Midnight Rambler_ A Novel of Suspense - James Swain [78]
“I need to ask you something,” Tram said.
I stopped in the doorway and waited for him to finish.
“I never got your last name,” he said. “Folks back home in Douglas are gonna want to know who you are when I tell them this story.”
The idea that this kid was going to be telling stories about me made me smile.
“It's Carpenter,” I said.
“That works.”
I hesitated, unsure of what he meant.
“Carpenters fix things,” he said.
I smiled at him. I'd come to the conclusion that he wasn't a criminal, just a young guy prone to making dumb decisions, and I hoped that this experience had taught him a lesson. Then I went outside.
A wet kiss on my wrist turned my head to the sky. Another storm had rolled in, and I reached my car just as the downpour began. Buster sat on the passenger seat, looking ready to call it a day.
I found the weather on the radio. A storm front was parked in the Gulf, and heavy rain was predicted for several days. It was the price you paid for living in the tropics. I left Disney unable to see twenty feet in front of my car.
Pulling into the Kissimmee McDonald's twenty minutes later, I was shocked to see it closing for the night. I entered to find a black kid wearing a hairnet mopping the floors. He shot me an annoyed look, and I stood on the mat with water dripping off my hair.
“We're closed,” the kid said.
“The sign says ‘Open 24 hours.’”
“I have to mop up,” he explained. “Don't want customers coming in and slipping on the wet floor. Then we'll get sued.”
“When will you reopen?”
“Once the night manager gets here.”
“When will that be?”
The kid smirked, leaving me to believe the night manager would show up whenever he pleased.
“I need your help,” I said.
The kid rested his chin on the end of his mop and gazed at me reflectively. He looked seventeen but had the eyes of a much older man. His name tag said Jerome.
“What's this about?” Jerome asked.
“I need to ask you a couple of questions. I'm doing some work for Disney. It's concerning a little girl who was abducted in the Magic Kingdom theme park earlier today.”
Jerome looked me up and down. He would have made a helluva poker player, because I couldn't read what he was thinking.
“No offense, but are you really working for Disney?” he asked.
It took me a moment to catch his drift. Disney didn't allow long hair or scruffy clothes on anyone in their ranks, and I had both. I extracted a dog-eared Broward County Sheriff's Department business card from my wallet and shoved it into Jerome's hand. His facial expression didn't change, so I showed him my driver's license. He studied the names on each, then handed both back.
“Ask away,” he said.
“I need to see the computer that takes orders from customers in your drive-through,” I said.
“Sure. You mind taking off your sandals? I don't feel like mopping the floor again.”
I kicked off my sandals. I could feel my heart pounding in my chest the way it did when I ran track. The finish line was in sight, my marathon almost over.
I followed Jerome around the counter to a workstation beside the take-out window. The station was small and contained a computer, a flat touch-screen, and a microphone used to talk to customers outside. Something was wrong with the picture, and I felt myself shudder.
“Where's the printer?” I asked.
“There isn't one,” Jerome said.
“How do you print the customer's orders?”
“We don't,” Jerome said matter-of-factly. “Everything's computerized and appears on the screen. Only thing that gets printed is the customer's receipt.”
In a panic, I pulled the photos of Tram from my pocket. Jerome examined each one, his demeanor of someone sincerely trying to help. Which is why the next words out of his mouth crushed me.
“Sorry, but these photographs didn't come from here,” he said.
“But they were taken of someone sitting in your drive-through,” I said.
“Maybe so, but there's nothing to print them in the restaurant. Even if there was, none of the managers would allow it. Now, if you don't mind, I need to finish mopping the floor.