Midnight Rambler Page 6

  Behind my desk hung a map of Broward County with colored pins showing where each victim was last seen. The victims were not defined by a common geography but lived in rural areas, in the city, and in residential neighborhoods. What tied them together was the completeness of their disappearances. One day they were here; the next they were simply gone. No witnesses, no trace, nothing.

  I studied this evidence whenever I could. It was my obsession, and for good reason. Because I'd beaten Skell up, I'd cast him in a sympathetic light with the media. As a result, his trial had been scrutinized, and it was apparent that the state's case was weak. Every legal expert I'd talked to had said that Skell would either get a new trial or have his case thrown out on appeal. And all because of me.

  I was reading my e-mails when my cell phone rang. Caller ID said Bobby Russo. I let it go into voice mail, then picked up his message.

  “Jack, you stupid son of a bitch, ” Bobby Russo's voice rang out. “I'm about to issue a warrant for your arrest.”

  I'd fallen pretty hard in the past six months, but getting thrown in the county lockup would be a new low. I called Russo back.

  “Tell me you're kidding,” I said.

  “No joke,” Russo said.

  “What's the warrant for?”

  “Assault and battery on an FBI agent.”

  I nearly dropped the phone on my desk.

  “That guy you roughed up in the convenience store this morning is an FBI agent,” Russo said. “He paid me a visit yesterday. He's got an interest in the Skell case and wants to talk to you. Being a nice guy, I told him where you lived.”

  I shut my eyes and listened to my beating heart.

  “I thought he was this private dick who's been harassing me.”

  “You thought wrong,” Russo said.

  “Is he pressing charges?”

  “No, he doesn't want to press charges,” Russo said.

  “Then how can you arrest me?”

  “Easy. The manager of the convenience store wants to press charges and was kind enough to provide me with a surveillance tape of what you did.”

  “Shit,” I said.

  “Shit is right,” Russo said. “You're busted, Jack. Unless you'd like to do a little horse trade.”

  Russo was the master of getting what he wanted. Without missing a beat, I said, “You want the Skell file in return for dropping charges.”

  “That's exactly what I want, plus three hundred bucks to pay the deductible for getting my car fixed, ” Russo said. “You've got until three o'clock this afternoon to get the file and the money to my office. Otherwise, you're getting three hots and a cot.”

  Before I could bargain with him, I was listening to a dial tone.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Ex-cops don't do well in jail. Other prisoners harass them, and usually so do the guards. Then there was this little thing called my ego. It had taken a pounding recently, and I wasn't sure it could deal with this.

  I had no choice but to cave to Russo's demands. Facing the victims, I started to take their photographs down. I felt that I'd failed them, and I was unable to look in their eyes.

  I also took down the map above my desk. It wasn't part of the file, but I might as well include it and let Russo and the other homicide detectives working the case see what they could come up with.

  I put everything in the cardboard box it had originally come in. As I hoisted it off my desk my cell phone rang. I wasn't usually this popular, and I put the box down and pulled the phone from my pocket. It was Jessie, the light of my life.

  “Hey, honey,” I answered.

  “Dad, I'm sitting here in my dorm room, watching you on TV,” my daughter said. “I can't believe what they're saying about you.”

  “Who's they, honey?”

  “That crummy lawyer representing Simon Skell. He's on Court TV showing pictures of you and saying you're a psychopathic cop who framed his client.”

  “Are they good pictures?”

  “Dad, this isn't funny. I read about this dirty trick in my criminology class. He's courting public opinion to pressure the judge. He's making you look horrible.”

  I trudged downstairs with the phone pressed to my ear. I asked the bartender to find Court TV on the TV hanging over the bar, and he picked up the remote and obliged me. Skell's attorney, the infamous Leonard Snook, appeared on-screen.

  Snook was in his early sixties, with a silver goatee, tailored clothes, and a movie-star tan. He practiced out of Miami and had built his reputation on representing lowlifes and scumbags. He'd gone over to the dark side long ago, and he floated in his chair like grease simmering in a frying pan.

  Beside him was a big-haired, big-bosomed woman named Lorna Sue Mutter. Lorna Sue had materialized in the spectator gallery during Skell's trial and had been seen slipping notes to him. Two months after Skell went to prison, they got married. I know a psychiatrist who believes that if you did a TV show starring nothing but convicted murderers, millions of women would watch. Lorna Sue would be president of their club.

  Two photographs of Skell appeared on the screen. Before I beat him up, and after. Skell was trim and athletic, with surfer-white hair, a paintbrush-blond beard, and eyes too small for his face. For reasons no one knew, both of his hands had missing fingers; half the pinky was gone on his left, half the index finger on his right. He had been semi-normal-looking until I got my hands on him.

  “Oh, man, did you kick his ass,” my daughter said.

  I'd forgotten Jessie was there.

  “Shouldn't you be in class?” I asked.

  “Dad, this is important. That bastard Snook is slandering you.”

  “Let him,” I said.

  “Is his client going to get out? Will they let Skell go?”

  More pictures appeared on the screen, showing the studio in Skell's house and several framed photographs of Florida landscapes. Skell claimed to be a professional photographer, but no evidence existed of him ever being paid for a job.

  “Answer me, Daddy.”

  I was “Daddy” when Jessie wanted something. I didn't give in.

  “Go to class. Please.”

  “But—”

  “Everything's going to be okay, trust me.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Positive.”

  “I love you, Daddy.”

  “I love you, too.”

  I folded my phone while staring at the TV. The show's host let Snook present his case, and Snook put all his cards on the table. His client didn't put Carmella Lopez's skeleton in her sister's backyard; someone else did. Therefore, his client didn't murder Carmella Lopez, and he should be released from prison. Lorna Sue Mutter said nothing, content to nod like a bobblehead doll whenever Snook made a salient point.

  The segment ended, and I found myself agreeing with my daughter. Snook was trying his case in the court of public opinion. If he could get a couple of newspaper editors and TV commentators to support him, he'd run to a judge.

  I went upstairs to my office. Buster was on the other side of the door, panting frantically. Leaving him behind usually resulted in a piece of furniture being destroyed. He'd spared me this time, and I scratched behind his ears.

  The Skell file sat on my desk. Beside it was a handful of mail. Most of what I got these days were flyers and solicitations for credit cards. A mailing on top of the stack caught my eye.

  Kinko's.

  That gave me an idea, and I spent thirty minutes counting each page in the Skell file. All totaled, there were eight hundred and ninety-five pages of evidence.

  I called the number on the Kinko's flyer. The guy who answered was polite and helpful. I asked for a ballpark quote on copying everything.

  “That it?” he asked.

  I start to say yes, then realized I'd need copies of the victims' photographs as well.

  “Do you copy photographs?”

  “Of course.”

  I added the photographs to the quote.

  “How quickly do you need this?” t
he guy asked.

  “Zoom,” I said.

  The guy put me on hold, and returned to the line a minute later.

  “That's going to cost you four hundred and twenty-two dollars, plus sales tax.”

  It was money I didn't have. I thanked him and killed the connection.

  I made a list of the names of people I could hit up for a loan. I started calling them and got the usual excuses. After each call was finished, I drew a line through the person's name. Finally, only one name was left.

  Sonny.

  Taking out my wallet, I removed the money I'd been paid by Tommy Gonzalez for rescuing Isabella Vasquez. I'd earmarked the money to pay my rent. I decided to use it for the copies and called the Sunset to tell Sonny. He answered on the tenth ring.

  “You working?” I asked.

  “Not so you'd notice,” Sonny said.

  “Listen, I'm going to be late on the rent this month.”

  The news was greeted by a stony silence.

  “You still there?” I asked.

  “How late?” Sonny said.

  “I don't know—a week at best. Can you cover for me?”

  In the background, I could hear a women's exercise show on the TV. Sonny and the Dwarfs got their kicks watching women's exercise shows—the more strenuous the better. I was convinced they were suffering from some strange psychosexual disorder; not that any of them cared.

  “I guess,” Sonny finally said. “Look, Jack, you're good for it, aren't you?”

  “Of course I'm good for it,” I said. “See you in a few hours.”

  “I'm not going anywhere,” Sonny replied.

  The line at the Kinko's in Coral Springs was out the door. The concept of waiting to give people money didn't appeal to me, so I drove back to Dania. There was a copy shop across from the jai alai fronton. The owner was rude, the help unfriendly, and the place was generally empty. I decided to give him a shot at my business.

  The owner agreed to match Kinko's quote and said the job would take at least twenty minutes. I handed him the box containing the file and walked out. Claire's Sub Shop was across the street, and I decided to grab lunch. As I entered the restaurant an athletic-looking woman with a radioactive tan greeted me.

  “Hey, mister, can't you read the sign? No dogs.”

  I bellied up to the counter. “I don't see very well.”

  “You see well enough to cross the street.”

  Lifting my arms, I knocked over several condiment dispensers sitting on the counter.

  “Oh, great, a smart-ass,” she said. “What do you want?”

  “Two chicken sandwiches on lightly toasted rye bread with lettuce, tomato, and mayo. On one of the sandwiches, hold the bread and the other stuff.”

  Her face turned mean. “You going to feed the dog in here?”

  “Wouldn't dream of it.”

  “Ten minutes. The cook's kinda busy.”

  I took a table with a view of the street. Although there was plenty to look at, I focused on the copy shop. The building was easily fifty years old, with spaghetti wires running from a transformer on a pole to a black box on the roof. The place was a firetrap, and I imagined it burning to the ground, and the Skell file destroyed.

  The thought unsettled me. What would I do if that happened? Get a new job? Go back to Rose? Or would I move somewhere else and start over? It should have been easy to make an imaginary decision, only I couldn't. For the time being, that file was my life. I couldn't let go of it, and it wouldn't let go of me.

  Claire slapped a plate down on the counter and rang a bell. As I paid up the abrasive voice of Neil Bash came over a radio in the kitchen. The shock jock was talking about me, and it wasn't pretty.

  “Detective Carpenter tortured your husband after he arrested him,” Bash said.

  “He most certainly did,” a woman's static-filled voice replied.

  “In his cell?”

  “Yes, in his cell.”

  “This man is a menace.”

  “He most certainly is.”

  I made the voice. It was Lorna Sue Mutter, calling in the interview. I gripped the counter edge.

  “How did Detective Carpenter torture your husband?” Bash asked.

  “With a lit cigarette,” Lorna Sue said. “He burned my husband and tried to make him confess to a crime he didn't commit.”

  “The murder of Carmella Lopez,” Bash said.

  “My husband did not kill that woman or anyone else.”

  “Your husband is not the Midnight Rambler who the police have linked to the disappearances of eight young women?”

  “No! My husband is a professional photographer and an artist. He's a warm, sensitive man.”

  “Getting back to the alleged torture,” Bash said. “I followed your husband's trial. A doctor testified about the beating that Detective Carpenter inflicted upon your husband, but never mentioned any cigarette burns.”

  “That's because my husband didn't show them to the doctor,” she said.

  “Why not?”

  “Because he was afraid of what Detective Carpenter would do to him.”

  “Which is what?”

  “Kill him.”

  “Did you see the cigarette burns?”

  There was a pause. Then a little pathetic sob. Lorna Sue was crying.

  Bash repeated himself. “Did you?”

  “Yes,” she whispered.

  “Where?”

  “In prison when I went to visit him.”

  “I mean on his body.”

  Another pause, this one a little longer.

  “On his genitals,” Lorna Sue said.

  Bash said something that sounded like Jesus. It was the only part of the conversation that didn't feel scripted. I felt Buster against my leg and released the counter edge.

  “Detective Carpenter burned your husband's genitals with a cigarette to make him confess to a crime that he didn't commit?” Bash asked.

  “He most certainly did,” Lorna Sue whispered.

  “Folks, we need to hear from one of our sponsors. We'll be back in sixty.”

  I felt like I'd been kicked. Lorna Sue was lying through her teeth. But until someone disputed her claims, they'd stick. And I didn't see Bobby Russo or the district attorney jumping in to defend me.

  Buster let out a whine. I slipped him a piece of chicken while thinking about the timing of Lorna Sue's appearance on Court TV and now Bash's show. She was trying to publicly assassinate me, and I wondered who was pushing her. Was it Leonard Snook, or was Skell manipulating her from behind bars?

  “I saw that!” Claire said.

  I snapped back to the present. Claire stood behind the counter, glaring at me. Her husband, a skinny guy with a mullet cut morphing into a ponytail, hovered behind her.

  “Saw what?” I asked innocently.

  “You fed your dog in my restaurant.”

  No clever retort came to mind. Guilty as charged.

  “Sorry, I wasn't thinking,” I said.

  “Leave,” Claire demanded.

  “Excuse me?”

  “And never come back.”

  “I didn't mean any harm.”

  “You heard me. We know who you are.”

  “You do?”

  Her husband piped up. “Yeah, you're that stinking cop with the sadistic temper. Everyone knows what you did, buddy.”

  I blew out my cheeks. Busted.

  “Get out, or we'll call the police,” Claire threatened.

  I've never been thrown out of a place before. It made me feel lower than a snake's belly. I grabbed my order off the counter and left with my dog.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  The next hour passed in a blur. I left the Skell file at the Sheriff 's Department headquarters along with an IOU for three hundred bucks for Russo. Back at my office, I hung the copies of the victims' photographs and spread the copied files on the floor, just as they were before. Carmella's photo gave me pause, and I wondered if the body in her sister's backyard had been identified as hers.
I supposed I'd find out like everyone else—from the TV.

  Then I drove to the Sunset. I needed to jump into the ocean and wash away the scene at Claire's. Of all the rotten things that had happened to me recently, getting eighty-sixed from a crummy sandwich shop had been the most humiliating.

  Parking in the Sunset's lot I remembered the transmitter attached to my gas tank. Whoever had put it there was probably still tailing me. I pulled the device free and walked down to the shoreline. Before I could throw it into the ocean, a black 4Runner pulled into the lot and parked beside my car. The FBI agent I'd roughed up earlier got out and came toward me.

  The agent stopped when he was fifteen feet away. The first thing I noticed about him were his eyes. They were sad-looking and matched the gunmetal of his close-cropped hair. I pointed at Buster, who stood protectively by my side.

  “He isn't friendly,” I said.

  “Neither's his owner,” the FBI agent said.

  He said this in a good-natured way. I told Buster to heel and showed the agent the transmitter.

  “Looking for this?” I asked.

  “What is it?”

  “An electronic transmitter. Someone stuck it beneath my car.”

  “Not me,” he said.

  I heaved the transmitter into the ocean. Then I peeled off my clothes until I was standing in my underwear. My regard for the law had changed since my departure from the force, and I wasn't going to let this guy stop me from taking my swim.

  “Jack, I need to talk to you,” the FBI agent said.

  “That's nice,” I replied.

  “Do you know who I am?”

  “No, should I?”

  He took out his wallet and showed me his credentials. Special Agent Ken Linderman, Quantico, Virginia. I'd heard of him. Linderman was the only living agent to receive the FBI Director's Award for Special Achievement for his accomplishments in hunting serial killers. Five years earlier, his daughter had vanished while jogging near the University of Miami, and it was no secret that he'd been hunting for her ever since.