A Killing Rain by P.J. Parrish

map. All he had was the beat-up state map he used when he had a case outside of the Fort Myers area, which wasn’t very often. In the three years he had lived in Florida, he hadn’t even been to the East Coast.
    He turned the map over. There was a small inset of Greater Miami-Dade that showed the airport. From there he was able to trace a rough route to Southwest Eighth Street. Louis tossed the map aside, stuck the business card up in the visor, and headed out of the parking lot.
    As he turned off Le Jeune Road onto Eighth Street Louis caught sight of a blinking sign on a bank. It was ten-thirty-two. And fifty-two degrees. It had been a balmy seventy degrees at noon. He wondered if Benjamin had a jacket.
    Louis strained to see the street numbers in the dark. A feeling of dread was starting to pit in his stomach and he didn’t even try to ignore it . He had learned to trust his instincts, especially when he was in the dark. And right now, his instincts were telling him that something had gone wrong.
    All the signs were in Spanish, which only increased his growing anxiety. Dentista. Paradise International Envios a Cuba. Carga Immigracion. He was heading into unknown territory in more ways than one.
    The cars ahead had stopped. Nothing was moving; the street was blocked. And now the guy in the Volkswagen ahead was getting out of his car. Louis laid on the horn. Then he saw it —- the sweep of blue and red lights ahead. Something tightened in his stomach. He was only a block away from the address on Austin’s card. He pulled into a parking lot, got out, and started sprinting toward the lights.
    He pushed through the crowd and came to a stop at the yellow tape. It was stretched across the parking lot of a plain two-story stucco building. Downstairs held a unisex hair salon, a restaurant, and an income tax place. And upstairs, a clot of Miami-Dade cops standing at an open door. The sign painted on the window said PACIFIC IMPORTS.
    There was an ambulance in the lot with its back door open, but there was no one inside. Louis looked back at the building, his eyes scanning the scene for a uniform close enough to talk to.
    Then a man emerged backward from the doorway of Pacific Imports. He was pulling a gu rney with a body on it, but the body was in a black bag, zipped closed. Louis moved closer and saw the back of a black uniform. He edged down the tape and tapped the cop on the shoulder.
    “What’s happened here?” Louis asked.
    The officer glanced back at him then looked away.
    Louis tapped the cop again. The cop ignored him.
    “Hey, listen,” Louis said, “I need some answers here.”
    The cop spun around. “Back off.”
    Louis ripped his ID badge from his pocket and held it out “I’m looking for a missing kid. He might be in that building. Just tell me who’s in that body bag and if there’s a kid upstairs.”
    The cop’s eyes dropped to the ID card, then rose to Louis’s face.
    “Please,” Louis said.
    The cop hesitated. The gu rney was being wheeled to a van labeled Dade County Morgue.
    “All I know is that the dead guy is a black dude, about thirty-five or forty. He was sliced up pretty good. Someone said he owned the joint.”
    Louis felt his chest draw tight as his eyes shot to the window of Pacific Imports. “I need to talk to a detective,” he said.
    The cop shook his head. “They’re busy.”
    The cop turned away. The van was pulling out of the lot. Louis watched it head up Eighth Street. He spotted a man in dark pants and a plaid sports coat. On his belt was a gun, cuffs, and a gold shield.
    Louis ducked under the crime scene tape and walked toward him. He saw a uniform heading toward him and sped up, drawing out his ID card again as he walked.
    The detective saw him coming.
    “Detective,” Louis said quickly, reaching him. “I’m a P.I. pursuing an ex who might have kidnaped his own son from the mother. I —-”
    The uniformed officer’s hand clamped down on Louis’s arm. Louis jerked away.