“Sophia …” said Richard.
“You’re not actually thinking of going.” “He said it might be our last chance.” “Look at the hour.”
“It’s not that late.” Richard turned back to Serge and smoothed out the front of his jacket. “Am I dressed appropriately?”
“The tux is perfect…” Serge turned. “… And ma’am, may I say your evening gown is absolutely stunning. Everyone in the club won’t be able to take their eyes off you.”
“Really think so?”
“Trust me: You’ll be the center of attention.” “It’s our last night in town,” Richard told his wife. “We should take advantage of it.”
“If you’re sure that’s what you want,” said Sophia. “One last question,” said Serge. “How’s hotel security?” “Everything seems fine.”
“That’s no surprise. This place has a great reputation, but I’d advise you never to open your door to strangers, even if they have a clipboard. One of the newest scams.”
“Really?”
Serge nodded hard. “Well, that concludes my mission here … Oh, almost forgot…” He took back the piece of stationery from Richard and jotted something on the bottom. “I know the owner of the club personally. Mention my name and he’ll give you the VIP tour.” He handed the page to Richard. “Just ask for Billy Bob.”
NEXT AFTERNOON
A white van with no side windows sat on the far edge of a convention center parking lot. Magnetic signs on side panels advertised affordable electrical repairs for home and office. The two men sitting up front wore overly dark sunglasses and plain baseball caps. An unseen number of additional passengers sat on boxes in the stripped-down cargo area. Gym bags at their feet. The plates were Illinois.
Two hours passed quietly. The van idled for air-conditioning in the Jacksonville heat. The driver stared off without objective as the center span of a bridge rose to block the sun.
The vehicle strategically faced the convention center’s entrance. Toward the end of the day, small groups left the facility in spurts. Then a lull.
The building’s double glass doors opened again. The van’s front passenger checked Xeroxed black-and-white photos in his lap. He looked up toward the front walkway. “That’s him.”
The driver waited with silent discipline. At the instinctive moment, he threw the van in drive and followed a five-year-old Nissan Altima out of the parking lot. The van remained under the speed limit as it picked up Interstate 95 southbound, keeping a minimum three-vehicle separation with the target car.
The Nissan got over in the right lane for exit 341, then headed east on Baymeadows Road. It pulled up the driveway of an architecturally sterile extended-stay hotel and stopped under an overhang in front of the lobby.
A half minute later, a white van entered the lot and slowed as it passed a short line of cars parked temporarily for registration. It sped up again, turned the corner of the building and backed into an isolated parking space against the rear of the hotel. The van’s side door opened. Someone in maintenance overalls climbed down and swapped the magnetic signs with ones promising longer septic tank life. The person got back in and closed the door. The van was still.
A 1971 Javelin sped south on 1-95, through the underside of Jacksonville, characterized by viral suburban growth and distracted-driving accidents. It exited at Baymeadows and entered the parking lot of an extended-stay hotel. Serge leaned as far as he could over the steering wheel as they rolled past rows of empty cars.
Coleman exhaled pot smoke out the window. “Why are you driving so slow?”
“Hunting down the perfect parking space,” said Serge. “The perfect space is absolutely essential. Sets the whole tone for your visit. But it looks like everyone else already grabbed the perfect tone, and this inconsiderate asshole parked too far over the line for me to fit, so I’ll have to come back and deflate his tires to downgrade his tone.”
The joint pointed out the window. “There’s a great spot.”
“I see it,” said Serge.
“So why aren’t you parking there?”
“I am.”
“But you just drove by.”
“Have to get extra room so I can back in. Always back in at Florida hotels. Serge’s secret travel tip number forty-two.”
“Why?”
“See that police car patrolling the other side of the parking lot? What do you think he’s doing?”
“Hotel security,” said Coleman. “Make sure people don’t break into cars and stuff.”
Serge shook his head. “In Minnesota they patrol for guest safety. In Florida, they’re looking for guests.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Notice the device he’s pointing out the window?”
“Yeah?”
“Checking for fugitive license plates. That’s an optical reader, which transmits plate numbers back to headquarters and the national crime computer. You wouldn’t believe the ridiculous amount of warrants they turn up.”
“And that’s why you always back into hotel parking slots?”
“The haul of criminals is so robust they don’t have the man-hours to get out of their patrol cars and check plates backed up against shrubs.”
“Will you hurry up and just park,” said Story. “I have to pee.”
