Midnight Rambler: A Novel of Suspense

I glanced at Margolin, who was blowing air down my neck as if we were on a hot date. “Have you seen a picture of the Vasquez baby?”

“No,” she said.

I asked Tommy and got the same answer.

“Where're her parents?” I asked.

“The mother's in a room upstairs. She was sedated after hearing the news,” Tommy said. “The last time I checked, the father was in the visitors' room pulling his hair out.”

“I need to talk to him.”

Mercy's visitors' room was painted in warm earth tones, the round coffee table overflowing with glossy parenting magazines, the TV tuned to Dr. Phil. Isabella's father sat anxiously in the corner, the only male in the room.

“Mr. Vasquez, we need to talk with you in private,” Tommy said.

Vasquez rose stiffly from his chair and followed us into the hallway. He was bearded and heavyset, his clothes as rumpled as an unmade bed. Judging by the diamond-studded platinum Rolex on his wrist, he was also loaded.

Tommy walked down the hallway so we could talk in private.

When we stopped, Vasquez recognized me and exploded.

“I know who you are,” he said. “You're that sick cop from Broward that beat the shit out of that suspect. You're John Carpenter. ”

“It's Jack,” I said.

“Well, Jack, I saw your smiling face on television the other day. You must be real proud of yourself, taking the law into your own hands like that. It's sick guys like you that give the police a bad name.” Vasquez turned to Tommy. “Please don't tell me you've got him working on my daughter's case.”

“Jack is one of the best in the business at finding missing kids,” Tommy said.

“I won't stand for this,” Vasquez said. “This man is a menace.”

“It's my call,” Tommy said.

“Don't talk back to me, goddamn it. This is my daughter's life we're talking about. I don't want him involved.”

It was normal for family members of missing kids to take out their anger on the very people who were trying to help them. It was part of coping.

“Jack has a lead,” Tommy said.

Vasquez blushed and looked at me.

“You do?” he squeaked.

“Yes. Does your daughter have blond hair and blue eyes?” I asked.

“Why is that important?”

“Just answer the question.”

“Yes, she does,” Vasquez said.

I looked at Tommy. “The e-mail said FBB. Female, blond, blue-eyed. Whoever Jorge is, he was shopping for a baby, and Mercedes Fernandez helped him find one.”

“We need to talk to her,” Tommy said.

There was a loud clacking of heels as Margolin came sprinting down the hallway. She was running so hard that she slid when she stopped, and nearly barreled into us.

“Got him,” she blurted out.

“Who?” Tommy asked.

“Jorge Castillo. I found his name in Mercedes Fernandez's computer, along with his phone number and address. I called it in to headquarters, and they ran a background check. He's an ex-con who's already done time in the federal pen for kidnapping. The department is sending a cruiser to his house right now.”

“Where does he live?” Tommy asked.

“On Tigertail in Coconut Grove. It's only a couple of miles from here.”

Tommy looked at me. “You up for paying him a visit?”

There was a fire in Tommy's eyes that I knew all too well, for that same fire had burned in me every single day I'd been a cop.

“You bet,” I said.

CHAPTER THREE

The city of Coconut Grove was a funky jungle of overgrown foliage, gourmet restaurants, and late-night bars. It was a far cry from the rest of Miami, which had been scraped clean by development, and I cracked the passenger window to let Buster sniff the many strange and wonderful odors.

I followed Tommy down Tigertail Avenue. The street was a mix of eclectic office buildings and Bahamian-style homes nestled behind protective stone walls. Tommy drove past Jorge Castillo's address and parked farther down the street. I parked in front of Tommy's car and lowered my windows, not wanting Buster to die of heatstroke while I was gone.

Tommy, Margolin, and I met on the cracked sidewalk outside of Castillo's house. There was no sign of the Miami police, which was irritating but not unusual. The city's crime rate was high, and cops were always busy answering calls.

Tommy came up with a plan. While he and Margolin knocked on the front door, I would watch the back of the house to make sure Castillo didn't escape with the baby. As we started to separate, a black BMW 745 came down the street and parked in front of our cars. It was Vasquez, and Tommy let out an exasperated breath.

“This guy is going to fuck this up.”

“Let me handle him,” I suggested.

“You sure?”

“Positive.”

I walked down the sidewalk to the BMW. I should probably have let Tommy deal with Vasquez, but I was afraid Vasquez would start arguing and cause a scene. Not being a cop had its advantages, and I confronted Vasquez as he got out.

“Get back in your car,” I said.

“You don't have the right to tell me what to do,” he said indignantly.

I wagged my finger in his face. “This is my case, whether you like it or not. Either you get in the car, or I'll throw you in the trunk. It's your call.”