on him. My vet called him a potential fear-biter and suggested he be put to sleep. I had balked at the idea. The fact that Buster hated the world and adored me made him aces in my book.
Traffic was light on I-95, and I did seventy in the left lane. Flipping on my radio, I found a local shock jock named Neil Bash.
Bash had vilified me on his show during the Midnight Rambler trial, and I got so many threatening phone calls that I had to change my number. Today he was attacking blacks and gays. It turned my stomach, so I turned him off.
I-95 ended just south of the city of Miami, the last exit a half mile from Mercy Hospital. I parked in the back as Tommy had suggested. It was a cool morning, and I left the windows down and filled up a plastic bowl with water for Buster. When I walked into the emergency room, Tommy was waiting for me.
Tommy was a tall, lanky Hispanic with a mop of jet-black hair, expressive brown eyes, and more energy than a litter of puppies. He pumped my hand and thanked me for coming, then led me to the maternity ward.
“Who's your chief investigator on the case?” I asked.
“Detective Tracy Margolin,” Tommy replied.
“Any good?”
“She's one of my best.”
We stopped at the maternity ward viewing area to stare through the glass at the bundles of joy on the other side. Babies rarely disappeared these days. It was one of the few arenas where the cops had actually won. I pressed my face to the glass and stared at the empty crib that Isabella Vasquez had occupied less than a few hours ago.
A thirtyish woman wearing a moss-green pantsuit made greener by the hospital walls appeared by Tommy's side. Tommy introduced her as Detective Margolin, and as we shook hands I studied her face. It was as round as a coin, her honey-blond hair swept back, the skin ringing her eyes puffy. Most cops become immune to the work they do, but it doesn't work that way when kids disappear.
Margolin went over her investigation, telling us the last person to see the child, the approximate time of the abduction, and how she'd broadcast the details on police communications channels in Dade, Broward, and Palm Beach counties while also no tifying the FBI and the Florida Department of Law Enforcement.
“What's the parents' marital status?” I asked.
“They're happily married,” Margolin said.
“This the first marriage for both of them?”
“Yes.”
“Any other children?”
“This is their first.”
“How are they taking this?”
“They're devastated.”
“What about the nursing staff and doctors? How do they look?”
“Their alibis are airtight,” Margolin said.
“How about the cleaning staff and maintenance people?”
“The same. I'm convinced it was an outsider.”
“So you have a theory of how the abduction took place?”
“More or less.”
“Show me,” I said.
We followed Margolin back to the emergency room. Sometimes an investigator's first reaction was more important than the facts, and Margolin explained how she believed the abductor had entered the emergency room doors during a busy period at around four a.m. and slipped down to the maternity ward. Going outside, she pointed at a concrete bench where she believed the abductor had waited. The ground was littered with cigarette butts.
Back inside, Margolin showed us the zig-zagging path the abductor would have taken to reach the maternity ward, while speculating that he might have worn a white doctor's coat to avoid detection. When we reached the maternity ward, she stopped talking and stared at the newborns, then resumed.
“Somehow, he gained entrance to the ward, even though the door is locked at all times. My guess is, he waited for one of the nurses to come out after feeding, then grabbed the door before it closed. He rushed in, snatched the Vasquez baby, and ran.”
I processed everything Margolin had said. Her assumptions rang true, but I wasn't buying this final scenario. Waiting for a nurse to leave was a risk, and I felt certain the abductor had used a different method to gain access to the ward.
Across the hall from the ward was a door with a brass nameplate. Crossing the hall, I read the name. Mercedes Fernandez.
“Who is this?” I asked.
“The head nurse for the night shift,” Margolin said.
“Did you speak with her?”
“I tried.”
“No luck?”
“She's out sick.”
An alarm went off inside my head. The walk to the maternity ward was filled with turns, and I couldn't see someone unfamiliar with Mercy's layout not getting lost. The abductor had a map. And if he had a map, he probably also had a key.
I pointed at the night nurse's door. “Can we go in there?”
“You think she's involved?” Tommy asked.
“Could be,” I said.
Tommy got a key from the hospital supervisor and unlocked the door. The room was a windowless square. I sat at Mercedes Fernandez's messy desk and booted up her computer. The screen came to life, and I entered her Web browser and checked e-mails. There were plenty, all work-related. Then I checked the sent e-mails. The Sent box was empty. Behind me Margolin was sifting through the garbage pail.
“Tell me what you think of this,” I said.
Margolin peered over my shoulder at the screen. “Looks like Fernandez erased all the e-mails she sent before leaving work yesterday.”
“That look strange to you?”
“Yes.”
“Let's see if she erased her deleted bin.”
I dragged the cursor over the deleted bin and double-clicked on it. It was filled with messages that were deleted but not permanently erased. I scrolled through them. Halfway down, I saw one that lifted me out of my chair.
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
“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.
