheel drift and made the fork. What the hell, he thought, the cops have got the main road covered.

Dino was still driving fast, but he slowed at every corner, looking for the motorcycle. Then, a quarter-mile down the road, he saw it, lying on its side in the gutter. Two small boys were standing over it, looking at it. Dino slammed on his brakes, reversed and turned into the street.

He got out of the car and ran over to the motorcycle, which was still running. That, he supposed, was what was fascinating the two boys. “Kids,” he said breathlessly, “did you see the rider get off?”

“Naw,” one of the kids said. “He got in a car and drove off.” He pointed at the rubber the man had left behind.

“Shit,” Dino muttered to himself, running back to his car. “Tommy,” he said into the phone, “you still there?”

“He took another right, abandoned the bike and took off in a car, turned right at the next corner. He could be headed back toward Key West.”

Dino went back to the motorcycle and turned it off. There was a long leather scabbard buckled to a knee guard. His phone rang. “Yeah?”

“The bike is . . .” Dino looked for a street sign and gave him the name. “It’s got a scabbard for a rifle strapped to it. Get somebody out here; there may be prints.”

“Listen to me, kids,” he said, showing them his badge. “Don’t you touch that bike, and don’t you let anybody else touch it. More cops will be here in a minute.” He gave each of them a ten, then he got back into his car and turned around.

There was no point in continuing his search, since he didn’t know what he was looking for. He drove back to the Marquesa restaurant.

As he reached the corner he saw a pair of EMTs wheeling a gurney out into the street. Nobody was holding an IV bottle over her, and the sheet was pulled over her head. He went into the restaurant and found Stone, sitting on a bar stool, talking into his cell phone.

Stone hung up. “That was Tommy. They’ve lost the son of a bitch,” he said. “They’re setting up another roadblock at the Seven Mile Bridge, but he could be back in Key West now, or on a plane.”

“The bullet went in here,” Stone said, pointing to a spot over his left ear, “and came out over her right eye. She had a pulse for a couple of minutes, but I lost it. The EMTs said there was never a chance.” Stone slumped over the bar. “Now what do I do?” he said, disconsolately.