betrayed her weariness.
“I don’t know about this,” she said.
“I’ll bet you it’s the last call on the page you’re looking at.”
“You think so?”
“Yes. It’s how the gods punish us.”
Burrell read the last address. It was on Broward Boulevard, and I pored through the transcript and found an Armwood hotel at the same address.
“It’s a match,” I said.
We consulted the map of south Florida spread across the table. The seven thumbtacks showing known crack dens in Broward were still stuck in the map. I pointed at the thumbtack on Broward Boulevard.
“The call came from here,” I said.
“I know that address,” Burrell said. “It’s in one of the worst sections of town.”
My wife believed that everything happened for a reason. There was a reason that I’d found Sampson’s whereabouts when I had, and I knew that I needed to rescue him right away. I started across the room.
“Where are you going?” Burrell said.
“Where do you think I’m going?” I replied.
“Cool your jets. I’m calling for backup.”
Burrell got on the phone and ordered reinforcements. The War Room had a panoramic view of the county, and my eyes scanned the sea of shimmering lights until I’d found Broward Boulevard, and the block where Sampson was being held. He was right around the corner, and I was going to bring him home.
Burrell appeared by my side. “Everyone’s in bed, and can’t get over here for an hour or more. I know you’re not a fan, but what would you think if I called Whitley?”
I clenched my teeth. Whitley had done nothing to help the investigation. But if he was the only person available, I wasn’t going to say no.
“Go ahead,” I said.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
W e went downstairs to the parking lot and waited for Whitley. I had worked with the FBI on busts before, and it was always the same. They talked, and you listened.
Whitley pulled into the lot driving a black SUV with tinted windows. He got out of his vehicle, said hello to Burrell, and nodded to me. His leather jacket was unzipped, and I spied a big sidearm strapped to his waist. He looked ready for bear.
“Let’s go,” he said.
I pointed at my car on the other side of the empty lot.
“Let’s take my vehicle,” I said. “It’s in the worst shape.”
“Does that make a difference?” Whitley asked.
“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 passed 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.
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 fucking 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 glassy 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 fucking 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.
