Free Rough Draft by James W. Hall Page A

dozen surveillance vehicles in play this afternoon, a brown UPS truck. He was idling at the stop sign on Seaview Lane, a side street off Old Cutler Road when Hannah Keller passed in a red Porsche convertible, a Boxster, if Sheffield wasn’t mistaken. Hannah and her kid, with the convertible top up, windows down. The kid sticking his arm out the window, making a wing with his hand, riding the bumpy air currents.
    Frank put the big truck in gear, rolled onto the roadway. He was wearing the UPS uniform, brown shorts and shirt, heavy black brogans. Wondering how the UPS guys stood it, the sticky synthetic threads, the sun-absorbing color. He was miked up, a black dot on his collar, and a flesh-colored receiver plugged in his left ear.
    â€œI got her,” Frank said. “Red Porsche Boxster. License AGP Five-Six-Six.”
    In his earpiece Helen Shane rogered that.
    â€œI’m rolling now, four cars back. There’s Hannah’s Porsche, then a green Camaro, a blue late-model Toyota Corolla, a black Dodge van, then little old us. And there’s some idiot on a red dirt bike riding my bumper. Maybe somebody could pull him over, write him a ticket.”
    â€œFrank, you stay with the Porsche only as far as Cocoplum Circle, then sixteen will take over. You hear that, sixteen?”
    Sixteen rogered.
    Forty agents, leapfrogging, falling away. Two choppers rotating positions, several hard-wired video cameras at the fixed locations. Yard-service workers along the route, mailmen, Rollerbladers, dog-walkers. It was a first-time thing for Frank. All the stops pulled out. Big-budget production, the full orchestra. Helen with the baton in her hand, keeping the beat, making sure everyone stayed on key.
    She was back at the command post, a three-bedroom suite on the top floor of the Grand Bay Hotel. Big bank of windows with a sweeping view of Biscayne Bay and the Dinner Key Marina. Probably two thousand a night for a room like that. Though Sheffield wasn’t privy to the deals, he assumed the room was comped to Senator Ackerman. Helen said the Grove was a central location, fifteen minutes from every venue on their game plan. Had to hand it to her, the lady wrote herself a nice part in the script.
    â€œDid you say a blue Corolla, Frank?” It was Helen in his ear, her voice strained today. The plan unfolding. Sixteen hours down, fifty-six to go. Starting at midnight, due to close up shop midnight Wednesday. Helen was on hyper-alert, as though Senator Ackerman was standing next to her, ready to promote her on the spot, or tear off her stripes.
    â€œThat’s right. Blue Corolla, peeling fake leather top. Looks like just the driver, no passenger. Can’t tell if it’s male or female.”
    â€œDidn’t we have an earlier sighting on a blue Corolla? Did you pick that up, thirteen?”
    Thirteen came back with some static.
    â€œThirteen, go again,” Helen said. “You’re breaking up.”
    Thirteen backed down his squelch and a male voice that Frank didn’t recognize said, “A blue Corolla was parked five houses down from the Keller house earlier this afternoon. Departed simultaneous with target vehicle.”
    Helen took a few moments to digest it. Maybe she ran it by the Senator or Charlie Pettigrew back at command central. When Helen came back on, her voice was steely.
    â€œWe’re going to take the Corolla. This could be our target.Repeat, this could be target. All ground units in the blue team, and both our birds will converge. Wait till the other side of Cocoplum Circle. Corner of Poinciana and LeJeune Road. Twelve and fourteen get in position at Poinciana. Let the Porsche pass through, then intercept the Corolla at the intersection. Move the choppers. Three, five, and eight converge on the area immediately. One and four, you should be moving south on LeJeune. Everyone wait for my signal.”
    â€œShit,” Sheffield said. “We haven’t even got going