Midnight Rambler_ A Novel of Suspense - James Swain [1]
“So they've hardened the target.”
“Absolutely.”
NCMEC, the National Center for Missing and Exploited Children, had done more to prevent child abductions than any other grassroots organization in the country. They lectured school and hospital staffs on how to make children safe, or what they called hardening the target. I didn't like the sound of what Tommy had described, and climbed out of bed. My dog, sleeping beside me, got up as well.
“I'm leaving right now,” I said. “Depending on traffic, I should be there within the hour.”
“Park in the back and come through the emergency door,” Tommy said.
CHAPTER TWO
Dressing is easy when you own only three pairs of pants and four shirts. Hanging up with Tommy, I put on the clothes that looked the cleanest, threw my dog into my car, and headed south to Miami.
The day my wife walked out on me, I went to the Broward County Humane Society to find a new companion. Forty dogs had been sitting on doggy death row, ranging from cuddly miniature dachshunds to snarling pit bulls. The orderly had suggested that I walk past their cages and see which one tugged at my heartstrings. Buster, a chocolate short-haired Australian Shepherd, had done just that.
The dog had problems. He was not socially inclined and would curl his lip the moment you turned your back 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?