It was normal for family members of missing kids to take out their anger on the very people who were trying to help them. It was part of coping.
“Jack has a lead,” Tommy said.
Vasquez blushed and looked at me.
“You do?” he squeaked.
“Yes. Does your daughter have blond hair and blue eyes?” I asked.
“Why is that important?”
“Just answer the question.”
“Yes, she does,” Vasquez said.
I looked at Tommy. “The e-mail said FBB. Female, blond, blue-eyed. Whoever Jorge is, he was shopping for a baby, and Mercedes Fernandez helped him find one.”
“We need to talk to her,” Tommy said.
There was a loud clacking of heels as Margolin came sprinting down the hallway. She was running so hard that she slid when she stopped, and nearly barreled into us.
“Got him,” she blurted out.
“Who?” Tommy asked.
“Jorge Castillo. I found his name in Mercedes Fernandez's computer, along with his phone number and address. I called it in to headquarters, and they ran a background check. He's an ex-con who's already done time in the federal pen for kidnapping.
The department is sending a cruiser to his house right now.”
“Where does he live?” Tommy asked.
“On Tigertail in Coconut Grove. It's only a couple of miles from here.”
Tommy looked at me. “You up for paying him a visit?”
There was a fire in Tommy's eyes that I knew all too well, for that same fire had burned in me every single day I'd been a cop.
“You bet,” I said.
CHAPTER THREE
The city of Coconut Grove was a funky jungle of overgrown foliage, gourmet restaurants, and late-night bars. It was a far cry from the rest of Miami, which had been scraped clean by development, and I cracked the passenger window to let Buster sniff the many strange and wonderful odors.
I followed Tommy down Tigertail Avenue. The street was a mix of eclectic office buildings and Bahamian- style homes nestled behind protective stone walls. Tommy drove past Jorge Castillo's address and parked farther down the street. I parked in front of Tommy's car and lowered my windows, not wanting Buster to die of heatstroke while I was gone.
Tommy, Margolin, and I met on the cracked sidewalk outside of Castillo's house. There was no sign of the Miami police, which was irritating but not unusual. The city's crime rate was high, and cops were always busy answering calls.
Tommy came up with a plan. While he and Margolin knocked on the front door, I would watch the back of the house to make sure Castillo didn't escape with the baby. As we started to separate, a black BMW 745 came down the street and parked in front of our cars. It was Vasquez, and Tommy let out an exasperated breath.
“This guy is going to fuck this up.”
“Let me handle him,” I suggested.
“You sure?”
“Positive.”
I walked down the sidewalk to the BMW. I should probably have let Tommy deal with Vasquez, but I was afraid Vasquez would start arguing and cause a scene. Not being a cop had its advantages, and I confronted Vasquez as he got out.
“Get back in your car,” I said.
“You don't have the right to tell me what to do,” he said indignantly.
I wagged my finger in his face. “This is my case, whether you like it or not. Either you get in the car, or I'll throw you in the trunk. It's your call.”
Vasquez looked at me with murderous intensity. Sweat was marching down his face, the loss of his baby driving him insane.
I softened my voice.
“Let us handle this. Please, Mr. Vasquez.”
His face suddenly cracked.
“I want my baby,” he said, tearing up.
“I know you do. So do I. We all do. Just do as I say. It's for the best.”
He nodded his head woodenly and climbed back into his car.
I returned to where Tommy and Margolin were standing. They'd drawn their weapons and were ready to make the rescue.
“You carrying any heat?” Tommy asked.
“It's back at my office,” I said.
“Sure you want to do this? This guy has done time, Jack. He might be armed.”
My adrenaline was pumping, and I felt better than I had in a long time.
“I'm not backing out,” I said.
“Okay. See you in a few.”
Tommy and Margolin hopped the front wall and walked up the path. At the same time I walked through the next-door neighbor's property and opened a gate into Castillo's backyard. His house was a Spanish-style single- story, the barrel-tiled roof turned black from age. The grass hadn't been mowed in a while, and was knee high.
I cautiously approached the back door. It was ajar, and I pushed it open farther and stuck my head in. Three voices were talking in Spanish at the front of the house. Margolin, Tommy, and a man with a booming voice, whom I assumed was Jorge Castillo. My wife was Mexican, and I knew enough Spanish to understand what was being said. Castillo had invited Margolin and Tommy inside to have a look around. It could mean only one thing. He'd spotted us on the sidewalk and ditched the Vasquez baby.
I did a quick search of the backyard. Lying in the grass were the remains of a window-unit air conditioner and some rusted junk, but no place to hide an infant. Going to the gate, I put my fingers to my lips and let out a harsh whistle. Within moments Buster was out of the car and on the other side of the gate.
“Find the baby, boy. Find the baby.”
I opened the gate, but my dog did not come onto Castillo's property. Instead, he stayed in the neighbor's yard and threw his front paws onto a large plastic garbage pail that I'd walked by moments ago.
“Good boy.”
I made him get down and gently tugged off the lid. The sports section of
She did not appear to be breathing, and an invisible fist tightened inside my chest.
I ran my fingertip down the side of her angelic face, then said something meant only for God's ears. Her eyelids parted, and she looked up at me in wonder.
“Hey, kiddo.”
I lifted her from the pail and held her protectively against my chest. When my daughter was born, I stayed home for two weeks and let my wife recover while I took care of her. It was one of the greatest experiences of my life.
This was a close second.
