W e 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.