The Night Stalker

by James Swain

  Sampson was being held in a hotel room with a telephone jack, but no telephone. He was also being kept in a dog crate. The two things hadn’t seemed connected, but now I realized that they were. Sampson had used the phone in the hotel room to call 911, only the drug enforcers had caught him. Fearful that he’d try again, they’d taken the phone out of the room, and stuck him in a dog crate. The kid had nearly rescued himself.

  The song ended, and Lefty came over to where I sat.

  “Still don’t like my singing?” he asked.

  I stood up and hugged the old drunk.

  “It’s beautiful,” I said.

  Standing in the parking lot beside the bar, I called Burrell on my cell. My heart was beating so fast I could hear a bass line in my ears. With a little help from Burrell, I was going to find Sampson. Her voice mail picked up. I left a message saying it was urgent, and asked her to call me back.

  I waited a few minutes, and called again. Still no answer. I scrolled through the address book of my cell, and discovered I didn’t have her home number.

  The stairs groaned as I ran upstairs to my rented room. From my closet I removed the cardboard box containing the crap from my police department days, and dumped it on the bed, praying my address book hadn’t gotten lost. My address book contained the phone numbers of every cop I’d ever worked with. Work numbers, cell numbers, and home numbers. The home phone numbers were all unlisted. Finding Burrell’s, I punched it into my cell, and heard the call go through.

  “Pick up the phone,” I said.

  She didn’t answer. Her home address was also in my book. Burrell lived on Sheridan Street in Hollywood, just a few miles away.

  I ran down the stairs, Buster on my heels.

  CHAPTER FORTY

  I arrived at Burrell’s apartment building a few minutes later. The architecture of south Florida was of two distinct schools: before the great land grab of the eighties, and after. The stuff built before was low-key and charming, the stuff after towering and harsh. Burrell’s building was six stories of concrete and glass, and I waved to the dozing guard inside the booth and drove in.

  I found Burrell’s Mustang and parked beside it. She was home, and I wondered why she hadn’t picked up her phone. It gave me a bad feeling, and I grabbed Buster and went inside the building.

  Burrell lived on the first floor, and I walked down a hallway filled with dinner smells while trying to remember the last home-cooked meal I’d eaten. Reaching her door, I stopped and banged a greeting. When she didn’t answer, my nervousness grew.

  I went to her neighbor’s door and knocked. The door opened, and a young woman holding a kid appeared.

  “Who are you?” she asked suspiciously.

  “I’m a friend of Candy’s,” I said. “Have you seen her around?”

  “Boyfriend?”

  “No, just a friend. We used to work together.”

  “You a cop?”

  “Ex-cop. I’m worried about her.”

  I’ve been told that I wear my emotions on my sleeve. The woman decided I was telling the truth and went into her living room, leaving the door open. With her palm she banged on the wall separating her apartment from Burrell’s.

  “Hey, Candy, some guy’s here checking up on you!”

  I thanked the woman and went to Burrell’s door. It opened, and Burrell greeted me wearing a fluffy white bathrobe and slippers. Her hair was pinned up, the expression on her face a cross between disgust and pure anger.

  “Jesus Christ, Jack, what is it now?” she asked.

  “I guess I caught you at a bad time.”

  “Whatever gave you that idea?”

  My ability to state the obvious was a sore point with every woman I’d ever known. Burrell crossed her arms and glared at me. I was hoping she’d ask me inside, and when she didn’t, I looked up and down the hallway to make sure it was empty.

  “I know how to find the hotel where Sampson Grimes is being kept,” I said.

  “You do? How?”

  From my pocket I removed the photograph printed off Tim Small’s computer, and gave it to her. “Sally Haskell’s guy figured out that there’s a phone jack in Sampson’s room, but no phone. I think Sampson tried to call 911, and the drug enforcers caught him. I need you to check all interrupted 911 calls that occurred after Sampson’s abduction, and backtrack them to their place of origin. If any match the address of an Armwood hotel that’s now a crack den, we’ll know where Sampson is being held.”

  While Burrell studied the photo, I glanced into her apartment. A candle was burning on the dining room table next to a bottle of wine. Then I looked at her. Her hair was doing the tango, and her skin emitted the heady aroma of sex. She’d been dating another detective in Missing Persons for a while, and I guessed he was visiting.

  “It’s worth a shot,” she said. “We need to go to headquarters, and put a trace on those calls.”

  “I’m ready when you are,” I replied.

  An awkward silence followed. I realized Burrell wasn’t going to invite me inside, but didn’t know how to say it without offending me. I decided to save her.

  “I’ll go walk my dog, and meet you in the parking lot,” I said.

  She smiled thinly and shut the door.

  I followed her Mustang to headquarters, and we went upstairs to the War Room. A skeleton staff worked the night shift, and Burrell got on the phone and put them to work. A short while later, a deputy came into the War Room, and handed Burrell a printout of all interrupted 911 calls on the days since Sampson’s disappearance.

  “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 wou
ld 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 at Buster, who sat at stiff attention beside Burrell.

  “Okay,” he said.

  I parked on the next block, and headed down the sidewalk with Buster on a leash. As I neared the hotel, I let Buster sniff the bushes. A pair of black hookers stepped out to greet me. They were tall and ravishingly beautiful, and swung their hips seductively.

  “Looking for a good time?” one hooker asked.

  “Who isn’t?” I replied.

  “You came to the right place, sugar. What kind of doggie is that?”

  “A mean doggie.”

  “Does he bite?” she asked.

  “Only people he doesn’t like.”

  The hookers eyed me warily. Sensing trouble, their pimp emerged from the shadows. He was a bruiser, and sported a shiny gold ring on each finger. Buster began to bark ferociously, and the pimp raised his arms.

  “Beat it, and take the glitter twins with you,” I told him.

  The pimp looked me over, and decided he didn’t like what he saw. He put his hands on his girls’ shoulders. “Come on, ladies. Time to hit the road.”

  I watched them disappear into the night. Moments later, Burrell and Whitley joined me on the sidewalk.

  We entered the hotel. A zoned-out man lay sleeping on the floor of the foyer. Stepping around him, we entered the registration area. A large Hispanic male was at the front desk, eating chicken and yellow rice from a Styrofoam container. A sign on the desk identified him as the hotel manager.

  “Get that fucking dog out of here,” the manager said.

  Burrell flashed her badge while Whitley came around the counter with his weapon drawn. The manager lifted his arms and Whitley frisked him.

  “I want to ask you some questions,” Whitley said.

  “I don’t know nothing,” the manager said.

  “I think you do,” Whitley said.

  The manager laughed in Whitley’s face. His eyes were glassy and he acted high. He wasn’t going to tell us anything unless we did something drastic.

  I came around the counter with Buster, who was straining at his leash. The manager started backing up, and didn’t stop until he was pinned in the corner. I guess he didn’t like dogs.

  “There’s a little boy being kept prisoner in this hotel,” I said. “Help us find him, and nothing will happen to you. Don’t, and I’ll let my puppy loose.”

  The manager was breathing hard, and sweat dotted his brow.

  “I think he’s upstairs,” the manager said.

  “Why do you think that?” I asked.

  “A couple of guys keep a dog crate up there, only they don’t own no dog. I asked one of them what the crate was for, and he told me to shut my fucking mouth.”

  “Describe these two guys,” I said.

  “They’re from South America. One’s really skinny, the other’s sort of fat.”

  It sounded like Pepe and Oscar, the drug enforcers I’d chased on I-95. But before we went upstairs and broke down their door, I decided to run a quick check.

  “Which room are they in?” I asked.

  “Number forty. It’s at the end of the hall.”

  I walked over to the manager’s desk, which was covered in papers and shoved in the corner. An old-fashioned switchboard sat on it.

  “Come here,” I said to the manager.

  The manager crossed the room with Whitley holding a gun on him. Buster was snarling, and the manager looked petrified. I made him sit at the switchboard.

  “I want you to call number forty,” I said. “If someone answers, hang up. Got it?”

  “Whatever you say,” the manager said.

  “Jack, what are you doing?” Burrell asked.

  “Sampson’s room doesn’t have a telephone,” I said. “If room forty is where he’s being held, we shouldn’t get an answer.”

  I crouched beside the manager as he made the call. He let the phone ring a dozen times, and no one picked up.

  “No answer in forty,” the manager said.

  I stood up and faced Whitley. “We need to lock this guy up before we go upstairs.”

  “Why, don’t you trust him?” Whitley asked.

  I saw Whitley grin, and realized this was his idea of a joke. Whitley pushed the manager into a coat closet, and handcuffed him to a water pipe. He was still grinning when he came out of the closet.

  The stairwell was next to the reception area. The three of us stood at the bottom, and listened to the crackheads getting high on the second floor. Cops called situations like this a hornet’s nest. It was hard to step into it without getting stung.

  I drew my Colt. “I’ll go first.”

  “It’s all yours,” Whitley said.

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  The stairwell was poorly lit. With each step, I heard the sickening sound of glass crack pipes crunching beneath my shoes. Reaching the landing, I peered down a hallway strewn with empty pizza boxes.

  “What a hellhole,” Burrell whispered.

  Buster was the brave one, and led us to the hallway’s end. I stuck my ear to the door of number forty, and heard a TV playing Telemundo inside. Grabbing a pizza box off the floor, I held it against my chest so my Colt was hidden. With my shoe, I knocked.

  “Pizza for number forty,” I announced.

  Burrell and Whitley pressed their bodies against the wall. The door opened, and a skinny Hispanic missing his two front teeth stuck his head out. He was about thirty, and wore striped boxer shorts and nothing else. It was Pepe.

  “What you want?” he asked, smothering a yawn.

  “You order a pizza?” I asked.

  “Nope.”

  “Damn. It’s going cold. You want it? I’ll sell it to you for five bucks. It’s got extra cheese.”

  “I’ll give you four.”

  “You’ve got a deal.”

  Pepe pulled out a roll of bills, and peeled off four dollars. He took the box out of my hands, and I showed him my Colt.

  “Shit,” he said.

  Whitley swept into the room, throwing Pepe against the wall. I followed and did a visual sweep. The room had a single bed with a night table, and a closed door leading to a bathroom. Lying on the bed were boxes of child
ren’s cereal and candy.

  “Where’s the kid?” I asked.

  “In the closet,” Pepe replied.

  My heart was pounding as I opened the closet door. Filling the space was a dog crate holding a terrified African-American girl with cornrows in her hair and wearing a yellow dress. She looked about five, and held up her hands to block the light.

  Buster pressed his nose against the bars, his tail wagging furiously. She lowered her hands, and touched my dog through the bars. I knelt down.

  “What’s your name?” I asked.

  “Tyra,” she said fearfully.

  “Do you know a little boy named Sampson?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Where is he?”

  “Oscar took him away.”

  Something hard dropped in the pit of my stomach. I untied the piece of twine on the crate door while looking over my shoulder at Pepe standing with his hands pressed against the wall. “Why is she here?” I asked.

  “Collateral for a drug deal,” Pepe said.

  “Why did your partner take Sampson away?”

  “Kid kept trying to escape. We couldn’t handle him.”

  “Who hired you?”

  “Dunno.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Oscar dealt with the guy.”

  Before I could ask him where Oscar was, a toilet flushed, and Oscar emerged from the bathroom. Also shirtless, his most distinguishing feature was the automatic pistol tucked down the front of his pants. Seeing us, he drew his weapon.

  Whitley was in Oscar’s line of fire. Without hesitation, the FBI agent pumped three bullets into Oscar’s chest. The bullets went clean through Oscar’s body, killing him instantly, while also penetrating the plaster wall behind him. In the room next door, someone let out a blood-curdling scream.

  “Get on the floor!” Whitley shouted.

  I continued to untie the crate door.

  “Do it!” Whitley said.

  A bullet came through the wall and whistled past my head. It was quickly followed by another. Then I understood. Next door was shooting back.