Midnight Rambler: A Novel of Suspense

Buster's hackles were up, and he looked twice as big as his sixty pounds. I slapped his nose, and he released Castillo and pinned himself to my side.

Margolin and Tommy came out of the house, covered in dirt.

While Tommy explained the situation to the cops, Margolin came over to me. She could not stop admiring the baby.

“She's beautiful. Look at those golden locks of hair.”

“Want to do the honors?” I asked.

She almost said yes, then shook her head.

“You do it.”

“You were first responder,” I reminded her.

“You cracked the case. You deserve it.”

“That's very nice of you,” I said.

Margolin put her hand on my cheek and looked deeply into my eyes. She was the kind of woman I find attractive, and her smile ignited emotions buried deep within me. As she walked away, my eyes followed her longer than they probably should have.

Babies are perfect; ask any parent. I walked up the street to Vasquez's BMW, admiring Isabella. I had saved a lot of kids, and it never got old.

Exhaust was coming out of the BMW's tailpipe, and the windows were shut tight. I still wore my wedding ring, and I used it to tap on the driver's window. Vasquez was deep in prayer and lifted his head.

“You can come out now,” I said.

Vasquez got out of the car saying, “Oh, my God, oh, my God,” with tears streaming down his face. I handed him his daughter, and he nearly dropped her. I realized he'd never held his child before, and showed him how to do it.

“Keep her head up,” I said.

“Like this?” he asked, cradling her head with his hand.

“That's it. Don't worry. She won't break.”

Holding Isabella against his chest, he pulled out his cell phone to call his wife. I started to walk away, and he stopped me.

“I'm sorry for what I said at the hospital,” he said.

“Don't worry about it,” I said.

“I was wrong.”

“Heat of the moment.”

He took out a business card and shoved it into my hand.

“That's my card. My cell phone number's on the bottom. Call me if you ever need anything.”

“That's not necessary, Mr. Vasquez.”

“I mean it. Anytime, day or night, call me. I won't ever forget this.”

I pocketed the card. When I was a cop, a lot of people I helped find loved ones made me similar offers, and I always turned them down. But times had changed. My life was a train wreck, and I needed all the friends I could get.

“Thank you, Mr. Vasquez,” I said.

I followed Tommy and Margolin to police headquarters in downtown Miami to get my money. Tommy paid me out of petty cash and did not make me sign a receipt. Then he and Margolin offered to buy me brunch.

I was tempted to say yes. I was hungry, and I wanted to celebrate with them. It was not every day that things went this well.

But there was the matter of the homicide trial that I was expected to appear at tomorrow. I was the prosecution's key witness, and I needed to spend time going over my testimony. I'd been told by the prosecutor that I would be grilled by the defense and would need to be ready.

I asked them for a rain check. Tommy said okay, while Margolin just smiled with her eyes. She was a nice lady, and if I hadn't been clinging to the falsehood that my wife and I would someday reunite, I would have asked her on a date.

Outside, in the visitors' parking lot, I found a uniformed cop standing beside my car. It was the same cop who had threatened to shoot my dog if he wouldn't let Castillo go.

“Something wrong?” I asked.

“That's some dog you've got,” the cop said.

I didn't know if he meant this as a compliment, and grunted under my breath.

“You thinking of breeding him?” the cop asked.

“Actually, I was going to neuter him.”

“Get puppies first,” he said.

“You want one?”

“Yeah. I'll give you a hundred bucks for one of the males.”

“He's a purebred Australian shepherd,” I said.

“Two hundred,” he countered.

I was desperate enough for cash to take the guy's name and number. As I climbed into my car, Buster stuck his head into my lap.

“You just might get laid,” I told him.

CHAPTER FOUR

“State your name,” the bailiff declared.

“Jack Harold Carpenter,” I replied.

“Place your left hand on the Bible, your right hand in the air.

Do you solemnly swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you God?”

My fingertips rested lightly on the Bible's cracked leather cover. I hadn't given testimony at a trial in six months, and I felt out of place standing in a courtroom. My navy Ralph Lauren suit was too large for my thinned-down, six-foot frame, and the skinny necktie I'd purchased at a thrift shop that morning didn't adequately hide the monstrous coffee stain on my white cotton shirt. Although my life had changed drastically since my departure from the police force, its purpose had not, and I straightened my shoulders.

“I do,” I replied.

“Please be seated,” the bailiff said.

I took the hard wooden chair in the witness stand and felt the previous witness's warmth. Wilson Battles, the silver-haired judge presiding over the case, acknowledged me with a nod. I'd testified in his courtroom before, and I nodded back.