Midnight Rambler_ A Novel Of Suspense Part 38

We got out and faced each other. I was still p.i.s.sed, and glared at him.

"I'm sorry, Jack," Cheever said.

"You should be," I said.

"Hear me out, will you?"

Bread crumbs peppered his mustache. I couldn't imagine him s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g Melinda.

"I'm listening," I said.

"I'm sorry I doubted your story, and sorry I called you a liar. I hope you'll forgive me. I won't hold it against you if you don't."

"That's it?" I said.

He nodded solemnly.

"Maybe someday," I said.

He pretended to understand. Reaching into the backseat of his car, he removed a white box tied with string.

"It's a pound of homemade chocolate fudge for Bash," he explained. "I bought it from a candy store in my neighborhood. Eat one piece, and you can't stop."

"You going to bribe your way in?"

"That was the idea."

"What if he refuses?"

"He won't. A while back, he had a p.o.r.no queen named Kissy in his studio taking calls. I'd seen her movies and wanted to get a glimpse of her in the flesh. I used the fudge then, and it worked fine."

Cheever again reached into the back of his car. This time, he came out with a pair of black cowboy hats. He put one on, and handed me the other.

"Disguises?" I asked.

"Yeah. You got shades?"

"In my car."

"Get them, and your dog. You're going to be my blind cousin."

"Isn't that a little hokey?"

"Not with these bozos. Listen, I got some bad news. Joy Chambers was found murdered yesterday in her house. There was a piece of skin under one of her fingernails. The lab ran a DNA check. It was from some Cuban guy."

"His name's Jonny Perez," I said.

Cheever blinked. "How the heck did you know that?"

"Jonny Perez shot out my car on 595. He's part of Skell's gang."

"You're one step ahead of me, aren't you?"

"Try a mile," I said.

We entered the trailer that served as the radio station's reception area. It was a low-ceilinged arrangement with paneled walls and carpet that wasn't tacked down. A receptionist with fake eyelashes and eye-popping cleavage beamed at us.

"Hey, I remember you," she said. "You're s.e.x Hound."

Cheever doffed his hat. "It's Janet from another planet, right?"

"Good memory. Bring any candy?"

Cheever untied the box and showed her the fudge. She filched the biggest piece and stuck it sideways in her mouth.

"Who's he?" she asked, nearly choking.

"This is my cousin LeRoy," Cheever said. "He's blind."

"What a shame. He's cute."

"Maybe you can babysit for him sometime," Cheever said.

"I think I'd like that," she said.

I kept my face expressionless. Janet from another planet looked like the type who'd molest me if given half a chance.

"Can I go see Neil?" Cheever asked.

"Be my guest," she said.

We walked down a claustrophobic hallway and entered a second trailer, where the studio was located. It had soundproof walls and a small gla.s.sed-in s.p.a.ce where Bash sat, jabbering into a mike. His goatee was gone, revealing sunken eyes and a triple chin. Seeing Cheever, he cut to a commercial and clicked off his mike.

"s.e.x Hound," he yelled through the gla.s.s. "You bring candy?"

Cheever held the box of goodies up to the gla.s.s. Bash pushed himself out of his chair and emerged from the studio. He was about five-six and tipped the scales near three hundred pounds. I had expected the Devil incarnate, but he was nothing more than a sad little man. Cheever gave him the fudge, and Bash started shoving pieces into his mouth. He paid no attention to me or my dog.

"How's the fudge?" Cheever asked.

"Delicious," Bash said through a mouthful.

Cheever punched Bash in the stomach. Bash spit up the candy and fell backwards onto the floor. Cheever shoved his detective's badge in Bash's face.

"You're under arrest, a.s.shole," he said.

Some cops will tell you that ethics are situational and that there is a time and a place for just about anything. I kept my mouth shut as Cheever silenced Bash's screams with several well-placed kicks to the ribs.

Buster seemed perplexed by the whole scene. I made him sit in the corner and removed his leash. If anyone walked into the studio unannounced, I was hoping his presence would slow them down.

"You going to cooperate?" Cheever asked.

Lying on the floor, Bash groaned in the affirmative.

"Good," Cheever said. "Now get up."

Bash pulled himself off the floor. His lips were smeared with fudge, and he was gasping for breath. Cheever pushed him into the studio and threw him into his chair. ZZ Top's "Sharp Dressed Man" was playing over the room's speakers.

I followed them in, shut the door, and removed my disguise. Bash stared at me.

"You're Jack Carpenter," he said.

"That's right," I said. "I just came from seeing a friend of yours."

"Who's that?"

"Paul Coffen. He told us about the girls you and Skell and Jonny Perez molested in Tampa, and how you came down here and set up shop. He's selling you down the river."

Bash squirmed in his chair. "Paul wouldn't do that."

"He showed us the surveillance photographs of Skell's victims he kept stored on his hard drive," I went on. "We've also connected him to a child abduction case at Disney World. He named you and Perez and Skell as his co-conspirators."

"What?" Bash said.

"There's enough evidence to have all of you put to death," I said. "Think about it, Neil. Fifteen years on death row, waiting on appeals, then one day they march you into the death chamber and it's lights out."

The song ended, and silence filled the studio. Bash reflexively pressed a b.u.t.ton on the master console, and another song came on: George Thorogood's "Bad to the Bone."

Cheever was standing behind the chair and dropped his hand on Bash's shoulder. "Tell us where Jonny Perez is keeping Melinda, and we'll help you."

Bash looked up beseechingly into Cheever's face.

"Help me how?"

"We'll tell the district attorney that you pulled through for us," Cheever said. "We'll say that without your help, we couldn't have solved the case."

"You mean you'll cut me a deal?"

"That's right," Cheever said.

Swiveling in his chair, Bash looked at me.

"Is he telling the truth?"

"Yes," I said. "Help us find Melinda, and you won't go down."

"You mean I won't die?"

We both nodded.

Bash covered his face and began to weep. I believe that evil people all think about the day when they will be held accountable for the things they've done. It's called Judgment Day, and there's no escaping it. Bash was living that day.

"Jonny Perez lives with his brother Paco in a rented house a few miles west of here," Bash said. "He's keeping Melinda there. That's where he kept all the girls."

I leaned closer.

"What's the address?"

"It's written down in my trailer."

"Is your trailer here?"

"Yeah. It's part of my deal with the station."

I glanced up at Cheever to gauge his reaction. He nodded grimly.

"Take us there," I said.

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE.

Before we left the studio, Bash slipped a tape of an old show into a player on the console. He hit the Play b.u.t.ton, and his abrasive voice filled the trailer.

"Won't your listeners notice it's a repeat?" Cheever asked.

"Who cares?" the DJ said.

We left the studio through a back door and walked down a dusty road into the bowels of the trailer park. Each trailer in the park sat on a tiny sliver of land. Many were sinking into the ground, their roofs patched with asphalt shingles and plywood. On screened porches sat shapeless women fanning themselves while shirtless men sucked cans of beer. No one said h.e.l.lo.

Bash's footsteps were measured, his hands gripping his gut. Turning down a street called Majesty Lane, he went to the last trailer. It was newer, with bright aluminum siding and a giant satellite dish on the roof. He unlocked the front door, then faced us.

"I need to tell you guys something," Bash said.

We waited, the midday sun burning our faces.

"I was never there there when the girls died when the girls died," he said emphatically.

"Where were you?" I asked.