The Night Stalker_ A Novel of Suspense - James Swain [76]
“How many calls are there?” I asked.
Burrell ran her finger down the page. “About a hundred each day. I’ll start with the first day, and read them aloud while you look for a match.”
The sales transcript for Armwood hotels lay on the oval table in the room’s center. As Burrell read off the address of each interrupted 911 call, I looked through the transcript for a match. Several times Burrell stumbled, and had to repeat herself.
“Still not wearing glasses, huh?” I said.
“My vision is fine,” she said testily. “This print is faint.”
“Wal-Mart has a special going on, three pairs of reading glasses for ten bucks. They have an eye chart right there in the store.”
“Shut up, Jack.”
At midnight, we had reached the third day of interrupted 911 calls and still hadn’t gotten a hit. Burrell’s eyes 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
We 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