Free Electric Barracuda by Tim Dorsey Page A

Kissimmee!
    She scribbled something on a hotel notepad, then went to wake the person in the suite’s other bedroom.
    A half hour later, guests rubber-necked all through the hotel lobby as a jaw-dropping redhead in dark, movie-star sunglasses rolled a single Samsonite out to the curb. She didn’t even need her valet ticket. Who could forget?
    A turquoise T-Bird rolled up. The valet got a ten for his trouble, and she took off.

Chapter Four
    South of Orlando
    A Crown Vic rolled east on Highway 192. Two occupants checked addresses.
    Agent White looked over from the driver’s seat at his passenger. “I hate to pull rank, but could you wear a shirt and tie?”
    Agent Lowe glanced down at his black jumpsuit. “But it’s regulation SWAT.”
    “You’re not on the SWAT team.”
    “I’m projecting.”
    “Shirt and tie tomorrow?”
    “Will you put in a word?”
    “If we catch Serge.” White returned to checking address numbers on car washes and nail salons. Then a strip mall, where Uncle Sam and the Statue of Liberty stood at the curb, waving signs for speedy tax preparation. “I thought the Orange Bowl was in Miami.”
    “So did I,” said Lowe. “But it’s where his e-mail told us to meet.”
    They continued through Kissimmee, farther from Disney, closer to the old part of town that had grown out of livestock farms and steamboat docks in the late nineteenth century. The main drag slipped from tourist glitter to neighborhood business.
    “There it is,” said Lowe.
    White pulled into the parking lot and looked up at cursive letters down the side of a building frozen in time.
    “Now I get it,” said Lowe. “The Orange Bowl. A bowling alley.”
    They went inside.
    White tilted his head. “Lane three.”
    Pins scattered, six-ten split. A man in a tweed coat and rumpled fedora grabbed another ball and addressed the spare. He began running and swung his arm back.
    “Mahoney?”
    Gutter ball.
    He flicked a toothpick behind him. “Who’s chimin’?”
    “What?” said White.
    “Mahoney,” said Lowe. “I called you in Saint Pete.”
    Mahoney formed a cynical smile. “Pokin’ the Serge lay-down?”
    The partners looked oddly at each other.
    They took seats around the scoring table and White leaned earnestly. “When was the last time you saw Serge?”
    Mahoney reclined in the molded plastic chair. “Full-moon baker’s dozen in J-town, cashed out scraping leather on a midnight twist before the shield flash.”
    White squinted. “I didn’t understand a word you just said.”
    “He means a year ago in Jacksonville,” said Lowe. “Serge eluded police capture and escaped.” He turned to Mahoney. “And that’s what led to your last, uh, disability leave? This obsession thing?”
    Mahoney just crossed his arms.
    White leaned again. “What were you doing chasing Serge in Jacksonville? I thought you were under strict orders to stay away from him.”
    “Not angling Serge,” said Mahoney. “James Donald Woodley.”
    News flash. White’s expression changed. “The cop killer?”
    Mahoney straightened the fedora’s brim. “Snitch coughed a handle to peg the crib. Dilly switcheroo-ski on the mark drop.”
    “Do you always talk like this?”
    “He means they found out Woodley’s alias,” said Lowe. “Tracked him down to a motel. Except it turned out to be Serge’s room.”
    “Serge was using the same alias as a cop killer?” said White. “How did that happen?”
    Mahoney shrugged.
    “And this was the last time you saw him?” asked White.
    “No face grab.”
    “He didn’t actually see Serge,” said Lowe.
    White looked at both of them. “Then how do you know he was there?”
    Mahoney stared off across the empty lanes. “It’s all coming back to me now . . .”
    White looked at Lowe. “What’s he doing?”
    “I think he’s going into a fade-out.”
    “No!” White snapped at Mahoney. “No fade-outs!”
    Mahoney raised his eyes toward the ceiling. “Seems like just yesterday