by James Swain
Only I didn't know how.
The clock on my dash said it was eleven. I decided to call Scott Saunders in Tampa to see if the FBI had matched the Hispanic abductor in Skell's gang against the faces of any known sexual predators. If the FBI could tell me the Hispanic's identity, I could track him down and rescue Melinda. It was a big if, but it was all I had left.
I called Saunders's cell number and got voice mail. I explained my dilemma and left my number. Then I folded my phone and waited for him to call back.
Several cars appeared in the parking lot. Three teenagers wearing McDonald's uniforms went into the restaurant. Then a low-slung Acura coupe squealed in, and a guy with spiked hair and a necktie hurried inside. The night crew had arrived.
I heard my stomach growl. I hadn't eaten dinner. Worse, I hadn't fed my dog. I glanced at Buster and saw his little tail wag.
I entered the drive-through and faced an illuminated menu with too many choices. Lowering my window, I addressed the order box.
“Ready when you are.”
“Welcome to McDonald's,” a perky female voice said through the box's speaker. “Would you like to try our dinner combo?”
“What's that?”
“One Big Mac, one bacon-double cheeseburger, one regular fries, and a soft drink for four dollars and ninety-nine cents.”
“I'll take two of them. Skip the sodas, and give me a large coffee instead.”
“Would you like an ice cream sundae with that?”
“No thanks.”
“They're really good.”
She was too cheerful, and I made a face at the order box.
“That will be ten dollars and seventy cents,” she said. “Will you be paying with cash or a credit card?”
“Cash.”
“Please drive forward. Thank you for eating at McDonald's.”
I drove around the building. I took the opportunity to look at the outside of the restaurant and see where someone with a camera might hide, and secretly photograph a person sitting in the drive-through.
I studied the grounds but didn't see a good spot. The restaurant sat on a small parcel of land beside the highway. There were no bushes, trees, or trash receptacles where a person might hide. I'd reached another dead end.
I drove up to the take-out window. The guy with the necktie pulled back the slider. His name tag identified him as the night manager.
“Good evening,” the manager said. “Two dinner specials and one large coffee for ten dollars and seventy cents.”
I handed him a twenty.
“Out of a twenty,” the manager said.
I watched him punch the transaction into a computer. Behind him, a uniformed guy worked the counter while two other guys in the kitchen prepared my food. It was a well-run operation, with each employee working at breakneck speed to fill orders. But something didn't feel right. As the manager counted out my change I realized what it was.
“Where's the girl who took my order?” I asked.
“What girl?” the manager said.
“The friendly girl who took my order a minute ago. Where is she?”
“She works someplace else.”
The manager's words were slow to sink in.
“She isn't here?” I asked.
“She's in another state, for all I know,” the manager said.
The manager was staring at his computer screen, and I stuck my head out my window. A small canopy above the window protected me from the rain.
“How does that work?” I asked.
“We employ a centralized call center to take our orders,” he explained. “It speeds up the process, and it's one less employee for me to hassle with.”
The manager passed me a bag containing my food. There were no cars behind me, and I pretended to check the bag's contents.
“How does someone in another state send you the order?” I asked.
He pointed at the computer screen. It was the same computer that Jerome had shown me earlier. “The girl at the call center takes your order, and she also takes an electronic snapshot of you. She e-mails both to my computer, which lets me match you to your order.”
“How does she take a picture of me?”
“There's a hidden camera inside the order box.”
“Do you have a picture of me on your computer right now?” I asked.
The manager nodded.
“What are you going to do with it?”
“Erase it. What else?”
“Can I see it?”
Before he could answer, I stuck my head out my window, and nearly crawled through the take-out window. On the manager's computer screen was a matrix with four black-and-white photographs. Three of them showed me and Buster taken a few moments before. In one, Buster was licking his privates. Another showed me making a face at the order box. The fourth was a rear shot of the Legend that captured my license plate. I pulled back, and the manager looked relieved.
“I've got one more question,” I said.
The manager had run out of patience and didn't reply.
“How many McDonald's use this service? I own a restaurant myself. I'd like to try it out.”
“Most of them,” the manager said.
“In Orlando?”
“In the state.”
Parked in front of the restaurant, I sipped my coffee while watching the rain distort my windshield. I'd given Buster both our meals, and he'd spread the food onto the passenger seat. Normally I cared when he made a mess, but right now I didn't care at all. I'd found the fourth man in Skell's group, the blond-haired guy I'd decided was the information gatherer and profiler.
I'd found him.
The blond-haired guy operated a call center for McDonald's restaurants in Florida. Every day, his operators spoke with thousands of people as they placed orders for food. Because these people didn't know they were being spied upon, they let their guards down, just as I had minutes earlier. They said and did things they'd never do if they thought someone was watching them.
But someone was watching them. The blond-haired guy. He sat in the privacy of his office in front of his computer, studying electronic snapshots while eavesdropping on conversations. He told his employees it was for quality control, and no one argued with him because he was the boss. But in reality, he was hunting for victims.
But not just any victims. Like any other predator, he stalked the weak and defenseless. And when he found a young woman that matched his profile, he sent her information and license plate to the other members of the gang, who tracked her down and abducted her.
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.”
There was another short silence. Again, Linderman spoke first.
“How are you going to do that, Jack?”
“I located the blond-haired guy in the photo. The profiler. He owns a call center business in Fort Lauderdale that processes drive-through orders for McDonald's restaurants in the state. That's how he's finding the gang's victims. I'm going to pay him a visit and make him tell me where Melinda is.”
“Make him how?” Linderman asked.
I didn't answer, which was all the answer Linderman needed.
“Jack, this is a dangerous road you're going down,” Linderman said.
I wasn't going to argue with him there.
“Care to join me?” I asked.
I heard Linderman breathing heavily into the phone. The truth was, there was no other road to go down. If the FBI or the police arrested Paul Coffen, he would hire an attorney and clam up, and we'd never find out where Melinda was being held, which was the equivalent of signing her death warrant.
I heard Linderman rise from his chair. Then I heard movement. I imagined him pacing the floor with the phone pressed to his ear while wrestling with his conscience. I'd done the same thing plenty of times when I was a cop. All cops did.
“All right, Jack,” he said. “I'll do it your way. What's your game plan?”
“I'm in Orlando, about to drive back to Fort Lauderdale,” I said. “I'll call you when I arrive, and we'll meet up at this guy's office, and pay him a visit.”
“Are you going to tell me this guy's name?”
“Not until tomorrow,” I said.
There was another silence, punctuated by Linderman's heavy breathing.
“Are you're planning to use force to make this guy talk?”
“Do you have another suggestion?” I asked.
Linderman did not reply.
“I also have a request,” I said.
“What's that?”
“I want you to send your best agents to Starke to cover Skell when he's released.”
“That's already been taken care of,” Linderman said. “Special Agent Saunders and his partner are at Starke right now. They'll be tailing Skell the moment he walks out the front gates.”
I watched a car pass through the tollbooth in front of me. The FBI had a high opinion of itself. But when it came to deception, my opinion of Skell was much higher. Two FBI agents could not adequately cover him, no matter how well trained.
“That's not good enough,” I said.
“Excuse me?” Linderman said.
“Having two agents watch Skell isn't good enough,” I said, raising my voice. “This guy is a meticulous planner. He's been thinking about this day for six months, and he has a plan that's taken all these things into consideration.”
“How can you be so certain?” Linderman asked.<
br />
I sipped my coffee. The answer to that question was simple.
“I just am,” I said.
“I'll call Saunders and suggest he add another team, ” Linderman said.
“Four agents total?”
“That's right.”
“Make it six,” I said.
“Excuse me?”
“Make it six agents. Three teams of two agents, each team assigned to watch Skell for four hours at a time so they're always sharp. Otherwise, they're bound to slip up.”
“This is outrageous, Jack. You can't be telling the FBI what to do.”
“If you don't do it, I won't call you tomorrow when I reach Fort Lauderdale.”
“Are you trying to blackmail me?”
“Call it whatever you want. That's the deal.”
I heard Linderman bump into something and curse.
“You're being unreasonable,” he said. “The Bureau is fully aware of the threat that Skell poses. Come to Fort Lauderdale and I'll help you find Melinda Peters. In the meantime, stop worrying about Skell.”
There was a finality to his words that should have made me stop. But I didn't.
“I want six agents watching Skell, and I won't settle for anything less,” I said. “That's the deal. Take it or leave it.”
“What has gotten into you?” he said angrily.
“I'm hanging up the phone,” I said.
Linderman let out an exasperated breath.
“All right, Jack. You win. Six agents. You have my word.”
“I'll call you when I arrive,” I said.
Before I could say good-bye, Linderman slammed down the phone. He sounded mad as hell, and I told myself he'd get over it. I entered the tollbooth and got my ticket, then started my drive to Fort Lauderdale in the lightning and pouring rain.
PART FOUR
DIA DE LOS MUERTOS
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
The downpour turned to a light drizzle around the Vero Beach exit. The highway was humming with vehicles, the water flying up from their wheels in a dangerous but hypnotic ballet. I stayed in the right lane, my speedometer clocking a steady fifty. I wanted to go faster, but there was too much standing water on the road. Barring any delays, I would be home by five a.m.