Free Rough Draft by James W. Hall Page B

yet, we’re already catching the guy. That’s no fun.”
    Helen said, “No random traffic, Sheffield. If it’s not critical, stay off the air.”
    â€œYes, ma’am.”
    â€œAnd, Sheffield, disregard previous order. You’re to keep target in sight. You stay with Hannah. We’re taking down the Corolla.”
    â€œI hear you,” Frank said.
    It was supposed to be a kick in the nuts. A message from Helen. If Frank wasn’t going to take this seriously, fine. But it meant he wasn’t going to be included in the bust. Which would’ve pissed him off if he’d been an androgen junkie. But that wasn’t Frank. He never tried to duck the action, he just didn’t need to jack up his pulse rate on a regular basis like most of the other guys.
    Anyway, since coming on duty this morning at 6 A.M ., spending the first hour studying the case files in that Grand Bay Hotel suite, finding in the pile of paperwork a glossy photo of Hannah Keller, Frank had been taking this in a different direction. He was thinking how in a few days when this was over, he was going to have to call her up, see if maybe she wanted to come over to Key Biscayne, visit his favorite tiki bar for a margarita, watch the driftwood pile up on the shoreline.
    The photo was a few years old, a publicity shot for her book jacket or something, soft focus, a lot of diffused light. Blond hair cut short, wide-set blue eyes that flickered with sass. Which brought it all back, the way he’d felt about her back then, a quiver in his chest. Knowing enough not to tryto hit on her in her period of grief. Anyway he’d been involved at the time. A dark-haired girl named Darlene, or Arlene. He wasn’t even sure of her name, but he remembered Hannah vividly. A rough-and-ready lady with an ironic take on things. No bullshit, straight to the point. And, he seemed to recall, she had a first-class pair of calves. As sculptured as a dancer’s with narrow ankles. Not that legs mattered all that much, or any body parts. He’d just noticed. And remembered.
    Now the caravan was moving through the tunnel of banyans along Old Cutler, a half mile till Cocoplum Circle. Pretty day, a good breeze off the water, golden sun rippling through the dense layer overhead. Traffic moving fine ahead of him. A little buildup of cars heading south, the other way, probably some business folks getting a jump on rush hour.
    In his ear, Helen Shane was staying in touch with everyone, flitting back and forth between the two dozen units. The urgency in her voice rising. But Frank ignored her, keeping his eyes on the red Porsche. Nice car. The book business obviously doing well. He’d read a couple of them early on, liked them fine. She had a good ear for street talk, some good zingers about cops and bad guys. Her heroine, he seemed to recall, was one kickass broad. Quick with a comeback, fast on the draw. He hadn’t kept up with Hannah’s career, though. His reading tastes ran more toward the sports page, following whatever Miami team was in season.
    The UPS truck entered Cocoplum Circle, rolling through the YIELD sign. Keeping Hannah in view on the other side of the fountain. The red Porsche, then the Camaro, then the blue Corolla. He heard the distant thump of one of the choppers. He steered the top-heavy truck around the tight circle, then took the second spoke off of it, north onto LeJeune Road, heading into the heart of Coral Gables. Hannah and her kid stopping at the light up ahead. The guy on the dirt bike was revving his engine in Frank’s rearview mirror. Fucking Miami drivers.
    Frank watched as the blue Corolla peeled off with mostof the other traffic onto Ingram Highway, heading for Coconut Grove.
    Frank pinched the button mike that was fixed to his collar, lifted it close to his mouth.
    â€œCorolla’s heading east onto Ingram. Repeat, Corolla’s no longer following the Porsche.”
    â€œRoger