Midnight Rambler_ A Novel Of Suspense Part 37

The office had a small refrigerator. Theis removed two bottles of Perrier and handed me one. Brie's picture was still on the screen. I drank while staring at her.

I'd stayed in contact with Brie for over ten years. Every few months we'd meet for a pancake breakfast, and she'd show me her most recent bank statement. She was saving up so that on her thirtieth birthday she could quit hooking and open a nail salon. She already had the location picked out, and the name: New Beginnings.

I pitched my empty bottle into the trash and headed for the door.

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE.

"I'm sorry this was a dead end," Theis said.

Pulling his wallet out, Theis placed a snapshot of a young woman in a cap and gown on the desk, then got back on the computer. I stopped in the doorway.

"Who's that?" I asked.

"Danielle Linderman," Theis said.

"Ken's daughter?"

"Uh-huh."

"You going to look for her on Coffen's database?"

Theis mumbled yes, his fingers tapping the keyboard. I came around the desk to get a better look at the photograph. Danielle Linderman bore a strong resemblance to her father, with a pretty, intelligent face and soft hazel eyes. The faces of scores of missing kids were stored in my memory, and I added hers to the group.

"Good luck," I said.

I found Linderman in the reception area. He'd gotten Coffen's cell phone to work and was scrolling through the address book while pressing a hanky to his face. Lowering the hanky, he displayed a nasty gash running the length of his chin.

"Did the receptionist do that?" I asked.

He nodded grimly.

"Did you arrest her?"

"You're G.o.dd.a.m.n right I did," he snapped. "So help me G.o.d, if I find out that little b.i.t.c.h knew what Coffen was doing, I'll ruin her."

I didn't reply. More than likely, the receptionist didn't know that her boss was a predator. Coffen ran a respectable business and had a public face. That was the person she knew. Hearing he'd been killed, she'd snapped.

"How did you make out?" Linderman asked.

"We found photographs of Skell's victims on Coffen's computer, but nothing that will lead us to Jonny Perez," I said. "Any luck with the phone?"

Linderman reapplied the hanky to his face. "So far, every number in the address book is a client's."

"Who was he trying to call?"

"Another cell. I'm having the number traced."

I had traced cell numbers before. It could take days to track them down.

I went outside to my car. Looking at the victims' photographs had reminded me how much I'd cared for those young women. It was hard to believe that I'd never speak with any of them again.

Opening the pa.s.senger door, I knelt down so I was eye level with my dog. Buster propped a paw on my shoulder and licked my face. I did everything I could not to cry.

I got behind the wheel and spent a few minutes ma.s.saging my leg. It was starting to feel better; the injury I'd suffered from my jump was just a sprain. I watched an ambulance carrying Coffen's body go past the building. In my wife's religion, the spirits of the dead never leave this earth. I imagined Coffen's ghost hovering over the ambulance, mocking us as we tried to unearth his dark secrets.

My cell phone rang. I took it off the dash and looked at Caller ID. It was Claude Cheever. I didn't want to talk to him and let the call go into voice mail.

My last encounter with Claude was still fresh in my mind. While Claude had been accusing me of sleeping with Melinda I'd heard another accusation as well, which was that he'd suspected it for a while. Which meant that all the honorable things he'd said about me in front of the police review board had been lies.

The phone rang several times over the next few minutes. Each time, Caller ID said it was Cheever. Finally I answered it.

"What do you want?" I said by way of greeting.

"Melinda was just on Neil Bash's show, talking about your affair," Cheever said.

"Is that what you called to tell me?"

"No, no, calm down, buddy. I'm on your side."

"You weren't the last time we got together."

"I found Jesus and saw the light," Cheever said. "You were right. Melinda was abducted from her apartment yesterday."

You were right. I hadn't heard those words in a long time. I hadn't heard those words in a long time.

"What brought you to that conclusion?" I asked.

"While Bash was interviewing Melinda, he asked her where she was calling from," Cheever said. "Melinda told Bash she was at home. I was driving near her apartment and decided to pay her a visit. I banged on the front door, looked through the back slider, and talked to the next-door neighbor. Melinda hasn't been home since yesterday. I didn't like it, so I called Bash's show."

"You called Bash? Jesus Christ, Claude. Bash is part of it."

"Don't worry. I've called Bash's show plenty of times. He knows me."

"Why do you call his show?"

"For kicks. I go by a pseudonym: s.e.x Hound. Anyway, Bash let me talk to Melinda. Now, I'm going to tell you something in confidence, and you can't repeat it."

"I'm listening," I said.

"I had a fling with Melinda," Cheever said. "Lasted about a month. s.e.x every day, sometimes twice a day. She was a G.o.ddess. We had a special language all our own."

I shook my head in disbelief. I couldn't imagine Melinda and Claude in bed together, even with the shades drawn and the lights turned out.

"When I talked with Melinda I used a few of our code words, and she realized it was me," Cheever continued. "She told me she was being hurt, the f.u.c.king b.a.s.t.a.r.ds."

Claude paused to compose himself.

"Jack, I want you to help me rescue her."

"How do you plan to do that?" I asked.

"I'm going to pay Bash a visit and make him tell me where she's being held."

"What about the police? Or the FBI?" I asked.

"They'll only slow us down," Cheever said.

I knew exactly how Cheever felt. Had I visited Trojan Communications without the FBI breathing down my neck, I could have made Coffen cough up Jonny Perez's address. It wouldn't have been pretty, but I could have done it.

"Count me in," I said.

CHAPTER FORTY.

Neil Bash's radio station was in a semirural community called Davie in the center of Broward County. I agreed to meet Cheever there in thirty minutes. As I backed my car out, Linderman emerged from Trojan Communications. I lowered my window.

"The police want to talk with you," Linderman said.

I glanced at the street. While I'd been talking with Cheever, a pair of police cruisers had pulled in the front of the building, and several sheriffs had gone inside.

"I thought you had the police covered," I said.

"They're picking apart my story," Linderman said. "Coffen is a big mover and shaker in town, and the police want to know why I shot him when he was unarmed."

"Have Theis show them the photos of the victims on his computer," I suggested.

"Theis did. The police are saying the photos don't mean squat. They're saying we can't even prove those women are dead. You need to straighten them out, Jack."

"Me?"

"Yes, you."

I threw the car into drive. I couldn't see myself explaining how I knew eight women were dead to a legal system that had let their killer walk free.

"f.u.c.k 'em," I said.

I drove to Davie, listening to Bash's talk show on my radio.

Bash was ripping me apart and making me the poster boy for everything wrong with the criminal justice system. He recited every injury I had inflicted upon Skell, without mentioning the crime for which Skell had been sent to prison. He was brainwashing his listeners, one moron at a time.

Every few minutes, Bash took a call-in. As the Davie exit appeared in my windshield a caller came on whose voice was instantly familiar.

"Hey, Neil, it's your old buddy s.e.x Hound," Cheever said brightly.

"s.e.x Hound," Bash said. "You always lighten up my day. What's up?"

"You going to bring her back on?"

"Who's that?"

"Melinda Peters."

"Ah, yes, the lovely Melinda Peters, star of your friendly neighborhood strip club. Melinda has promised that she'll be calling again. Believe it or not, she actually has more more dirt on our favorite cop, Jack Carpenter." dirt on our favorite cop, Jack Carpenter."

"What kind of dirt?" Cheever asked.

"She's going to tell us what Carpenter was really really up to," Bash said. up to," Bash said.

"You mean there's more to the story?" Cheever said.

"Lots more," Bash said. "But to tell any more would be cheating."

"I'll be waiting," Cheever said. "Oh, and Neil? Love your show."

"Thanks, s.e.x Hound. And now it's time for a word from one of our sponsors."

I took the exit and headed south. Davie was a blue-collar area, and I drove down a two-lane road with trailer parks hugging each side. Two miles later, I spotted a cl.u.s.ter of trailers with large antennas on their roofs. Above the trailers hung an elevated billboard with the station's call letters and Bash's round, devilish face.

I'd found him.

Trailer parks were as much a part of Florida as alligators and Mickey Mouse. They sat on land sc.r.a.ped clean of trees and were usually the first casualties of hurricanes and electrical storms. Low-income families flocked to them, as did the retired. They were their own worlds, and could be good or bad places to live. I'd known many cops who refused to answer a call from one on a Sat.u.r.day night.

Bash's radio station was inside a trailer park called Tropical Estates. It was a cheapo operation, the main building a series of double-wides attached by flimsy covered walkways. Cheever's car was parked by the entrance. I parked beside him.