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.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
I left the McDonald's and drove east through the pouring rain until I reached the entrance for the Florida Turnpike. There was a tollbooth, and I stopped in the median in front of it and threw my car into park.
I sipped my coffee, my mind racing. For the first time since starting my investigation of the Midnight Rambler killings, I had the name and address of someone who'd been involved besides Simon Skell, and I was going to take advantage of it.
I decided to call Ken Linderman and tell him what I'd learned. He was the one law enforcement person I could trust with the information. Linderman had moved to Florida because he believed that Skell was responsible for his daughter's disappearance, and he had as much at stake in bringing Skell's gang to justice as I did. I pulled out his business card and called his cell number. He answered on the first ring.
“This is Jack Carpenter. You awake?” I asked.
“Wide awake,” he said. “I was just reaching for the phone to call you.”
From anyone else I would have taken this as bullshit, but not Linderman.
“The FBI has identified the Hispanic in the picture from the National Center for Missing and Exploited Children database,” Linderman went on. “He's a known sexual predator named Ajony Perez, also goes by Jonny Perez. He served three years at Krome Prison in Miami for kidnapping and raping a fourteen-year-old girl, got out, and promptly disappeared. Believe it or not, he's got a brother named Paco, who's also in the NCMEC database.”
“Predator?”
“Yes. So your theory about Perez having a partner is correct.”
“Any luck tracking them down?”
“We contacted the cable company in Fort Lauderdale they work for,” Linderman said. “They're both subs working for another subcontractor. The Perez brothers have no known address or phone number.”
“Did you contact the Broward police?”
“I just got off the phone with them,” Linderman said. “I e-mailed them the brothers' photographs and profiles, and they're going to start hunting for them as well. I'm also going to call the Florida Department of Law Enforcement and alert them.”
Linderman's news wasn't great, but I forced myself to look on the bright side. Having the Broward police, the FDLE, and the FBI hunting for the Perez brothers was about as much as I could ask for.
“I've got some news of my own,” I said. “Jonny Perez is holding Melinda Peters prisoner in a house in western Broward. He plans to kill her once Skell is released from prison and joins them.”
There was silence on the line. Linderman was processing what I'd told him, something I did all the time when dealing with difficult cases. He spoke first.
“How do you know this?”
“Melinda called me a little while ago.”
“She called you?”
“That's right. She's hanging by her wrists in Jonny Perez's closet and got her cell phone out of her purse. The phone died while I was talking to her.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Rescue her.”
