Randy White - Night Vision

I could hear Melinski’s fingers tapping at a keyboard as he said, “That’s something to go on, at least. The problem is-and this is a good example-people in these kinds of places, the immigrant trailer parks, they’re scared to death of our guys. So some of the state agencies, the Immigrant Advocacy people, will be sending people around asking questions. Maybe they’re on it now. Christ, I hope so. We have almost no information on the kid.”

I could hear his frustration as he added, “For more than an hour, we’ve been looking for a boy. Who knows, maybe some cop stopped them, then turned her loose, not knowing.”

I said, “But at least you can narrow down the search area. Maybe they’re in Immokalee by now. Or somewhere close.”

Melinski said, “You said she didn’t type out the whole word. She wrote: I-M.”

I replied, “What else could it be? Did anything come up on Squires?”

I listened to Melinski typing as I watched Emily busy herself in my little ship’s galley of a kitchen. She was listening, eyes moving from the teakettle to me, the concern showing on her good-looking face, that jaw and nose, autumn-colored hair swinging loose.

“There are thirteen Harris Squires in this state,” Melinski said after a moment, “but there’s only one whose mother owns trailer parks. A rich kid, from what I’m seeing. A rich mother, anyway. She owns three mobile home parks… a house on the beach… taxes almost thirty grand a year. And four hundred-some acres of undeveloped land in the Everglades east of Naples.”

Immokalee was northeast of Naples about thirty miles. Tomlinson’s remark about rednecks liking hunting camps came into my mind.

“Any houses or cabins on that property?” I asked, thinking a hunting camp would be a good place to disappear with an abducted girl.

“Uhhh, nope… I don’t see anything here. Nothing that’s been permitted, anyway,” he replied, then began to read from Squires’s file.

“He got bumped once for possession of marijuana, no conviction, back when he was a kid. Get this”-Melinski paused, and I could picture his face in front of a computer screen as he read-“‘The informant regarding the minor in question was the minor’s mother, Mrs. Harriet Ray Squires. Mrs. Squires had to be restrained by officers when she confronted said minor the morning after his arrest.’

“Christ, Doc,” Melinski laughed, “the guy’s own mom narced him out. If he’s one of those crazies who only goes for young girls, maybe it’s because his mom was such a hardass. He looks for women he can control.”

I said, “That’s the only thing on his record?”

“No,” the detective said, “but he’s not what I’d call real dirty. Not compared to most of the losers who come through here. There’s a DUI arrest, which his lawyer somehow got tossed out when he was nineteen. Then about five months ago he was banged for speeding-doing a hundred and ten on I-75, Pinellas County. If this is the guy we’re after, he’s got a vehicle that can do that and more. It’s an almost new Ford Roush pickup truck. That’s one of those trickedout specials. Big engines and big tires for guys with egos and-”

I interrupted, “What’s the license number? And the color?” I was leaning over a notepad, making notes.

There was a pause before Melinski let me know how patient he was trying to be, saying, “Doc, come on, now. You know I’m not allowed to do that. Even if I was allowed, I wouldn’t do it because the last thing we want is some civilian playing detective, upsetting people and probably getting his ass into trouble. Meaning you. Frankly, you’ve got a history of it. No offense.”

I said, “It was just a question, Lee.”

“A few months back, you were the suspect in a murder rap, Doc. So excuse me for being careful. I shouldn’t even be talking to you.”

I said, “I called because I want to help, not get in the way.”

“Please tell me you don’t plan on looking for this guy, Doc. There’s an AMBER Alert on the kid, what more do you want? What can you do that a state full of trained professionals can’t?”

I said, “I know… you’re right, but-” then listened to Melinski say, “From what you said, this guy Squires is a bad actor. Driver’s license has him listed at six-six, two forty-five, and he has a concealed weapons permit. No weapons registered to him, but that doesn’t mean diddly-squat. In this state, you can buy freaking grenades if you know who to talk to. Why risk inviting that kind of trouble? What’s this girl to you?”

I was looking at Emily as I told him, “Like you said, the girl has no parents around. No one to act as her advocates. I’ve spent a lot of time in Guatemala. I speak the language and I like the people. So why not? The point is, I don’t give a damn about Squires-arrest him or don’t arrest him, that’s your business. But I care about the girl. If I can help find her by asking around, talking to people in the Guatemalan community, what’s wrong with that?”

Melinski said, “Hang on a second,” sounding impatient. A moment later, he said, “Okay, here it is. The number that sent Tomlinson the text? It’s his phone, Harris Squires’s. As of now, every cop in the state will be looking for that fancy-assed truck of his. And we’ll find him. I can guarantee you that.”

To Tomlinson and Emily I whispered, “It was Squires’s phone,” as Melinski continued, “My next move is to contact our hostage-negotiation guys and ask them how we deal with this. Risk calling Squires and asking him if he’s got the girl? Then try to talk him down, convince him the smartest thing he can do is turn himself in. Or keep everything under the radar until we locate the truck. I’m not the officer in charge of this, but I know who is, and she’ll listen to me.”

I said, “If you have the right kind of person talk to him, someone trained-definitely not the tough-guy type-it could work.”

“But what if it doesn’t?” Melinski asked me, sounding angry or frustrated-a man who had been in a tough business for too long. “Jesus Christ! A thirteen-year-old girl a thousand miles from home. No family to look after her, and some steroid freak jerk grabs her. These Latin American kids, man-oh-man, Doc. The undocumented girls, particularly, they’re the easiest targets in the world-you’re right about that one.

“Some of these gangbangers,” he continued, “the Mexican coyote types. To them, snatching female illegals is like a sport. Like hunting rabbits or doves-something soft and harmless that can’t bite back. And the sad thing is, hardly anyone even knows this shit takes place every day. Let alone cares.”

To Melinski I said, “I don’t envy you guys the choices you have to make.”

I meant it.

“Doc,” the detective said, “I’ll give you my cell number, if you want. And I’ll call you the moment we get anything new. But I don’t want you nosing around, asking people questions about that girl. And I don’t want you messing with this Harris Squires dude. Give me your word?”

I replied, “I have no interest in finding Squires. I don’t ever want to see the guy again. I’ll promise you that.”

A few minutes later, we were in the lab, discussing ways to help find the girl, which, of course, meant finding Harris Squires. Try as I might, there was no separating the two.

My lab is a wooden room, roofed with crossbeams and tin sheeting. The place smells of ozone and chemicals, creosote and brackish water that I could hear currenting beneath the pine floor as Tomlinson lectured us.

My friend was trying to hurry us along, doing his best to sound rational and reasonable, telling me, “It’s not even ten yet, and it takes less than an hour to drive to Immokalee. Faster, if we knew someone who had a big fancy car. We could be there way before bar closing time. Right on Main Street there’s a good barbecue place, too, that stays open. I wouldn’t suggest it, but they have a salad bar.”