would have sparked an uproar. Yet, because Crosby had a soft spot for animals, he found himself empathizing with Angie as he read her account of the airboat incident. In the court transcripts, Pruitt came across as an unrepentant asshole, the same impression that the chief had taken away from their short exchange on the phone, while he and Angie were at the Brazilian Court.
“Ms. Armstrong says you call every night and threaten her,” Crosby had said to Pruitt.
“And who the hell are you?”
The chief had told him.
“Bullshit,” was the one-handed stalker’s response. “You’re just another loser she’s boning. Better break it off now, dude, unless you want to end up as dead as her.”
“Every one of these calls you make is a felony.”
Pruitt, taunting: “There’s no way to trace ’em, so they’ll never catch me. Now put Angie on the line, Chief Dicklicker, or whoever you really are.”
Crosby had hung up and asked Angie if she wanted to press charges.
“Not necessary. I keep tabs on him, Jerry.”
“You know where he lives? What kind of car he drives?”
“As of last week, yes.”
“And you’ve got a gun at home? Just in case.”
Angie had smiled. “I’m a felon, remember? No bang-bang allowed.”
The chief seldom met women who made him wonder what it might be like to be single again, but Angie Armstrong was one who did. The voice, the eyes, the attitude. He chased from his mind whatever adolescent fantasy was forming; after all these years, Crosby was still crazy about his wife.
Before leaving his office, he locked away Angie’s arrest file and the thumb drive containing the Chevy Malibu video. Then he went to scope out the SunTrust bank branch where Uric Burns was due to arrive the following morning with the aim of collecting $100,000 from the Fitzsimmons family tipster fund.
* * *
—
Joel came by Angie’s apartment to watch the Heat-Bulls game. He brought tortilla chips and a bowl of sketchy guacamole. At halftime Angie received a call from man who identified himself as the manager of a country club in the western part of the county. He said there were mice in the kitchen.
“We don’t do mice, sir,” she told him.
“Please? I can’t get anybody else out here on a Sunday. Your website says twenty-four-seven service.”
“Our website also says we don’t remove and relocate house rodents. We find it not to be worth the trouble and expense. Just go buy some traps at Home Depot.”
The manager said, “Would three thousand dollars make it cost-effective?”
Angie asked him to hold on. When she whispered the details of the ridiculous offer, Joel said, “Jump on it. Miami’s already down by nineteen.”
“Maybe they’ll make a run.”
“Sure, and maybe Jennifer Lawrence will show up topless at my front door. Take the gig, Angie. I’ll go with you.”
The man on the phone gave her directions to the club, Loxahatchee Downs. Angie had never heard of the place. Joel said it was new: Golf, tennis, equestrian, sporting clays and a six-figure membership fee.
Angie stacked some small box traps in the truck and waited for Joel to finish texting his latest girlfriend, who in her fifth leisurely year at UF had switched majors again, this time from art history to philosophy. The move in no way improved the young woman’s employment prospects, but Angie kept her doubts to herself. Joel usually came to his senses.
The sun went down during the drive to Loxahatchee Downs, way out in cattle country. Surrounded by pines and palmetto scrub, the clubhouse and facilities weren’t visible from the road. Angie would have missed the turnoff had it not been for the lighted sign above a one-lane entrance. Beyond the closed gate was a winding, unlit road.
Joel looked up the club’s website on his phone and learned that the grand opening was three weeks away. When Angie tried to call the manager back, she got a recording that said no such phone number was in service.
That fucking Pruitt, she thought.
Before she could back up, a car with its headlights off pulled in behind her truck, blocking the only way out. The driver was wearing a rubber Mitch McConnell mask.
“Run,” Angie said to Joel.
“What?”
“Get your ass into the woods. Now!”
Something landed with a metallic bang in the bed of her pickup.
“Joel!” she yelled.
“Okay, I’m going.”
“Keep your head down.”
“No shit.”
Angie jumped out the door and sprinted. The moment she heard the explosion behind her, she wondered if it had been a mistake to let Chief Jerry Crosby speak with her stalker. Instead