Midnight Rambler_ A Novel Of Suspense Part 5

"That's horses.h.i.t and you know it."

"Sorry," he said.

A CSI van appeared on the street and parked behind the cable truck. A two-man forensic crew got out, griping about the weather. The uniform escorted them past me and into the backyard.

I'd reached my boiling point. I opened the driver's door of my car, and Buster stuck his head out and licked my fingers.

"Get the keys," I told him.

Buster's previous owners had done a h.e.l.luva job training him.

He pulled the keys out of the ignition with his teeth and dropped them on my palm. I carried a cigar punch on the ring, which was the same size as a handcuff key. I quickly freed myself.

If there's one thing that's gotten me in trouble, it's my temper. I walked down to the street and located Russo's car, a black Suburban. I tossed the cuffs onto the hood, causing a sizeable dent. Russo would go ballistic when he saw it.

Climbing into my car, I hugged my dog and drove away.

CHAPTER SEVEN.

I didn't go far. didn't go far.

My head was filled with contradictions that needed sorting out. At a convenience store near Julie's house I purchased a sixteen-ounce coffee and a package of Slim Jims for Buster. The cashier stared at my wet clothes but said nothing.

I drank the coffee in my car while listening to the rain. Back when I was a kid, I was afraid of lightning storms. Sometimes my older sister, Donna, would invite me to her room, and we'd sit on her bed and listen to record alb.u.ms. One alb.u.m in particular still stands out: Everything You Know Is Wrong, Everything You Know Is Wrong, by a comedy troupe called The Firesign Theatre. I blew steam off my drink thinking of that alb.u.m. by a comedy troupe called The Firesign Theatre. I blew steam off my drink thinking of that alb.u.m.

Everything I knew was wrong.

I was not a new age cop. Forensics were great for solving tough cases, but they never stopped anyone from committing a crime. It took instincts to stop crimes. My instincts led me to Simon Skell, and I arrested him before he could kill any more young women. The fact that a piece of evidence had turned up that said I was wrong about how Carmella Lopez's body was disposed of didn't mean Skell wasn't guilty. He was was guilty; I just couldn't prove it anymore. guilty; I just couldn't prove it anymore.

My thoughts shifted to Bobby Russo. Russo was going to do everything in his power to divert blame from himself and his department over what had happened. Which meant I'd I'd get the blame, whether I deserved it or not. My reputation had taken a pounding during Skell's trial, and I sensed another beating coming on. get the blame, whether I deserved it or not. My reputation had taken a pounding during Skell's trial, and I sensed another beating coming on.

Now the rain was coming down sideways. Jessie was always telling me to look on the bright side of things. Well, the bright side was that my wife and daughter no longer lived in Fort Lauderdale, and they wouldn't have to endure the s.h.i.t storm I was about to go through.

I got on 595 and headed east. A part of me wanted to drink cold beer at the Sunset until I pa.s.sed out, but my conscience wouldn't allow it. There were other people to think about.Namely Melinda Peters.

Melinda had been the prosecution's key witness at Skell's trial. I'd discovered her name in an old file in the National Runaway Switchboard's computer database that linked her to Skell. She'd been a reluctant witness, and it had taken every trick I knew to get her to testify. On the witness stand, Melinda had told in chilling detail how Skell picked her up when she was a sixteen-year-old runaway, drugged her, and kept her locked inside a dog crate in his house with a spiked collar on. He tortured her when the mood struck him and played rock 'n' roll music to drown out her cries for help. Skell was partial to the Rolling Stones, and he played one song repeatedly, "Midnight Rambler," a tune about a sicko breaking into women's homes and brutally murdering them. Out of desperation, Melinda talked Skell into having s.e.x with her, and when he let her out of her cage, she jumped through a window. Instead of calling the police, she ran to a homeless shelter and went into hiding. She told another runaway at the shelter her story, and that girl told a phone counselor at the National Runaway Switchboard, who wrote up the incident and filed it in the computer. During my investigation I stumbled across the file and tracked Melinda down.

That was our history. Melinda had helped me, and it was my responsibility to tell her about the body in Julie Lopez's backyard. I didn't want her hearing about it on the TV and freaking out. I owed her the decency of a face-to-face.

The hard part was going to be finding her. Melinda was a stripper and bounced between clubs. I didn't have her address, and the phone number she'd given me was an answering service.Then I had an idea.

Since resigning, I'd stayed friendly with a handful of cops. One was a redneck named Claude Cheever. Although Cheever and I were on opposite sides of the spectrum on every issue you could name, he had come forward at my hearing and testified that every move I'd made during the Skell investigation was by the book. None of my friends had stuck up for me like that. Not a single one.

Cheever was also a s.e.x hound, and on a first-name basis with every stripper in town. Pulling up his cell number, I called him.

"Cheever here," he answered.

Blaring disco music in the background made me guess he was at a club.

"Carpenter here," I said. "Can you talk?"

"As good as the next guy," Cheever said. "How you been?"

"I'm hanging in there. You?"

"Loving life. What's up?"

"I'm looking for Melinda Peters. Any idea where she's working these days?"

"About three feet from my drooling face." His voice changed. "Ooh, baby, you are so d.a.m.n beautiful. Come over here and make me smile."

"You talking to her right now?" I asked.

"No, this is another hottie," he said.

"Is Melinda really there?"

"Of course she's here. She just went on break."

"Which dollar store are you at?"

"The Body Shot on State Road 80," Cheever said. "I'll hold you a seat."

If there was one business that flourished in Broward County, it was strip clubs. There were so many that several glossy magazines were published each month to highlight the girls who danced in them. The clubs near the ocean attracted tourists and were high priced, while those out west were dives catering to locals. The Body Shot was out west, the parking lot filled with cars in worse shape than mine.

The club smelled of cheap beer and failed deodorant. Up on the oval stage, three women in G-strings danced to Santana's "Everybody's Everything" beneath a pulsating strobe light. As I crossed the room the strobe's clockwise rotation made me feel as if I were circling a giant drain.

Cheever was at the bar. With Claude, "cop" was never the first word that came to mind. In his mid-forties, he had a droopy mustache, a hard-looking belly, and a short choppy haircut that was the worst I'd seen on a grown man. He pumped my hand.

"You look good," I shouted over the music.

"Liar," he said.

I caught the bartender's eye and ordered two beers. Moments later, she slapped down two bottles and said, "Sixteen bucks" as if expecting a fight. I paid up, and we clinked bottles.

"Didn't anyone ever tell you not to shower with your clothes on?" Cheever asked.

I was still soaking wet. These clothes were my last link to my old life, and I didn't know if I should feel sad or elated. Taking a swig of beer, I decided on elation.

"Did you tell Melinda I was coming?" I asked.

"No. Was I supposed to?"

I threw a five at the bartender and asked her to find Melinda. The bartender disappeared, and Cheever nudged me in the ribs with his elbow.

"This little old lady in Fort Lauderdale goes to the supermarket to buy groceries," he said. "When she comes out, she finds two guys stealing her car. She whips out a handgun and screams, 'Out of the car, mother-f.u.c.kers. I have a gun, and I know how to use it.'

"The guys run like h.e.l.l. The old lady loads her groceries and gets behind the wheel. Then she sees a football and a twelve-pack of beer on the front seat. She gets out of the car and sees her own car, same model and color, parked four spots away.

"She loads her groceries into her own car and drives to the police station to report her mistake. The sergeant on duty bursts out laughing when he hears her story, and points to the other end of the counter, where two guys are reporting a carjacking by a mad old woman. So what's the moral of the story?"

I shook my head and killed my beer.

"If you're having a senior moment, make it special."

Cheever snorted with laughter. I felt a tap on my shoulder and turned. Melinda stood behind me, her long blond hair resting seductively on her shoulder, her gorgeous bikini-clad body visible through black fishnet. In high heels, she was nearly as tall as me. She offered me her hand like a princess.

"h.e.l.lo, darling," she said.

We retreated to the VIP lounge and sat on a couch with a large tear in the fabric. The lounge had a partial wall separating it from the rest of the club that afforded us some privacy. Melinda cuddled up next to me and rested her hand on my stomach.

"Hey, handsome."

"Hey," I replied.

"Did you miss me?"

"Sure."

"Marry me."

I swallowed hard, wishing I hadn't drunk a beer. I won't lie and say that Melinda didn't arouse me. I'd have to be stone-cold dead for that not to happen. But this come-on was just a game she played whenever we got together.

"I'm taken," I said.

She withdrew her hand and created distance between us on the couch. It was only a few feet, just enough for her to feel safe.

"Haven't seen you in a while."

"I've been busy," I said.

"Catching bad guys?"

"Sometimes."

"What happened to your clothes?"

"I got caught in the storm."

She pulled a pack of Kools out of a pocket in her fishnet, banged one out, and stuck it between her lips. I fumbled pulling a book of matches out of the pack's cellophane and lighting her cigarette. She blew a monster cloud over our heads.

"So what do you want, Jack, a lap dance?"

"I've got some bad news."

Her eyebrows went up. "What's that?"

"A body was found buried in a backyard this afternoon. The police think it belongs to Carmella Lopez, the girl Simon Skell went down for. The police arrested a pimp they think put it there."

It took Melinda a moment to process what I'd said. Panic distorted her face.

"What's going to happen to Skell?" she asked. "They're not going to let him out of prison, are they?"

"They might."

"But you said he killed Carmella and all those other girls."

"That's right."

"Then how can they let him out?"

"The evidence doesn't support the police's case anymore."

"Don't talk to me like that," she snapped.

"Like what?"

"Like a f.u.c.king automated answering machine. I hate that."

"I'm sorry."

Melinda put her hand on my leg and sank her dragon-lady nails into my skin. I'd forgotten who I was talking to. This was the girl who stopped being a victim long enough to put her abuser behind bars. There weren't many like her, and I'd just told her that it was all for nothing.

"How can they let him out, Jack?" she spat at me. "Didn't the judge hear what I said on the witness stand? How Skell tortured me? How he wouldn't feed me or give me water? How he made me p.i.s.s into a Dixie cup? How he told me about the girls he'd tortured, and how I was going to join their little club? How he made me bark like a dog while he played that f.u.c.king song? Didn't the judge hear any of that, Jack?" can they let him out, Jack?" she spat at me. "Didn't the judge hear what I said on the witness stand? How Skell tortured me? How he wouldn't feed me or give me water? How he made me p.i.s.s into a Dixie cup? How he told me about the girls he'd tortured, and how I was going to join their little club? How he made me bark like a dog while he played that f.u.c.king song? Didn't the judge hear any of that, Jack?"

I fell mute. The sad truth is, it was not Melinda's trial. It was Carmella's trial, and although Melinda's testimony had helped send Skell to prison, it was not the crime he had been tried for. Which was a nice way of saying that Skell would never be punished for the crimes he'd committed against Melinda. Only I couldn't tell her that.

"It's not a done deal," I said instead.

"Meaning what?"

"Meaning that it's not certain Skell will be released from prison. His lawyer will have to go in front of a judge and present the evidence."