Midnight Rambler (17 page)

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

T
ram walked me to the lodge's entrance. I asked him the location of the McDonald's where he'd bought breakfast, and he said it was in Kissimmee. When he described the landmarks, I realized it was a stone's throw from Sleep & Save. I started to leave.

“I need to ask you something,” Tram said.

I stopped in the doorway and waited for him to finish.

“I never got your last name,” he said. “Folks back home in Douglas are gonna want to know who you are when I tell them this story.”

The idea that this kid was going to be telling stories about me made me smile.

“It's Carpenter,” I said.

“That works.”

I hesitated, unsure of what he meant.

“Carpenters fix things,” he said.

I smiled at him. I'd come to the conclusion that he wasn't a criminal, just a young guy prone to making dumb decisions, and I hoped that this experience had taught him a lesson. Then I went outside.

A wet kiss on my wrist turned my head to the sky. Another storm had rolled in, and I reached my car just as the downpour began. Buster sat on the passenger seat, looking ready to call it a day.

I found the weather on the radio. A storm front was parked in the Gulf, and heavy rain was predicted for several days. It was the price you paid for living in the tropics. I left Disney unable to see twenty feet in front of my car.

Pulling into the Kissimmee McDonald's twenty minutes later, I was shocked to see it closing for the night. I entered to find a black kid wearing a hairnet mopping the floors. He shot me an annoyed look, and I stood on the mat with water dripping off my hair.

“We're closed,” the kid said.

“The sign says ‘Open 24 hours.’”

“I have to mop up,” he explained. “Don't want customers coming in and slipping on the wet floor. Then we'll get sued.”

“When will you reopen?”

“Once the night manager gets here.”

“When will that be?”

The kid smirked, leaving me to believe the night manager would show up whenever he pleased.

“I need your help,” I said.

The kid rested his chin on the end of his mop and gazed at me reflectively. He looked seventeen but had the eyes of a much older man. His name tag said Jerome.

“What's this about?” Jerome asked.

“I need to ask you a couple of questions. I'm doing some work for Disney. It's concerning a little girl who was abducted in the Magic Kingdom theme park earlier today.”

Jerome looked me up and down. He would have made a helluva poker player, because I couldn't read what he was thinking.

“No offense, but are you
really
working for Disney?” he asked.

It took me a moment to catch his drift. Disney didn't allow long hair or scruffy clothes on anyone in their ranks, and I had both. I extracted a dog-eared Broward County Sheriff's Department business card from my wallet and shoved it into Jerome's hand. His facial expression didn't change, so I showed him my driver's license. He studied the names on each, then handed both back.

“Ask away,” he said.

“I need to see the computer that takes orders from customers in your drive-through,” I said.

“Sure. You mind taking off your sandals? I don't feel like mopping the floor again.”

I kicked off my sandals. I could feel my heart pounding in my chest the way it did when I ran track. The finish line was in sight, my marathon almost over.

I followed Jerome around the counter to a workstation beside the take-out window. The station was small and contained a computer, a flat touch-screen, and a microphone used to talk to customers outside. Something was wrong with the picture, and I felt myself shudder.

“Where's the printer?” I asked.

“There isn't one,” Jerome said.

“How do you print the customer's orders?”

“We don't,” Jerome said matter-of-factly. “Everything's computerized and appears on the screen. Only thing that gets printed is the customer's receipt.”

In a panic, I pulled the photos of Tram from my pocket. Jerome examined each one, his demeanor of someone sincerely trying to help. Which is why the next words out of his mouth crushed me.

“Sorry, but these photographs didn't come from here,” he said.

“But they were taken of someone sitting in your drive-through,” I said.

“Maybe so, but there's nothing to print them in the restaurant. Even if there was, none of the managers would allow it. Now, if you don't mind, I need to finish mopping the floor.”

The game was over. I had run out of road.

I sat in the suffocating darkness of my car and listened to the rain. Out in the road, a pair of police cruisers and an ambulance were attending to a collision at an intersection, their flashing bubble lights turning the night a sad pink. People were hurt, with medics attending to the drivers of both vehicles. I would have gone out and helped if I'd thought it would do some good. But I'd have only been in the way, making a bad situation worse.

Buster rested his head in my lap and began to snore. I decided to get back on the Florida Turnpike and head north to Starke. I needed to be there when Skell was released. I wanted him to know that he hadn't won. Being there was the only way I knew to tell him this.

My cell phone rang. I wanted it to be Ken Linderman or Scott Saunders calling with some piece of good news. Grabbing the phone off the dash, I stared at its face. It was Melinda. I said hello so loudly that Buster was jostled from his slumber.

There was no reply.

“Melinda, are you there?”

In the background, Mick Jagger was singing the chorus from the live version of “Midnight Rambler:” “Don't you do that. Oh, don't do that!”

“Jack,”
Melinda whispered.

“I'm here,” I said.

“Help me.”

There was a cloudburst directly over my car. I pressed the cell phone to my face.

“Tell me where you are, and I'll come and help you.”

“I'm hanging in the closet of some fucking Cuban guy's house. I pulled my cell phone out of my purse with my toes. You gotta help me.”

“Is that why you didn't want me calling you back?”

“Yeah.”

“Did this Cuban guy kidnap you from your apartment?”

“Yeah. There were two of them.”

“What does the Cuban guy look like?”

“I don't fucking know.”

“Think hard. Does he have a scar running down the side of his face?”

“Yeah.”

“Do you know where the house is?”

“Somewhere in western Broward. You gotta find me, Jack.”

“I'm trying to. Do whatever he tells you to do. Okay?”

“I'm sorry for what I said on the radio. He made me. I yelled out a couple of times, but somehow it got bleeped out.”

“It's okay, Melinda. It's okay.”

“You sure?”

“Of course I'm sure.”

“This guy said he's going to kill me.”

“He told you that?”

“Yeah. But he said he was going to wait.”

“Did he say why?”

“He said he's waiting for Skell to come back. Skell wants to be there when I die.”

I realized what this meant. Melinda would be kept alive by her captors until Skell was out of prison and back in Fort Lauderdale. I could still save her.

“Do you have any idea where you're being kept?”

“Some black guy's house.”

“Do you know the address, or a street name?”

“No. Will you do something for me?”

“Sure, whatever you want.”

“Feed Razz.”

“Who's that?”

“My cat. I don't want him to die.”

“I was in your apartment yesterday. I put a bowl of food out for him.”

“Thanks.”

The music grew louder, the song's four distinct tempo changes picking up speed, driving the melody into my brain like a runaway train. Melinda began to weep. I tried to find something positive to say but came up empty. Finally the song ended.

“Jack, are you still there?”

“Yes, Melinda.”

“I need to tell you something.”

“I'm listening.”

“I love you.”

I didn't know how to respond to these words, and shut my eyes.

“Jack.”

“Yes, Melinda.”

“Do you love me?”

Chances were, I would never see her again. She knew this, and so did I.

“Yes, Melinda.”

“Say it. Please.”

“I love you, Melinda.”

“I knew it.”

I heard five short beeps. Melinda shrieked.

“My battery's dying!”

I tried to tell her to stay strong, and found myself talking to a dead phone.

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

I
buried my face in my hands. The image of Melinda hanging in a killer's closet was tearing me apart. I had gotten her into this mess, and it was my responsibility to get her out.

Only I didn't know how.

The clock on my dash said it was eleven. I decided to call Scott Saunders in Tampa to see if the FBI had matched the Hispanic abductor in Skell's gang against the faces of any known sexual predators. If the FBI could tell me the Hispanic's identity, I could track him down and rescue Melinda. It was a big if, but it was all I had left.

I called Saunders's cell number and got voice mail. I explained my dilemma and left my number. Then I folded my phone and waited for him to call back.

Several cars appeared in the parking lot. Three teenagers wearing McDonald's uniforms went into the restaurant. Then a low-slung Acura coupe squealed in, and a guy with spiked hair and a necktie hurried inside. The night crew had arrived.

I heard my stomach growl. I hadn't eaten dinner. Worse, I hadn't fed my dog. I glanced at Buster and saw his little tail wag.

I entered the drive-through and faced an illuminated menu with too many choices. Lowering my window, I addressed the order box.

“Ready when you are.”

“Welcome to McDonald's,” a perky female voice said through the box's speaker. “Would you like to try our dinner combo?”

“What's that?”

“One Big Mac, one bacon–double cheeseburger, one regular fries, and a soft drink for four dollars and ninety-nine cents.”

“I'll take two of them. Skip the sodas, and give me a large coffee instead.”

“Would you like an ice cream sundae with that?”

“No thanks.”

“They're really good.”

She was too cheerful, and I made a face at the order box.

“That will be ten dollars and seventy cents,” she said. “Will you be paying with cash or a credit card?”

“Cash.”

“Please drive forward. Thank you for eating at McDonald's.”

I drove around the building. I took the opportunity to look at the outside of the restaurant and see where someone with a camera might hide, and secretly photograph a person sitting in the drive-through.

I studied the grounds but didn't see a good spot. The restaurant sat on a small parcel of land beside the highway. There were no bushes, trees, or trash receptacles where a person might hide. I'd reached another dead end.

I drove up to the take-out window. The guy with the necktie pulled back the slider. His name tag identified him as the night manager.

“Good evening,” the manager said. “Two dinner specials and one large coffee for ten dollars and seventy cents.”

I handed him a twenty.

“Out of a twenty,” the manager said.

I watched him punch the transaction into a computer. Behind him, a uniformed guy worked the counter while two other guys in the kitchen prepared my food. It was a well-run operation, with each employee working at breakneck speed to fill orders. But something didn't feel right. As the manager counted out my change I realized what it was.

“Where's the girl who took my order?” I asked.

“What girl?” the manager said.

“The friendly girl who took my order a minute ago. Where is she?”

“She works someplace else.”

The manager's words were slow to sink in.

“She isn't here?” I asked.

“She's in another state, for all I know,” the manager said.

The manager was staring at his computer screen, and I stuck my head out my window. A small canopy above the window protected me from the rain.

“How does that work?” I asked.

“We employ a centralized call center to take our orders,” he explained. “It speeds up the process, and it's one less employee for me to hassle with.”

The manager passed me a bag containing my food. There were no cars behind me, and I pretended to check the bag's contents.

“How does someone in another state send you the order?” I asked.

He pointed at the computer screen. It was the same computer that Jerome had shown me earlier. “The girl at the call center takes your order, and she also takes an electronic snapshot of you. She e-mails both to my computer, which lets me match you to your order.”

“How does she take a picture of me?”

“There's a hidden camera inside the order box.”

“Do you have a picture of me on your computer right now?” I asked.

The manager nodded.

“What are you going to do with it?”

“Erase it. What else?”

“Can I see it?”

Before he could answer, I stuck my head out my window, and nearly crawled through the take-out window. On the manager's computer screen was a matrix with four black-and-white photographs. Three of them showed me and Buster taken a few moments before. In one, Buster was licking his privates. Another showed me making a face at the order box. The fourth was a rear shot of the Legend that captured my license plate. I pulled back, and the manager looked relieved.

“I've got one more question,” I said.

The manager had run out of patience and didn't reply.

“How many McDonald's use this service? I own a restaurant myself. I'd like to try it out.”

“Most of them,” the manager said.

“In Orlando?”

“In the state.”

Parked in front of the restaurant, I sipped my coffee while watching the rain distort my windshield. I'd given Buster both our meals, and he'd spread the food onto the passenger seat. Normally I cared when he made a mess, but right now I didn't care at all. I'd found the fourth man in Skell's group, the blond-haired guy I'd decided was the information gatherer and profiler.

I'd found him.

The blond-haired guy operated a call center for McDonald's restaurants in Florida. Every day, his operators spoke with thousands of people as they placed orders for food. Because these people didn't know they were being spied upon, they let their guards down, just as I had minutes earlier. They said and did things they'd never do if they thought someone was watching them.

But someone
was
watching them. The blond-haired guy. He sat in the privacy of his office in front of his computer, studying electronic snapshots while eavesdropping on conversations. He told his employees it was for quality control, and no one argued with him because he was the boss. But in reality, he was hunting for victims.

But not just any victims. Like any other predator, he stalked the weak and defenseless. And when he found a young woman that matched his profile, he sent her information and license plate to the other members of the gang, who tracked her down and abducted her.

I thought about Carmella Lopez. She and her sister had gone to a McDonald's the morning of her disappearance, and I wondered what Carmella had done in her car that was a tip-off. Perhaps she'd made a call on her cell and booked a “massage” with a client. Or maybe she'd told Julie something in confidence. Whatever it was, Carmella didn't mean for anyone else to hear. But someone had, and now she was dead.

I cleaned up Buster's mess and tossed it into the bag. Then I drove around the restaurant and entered the drive-through. There were no other cars, and I pulled up to the order box and lowered my window.

“Welcome to McDonald's,” a girl with a squeaky voice said. “Would you like to try our dinner combo?”

“Just give me a large coffee,” I said.

“Would you like an ice cream sundae with that?”

“No thanks. Can I ask you a question?”

The girl hesitated. “Is this personal?”

“No, it's business related,” I said.

“Oh. Well go ahead.”

“I own a couple of fast-food restaurants in Tampa, and I want to hire a company like yours to process my orders.”

“No kidding?” she said. “I grew up in Tampa. Which restaurants do you own?”

I had to think fast. I didn't want to name any fast-food restaurants her company might already be doing business with. Near my wife's apartment was a hamburger joint that I'd only seen in Tampa, and I said, “Checkers.”

“Really? I love their spicy french fries. They're the best.”

“Thanks. So, can I hire you?”

The girl giggled. “You'll have to ask the boss.”

“Who's that?”

“Paul Coffen. He owns the company.”

“Is that who you report to?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Is your company big?”

“Well, there's eighty order takers and Paul.”

I hesitated. I wanted to be absolutely certain I had the right person, and said, “You know, I think I met your boss at a fast-food convention. Is he in his early fifties, has blond hair, and likes expensive jewelry?”

“That's him,” she said.

“Great. When's a good time to speak with him?”

“Paul usually works really late, but today he went home early.”

My skin turned ice cold. It had never occurred to me that her boss might be at work, watching me at this very moment.

“What's your company name?”

“Trojan Communications.”

“Where are you located?”

“Fort Lauderdale. Are you really going to hire us? Paul will give me a bonus. He loves it when we bring him new business.”

I'll bet he does, I nearly said.

“What's your name?”

“Sherry Collins.”

“I'll make sure I mention your name, Sherry.”

Sherry gave me the company's phone number and street address, and I scribbled both down on a piece of paper. Trojan Communications was located in downtown Fort Lauderdale, a block away from ritzy Las Olas Boulevard. As rents went, it was one of the more pricey areas of town, which told me that Coffen's company did well. It was another piece of the puzzle that up until now I hadn't understood. Criminal operations were expensive to run, and I'd been wondering who was financing this one. Now I knew.

I thanked Sherry and pulled the Legend up to the take-out window. The night manager was there, and he shot me a suspicious look.

“Back so soon?” he asked.

I handed him my money.

“It's the coffee,” I said.