"Some crack dens have lookouts on the roofs," I explained. "My car won"t arouse suspicion if someone sees us coming."
"Whatever you say," he said.
I drove north on Andrews to Broward Boulevard, then hung a left and headed due east. On every corner I pa.s.sed drug pushers, and hookers basked beneath the streetlights. South Florida was known for fun and sun, but at night, a much different creature emerged.
I found the Armwood hotel on Broward Boulevard, and slowed down as we drove past. It was a two-story building painted in tropical pink with a flashing Vacancy sign. Whitley was riding shotgun, and he counted the people lurking by the entrance.
"Three," he said. "Two looked like women, but you can never tell these days."
"Let me handle them," I said.
"How do you plan to do that?" he asked.
"I"ll use my dog."
Whitley glanced into the backseat at Buster, who sat at stiff attention beside Burrell.
"Okay," he said.
I parked on the next block, and headed down the sidewalk with Buster on a leash. As I neared the hotel, I let Buster sniff the bushes. A pair of black hookers stepped out to greet me. They were tall and ravishingly beautiful, and swung their hips seductively.
"Looking for a good time?" one hooker asked.
"Who isn"t?" I replied.
"You came to the right place, sugar. What kind of doggie is that?"
"A mean doggie."
"Does he bite?" she asked.
"Only people he doesn"t like."
The hookers eyed me warily. Sensing trouble, their pimp emerged from the shadows. He was a bruiser, and sported a shiny gold ring on each finger. Buster began to bark ferociously, and the pimp raised his arms.
"Beat it, and take the glitter twins with you," I told him.
The pimp looked me over, and decided he didn"t like what he saw. He put his hands on his girls" shoulders. "Come on, ladies. Time to hit the road."
I watched them disappear into the night. Moments later, Burrell and Whitley joined me on the sidewalk.
[image]
We entered the hotel. A zoned-out man lay sleeping on the floor of the foyer. Stepping around him, we entered the registration area. A large Hispanic male was at the front desk, eating chicken and yellow rice from a Styrofoam container. A sign on the desk identified him as the hotel manager.
"Get that f.u.c.king dog out of here," the manager said.
Burrell flashed her badge while Whitley came around the counter with his weapon drawn. The manager lifted his arms and Whitley frisked him.
"I want to ask you some questions," Whitley said.
"I don"t know nothing," the manager said.
"I think you do," Whitley said.
The manager laughed in Whitley"s face. His eyes were gla.s.sy and he acted high. He wasn"t going to tell us anything unless we did something drastic.
I came around the counter with Buster, who was straining at his leash. The manager started backing up, and didn"t stop until he was pinned in the corner. I guess he didn"t like dogs.
"There"s a little boy being kept prisoner in this hotel," I said. "Help us find him, and nothing will happen to you. Don"t, and I"ll let my puppy loose."
The manager was breathing hard, and sweat dotted his brow.
"I think he"s upstairs," the manager said.
"Why do you think that?" I asked.
"A couple of guys keep a dog crate up there, only they don"t own no dog. I asked one of them what the crate was for, and he told me to shut my f.u.c.king mouth."
"Describe these two guys," I said.
"They"re from South America. One"s really skinny, the other"s sort of fat."
It sounded like Pepe and Oscar, the drug enforcers I"d chased on I-95. But before we went upstairs and broke down their door, I decided to run a quick check.
"Which room are they in?" I asked.
"Number forty. It"s at the end of the hall."
I walked over to the manager"s desk, which was covered in papers and shoved in the corner. An old-fashioned switchboard sat on it.
"Come here," I said to the manager.
The manager crossed the room with Whitley holding a gun on him. Buster was snarling, and the manager looked petrified. I made him sit at the switchboard.
"I want you to call number forty," I said. "If someone answers, hang up. Got it?"
"Whatever you say," the manager said.
"Jack, what are you doing?" Burrell asked.
"Sampson"s room doesn"t have a telephone," I said. "If room forty is where he"s being held, we shouldn"t get an answer."
I crouched beside the manager as he made the call. He let the phone ring a dozen times, and no one picked up.
"No answer in forty," the manager said.
I stood up and faced Whitley. "We need to lock this guy up before we go upstairs."
"Why, don"t you trust him?" Whitley asked.
I saw Whitley grin, and realized this was his idea of a joke. Whitley pushed the manager into a coat closet, and handcuffed him to a water pipe. He was still grinning when he came out of the closet.
The stairwell was next to the reception area. The three of us stood at the bottom, and listened to the crackheads getting high on the second floor. Cops called situations like this a hornet"s nest. It was hard to step into it without getting stung.
I drew my Colt. "I"ll go first."
"It"s all yours," Whitley said.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO.
The stairwell was poorly lit. With each step, I heard the sickening sound of gla.s.s crack pipes crunching beneath my shoes. Reaching the landing, I peered down a hallway strewn with empty pizza boxes.
"What a h.e.l.lhole," Burrell whispered.
Buster was the brave one, and led us to the hallway"s end. I stuck my ear to the door of number forty, and heard a TV playing Telemundo inside. Grabbing a pizza box off the floor, I held it against my chest so my Colt was hidden. With my shoe, I knocked.
"Pizza for number forty," I announced.
Burrell and Whitley pressed their bodies against the wall. The door opened, and a skinny Hispanic missing his two front teeth stuck his head out. He was about thirty, and wore striped boxer shorts and nothing else. It was Pepe.
"What you want?" he asked, smothering a yawn.
"You order a pizza?" I asked.
"Nope."
"d.a.m.n. It"s going cold. You want it? I"ll sell it to you for five bucks. It"s got extra cheese."
"I"ll give you four."
"You"ve got a deal."
Pepe pulled out a roll of bills, and peeled off four dollars. He took the box out of my hands, and I showed him my Colt.
"s.h.i.t," he said.
Whitley swept into the room, throwing Pepe against the wall. I followed and did a visual sweep. The room had a single bed with a night table, and a closed door leading to a bathroom. Lying on the bed were boxes of children"s cereal and candy.
"Where"s the kid?" I asked.
"In the closet," Pepe replied.
My heart was pounding as I opened the closet door. Filling the s.p.a.ce was a dog crate holding a terrified African-American girl with cornrows in her hair and wearing a yellow dress. She looked about five, and held up her hands to block the light.
Buster pressed his nose against the bars, his tail wagging furiously. She lowered her hands, and touched my dog through the bars. I knelt down.
"What"s your name?" I asked.
"Tyra," she said fearfully.
"Do you know a little boy named Sampson?"
"Yeah."
"Where is he?"
"Oscar took him away."
Something hard dropped in the pit of my stomach. I untied the piece of twine on the crate door while looking over my shoulder at Pepe standing with his hands pressed against the wall. "Why is she here?" I asked.
"Collateral for a drug deal," Pepe said.
"Why did your partner take Sampson away?"
"Kid kept trying to escape. We couldn"t handle him."
"Who hired you?"
"Dunno."
"What"s that supposed to mean?"
"Oscar dealt with the guy."
Before I could ask him where Oscar was, a toilet flushed, and Oscar emerged from the bathroom. Also shirtless, his most distinguishing feature was the automatic pistol tucked down the front of his pants. Seeing us, he drew his weapon.
Whitley was in Oscar"s line of fire. Without hesitation, the FBI agent pumped three bullets into Oscar"s chest. The bullets went clean through Oscar"s body, killing him instantly, while also penetrating the plaster wall behind him. In the room next door, someone let out a blood-curdling scream.
"Get on the floor!" Whitley shouted.
I continued to untie the crate door.