Midnight Rambler (5 page)

CHAPTER NINE

M
orning came hard and bright.

Lying in bed, I watched a seagull float outside my window while trying to make sense of what had happened last night. The cops had torn apart my room searching for the Skell file, but they'd managed to put everything back in its place. That wasn't normal behavior, and I supposed the special treatment came from having been one of them. Or maybe Russo told them to. I decided the latter was probably what happened, meaning Bobby didn't hate me as much as I thought he did.

An immovable object lay beside me: Buster was positioned so snugly against my body that I could not get out of bed. I grabbed a hind leg and pulled.

“Rise and shine.”

We were both creatures of habit. Buster drank out of the toilet before I used it, then waited by the door. I washed up, threw on shorts and a long-sleeved running shirt, and took my dog outside for a run.

Breakfast awaited us at the bar upon our return. A bowl of table scraps for my dog, a cup of coffee and a copy of the
Fort
Lauderdale Sun-Sentinel
for me. It was part of my rent, and I thanked Sonny, who sat on a stool behind the bar, half asleep.

Normally, I read the sports section first, but today it was the headlines. On the front page was a ghoulish overhead photo of the corpse in Julie Lopez's backyard. It was a good clear shot taken overhead from a helicopter. In journalism there were big murders and little murders, and this was being sold as a big murder. Something was clutched between the skeleton's hands. I asked Sonny his opinion, and he opened his eyes and studied the paper.

“Looks like a gold crucifix,” Sonny said.

I had another look.

“I think you're right.”

“This was your last case, wasn't it?”

I sipped my coffee and nodded. I was thinking about Julie Lopez's pimp, Ernesto, who according to the paper was being held without bail. Ernesto was deeply religious, and I wondered if this was his way of giving Carmella a proper burial. I didn't want to believe it, but facts were facts. Ernesto must have killed Carmella, then waited until Skell was in prison before plopping her in the ground. I had sent away the right man for the wrong crime. It made my head hurt.

“A guy was checking out your car when I pulled in this morning,” Sonny said a few minutes later.

“Checking it out how?” I asked.

“Looking it over, reading the license plate.”

“What did he look like?”

“He was in plain clothes, late forties, short hair.”

“Think he was a cop?”

“I made him for a private dick.”

“How can you tell the difference?”

“Cops don't get up that early.”

The Legend was the only thing of value I owned, and I was sick of people messing with it. Going outside, I inspected my car, including the undercarriage. The black transmitter stuck to the gas tank was hard to miss. I went back inside.

“I need your help,” I said.

“Name it,” Sonny replied.

“This private dick put a transmitter on my car. I want you to take my car out for a spin. I'll follow you and see if I can nail this guy.”

“I got DUIed last month and had my license suspended,” Sonny said. “Why don't you ask Whitey?”

“Is he around?”

“Sure. Hey, Whitey, get up.”

There was stirring from the other side of the room. Whitey's snow-white head appeared an inch at a time over the bar as he pulled himself off the floor. He was wearing yesterday's clothes, his face a mosaic of broken blood vessels and gin blossoms. He brushed himself off while grinning lopsidedly.

“Wass up, captain?” Whitey asked.

“You got a car?” I asked.

“Last time I checked.”

“Your driver's license any good?”

Whitey jerked out his wallet, spilled his credit cards onto the bar and extracted his driver's license. He scrutinized it, then nodded enthusiastically.

“Here's what I want you to do,” I said.

Five minutes later we put my plan into action. Whitey drove south on A1A in my car while I followed in his filthy Corolla. Whitey was impaired and probably shouldn't have been driving, but that was true for a lot of folks in south Florida.

As I drove I watched the side streets. If my hunch was correct, the private dick hired by Simon Skell's sister would soon appear and start following Whitey. Most dicks were failed cops, which explained the harsh treatment I'd been getting.

Two blocks later, I was proved right. A black Toyota 4Runner with tinted windows pulled out and started tailing the Legend. At the next intersection, Whitey pulled into a 7-Eleven and hustled inside, the ten bucks I'd given him burning a hole in his pocket. The 4Runner also pulled into the lot, and the driver followed Whitey in. He was my size, with gunmetal hair and a dark suit that made him stand out like a sore thumb. The look on his face spelled trouble, and I parked on the street and hurried inside.

I found the guy in the rear of the store. He had cornered Whitey in the potato chip aisle and had his back to me. I shot my hands through his armpits and put him in a full nelson.

“Hey!” he yelled in alarm.

“Hey yourself,” I replied. “I'm sick of your crap.”

“Let me go.”

“Not until you answer a couple of questions.”

His muscles tensed. He felt powerful, and I sensed a fight coming on.

“Are you Jack Carpenter?” he asked.

“Whatever gave you that idea?” I replied.

“I need to talk to you.”

“Call my secretary and set up an appointment.”

“Come on. Stop acting like a fool,” he said. “I just want to talk.”

“Isn't that what we're doing?”

“Are you going to let me go?”

“Not until you apologize to me and my friend.”

“I have nothing to apologize for,” he said.

The guy was both stubborn and strong. There are some people in this world you can't reason with, and I decided he was one of them. Releasing my grip, I shoved him forward. To my surprise, Whitey stuck his leg out. The guy fell headfirst into the potato chips, and took down the entire aisle.

Whitey ran out of the store laughing like a delinquent kid. I followed him, apologizing to the manager as I passed the register.

“Stay out of here!” the manager shouted.

Whitey and I exchanged keys in the parking lot. I pulled out of the lot just as the guy staggered out. His jacket was ripped at the shoulder, and there was defeat in his eyes. Honking my horn, I waved and drove away.

I went to the Sunset and picked up my dog. I hadn't felt this pumped in a long time. I decided to go to my office and get some work done.

I took the bridge back to civilization and headed toward town. Halfway there, I turned down a dusty two-lane road flanked by palmetto trees and a junk-filled boatyard. My destination was a local hideaway called Tugboat Louie's that had everything a person could want: bar, grille, dockside dining, and a marina with dry dock storage.

The bar was a ramshackle affair with bleached shingles and hurricane shutters. Inside, I found the owner behind the bar checking inventory. His name was Kumar, and he wore a white Egyptian cotton shirt and an oversized black bow tie. He was a small Indian man with a big personality, and he shook my hand.

“Jack, how are you? You are looking well. Is everything good? What can I get you? Coffee, tea? How about something to eat? Scrambled eggs perhaps?”

“I'm fine,” I said.

“How about your dog?”

“He's fine, too. How are you?”

“Wonderful, fantastic. Business is good. I have no complaints.” “

You're a lucky man,” I said.

Belly-dancing music filled the air. It was the ring tone to Kumar's cell phone, and he removed it from his belt and took the call. Behind the bar was a stairwell with a chain strung across it and a sign marked private. Stepping behind the bar, I unclipped the chain and headed upstairs.

The second floor had two offices: Kumar's and my own, which I occupied rent free. I'd worked here for six months in total anonymity, with no one except Kumar and a handful of employees knowing about it.

My relationship with Kumar was based upon a single act, which he seemed obsessed with repaying. On a summer weekend two years earlier, I had come in with my wife and daughter for dinner. Outside a bikini contest was taking place, its sponsor a local rum distributor. Rum and beautiful girls are what made south Florida great, and they were flowing in abundance, with a gang of drunks ogling ten scantily clad ladies standing on a makeshift stage. A local DJ was hosting, and in a moment of true stupidity, he'd invited the drunks to dance with the ladies, then played Steppenwolf's “Born To Be Wild.”

The drunks had rushed the stage and started groping the ladies. Sensing a disaster, I went behind the DJ's equipment and pulled the plug on the main electrical outlet, then marched onto the stage holding my detective's badge over my head. I led the ladies into the bar and stood by while they got dressed. Within minutes everything was back to normal.

Ever since, when I wasn't doing odd jobs, I was here in my office. Along with a great view of the intercoastal waterway, my office contained a desk and chair, a dartboard with Michael Jackson's picture, an ancient PC and printer, and the Skell case file. I got behind my desk and went to work.

The Skell file sat on the floor, separated into eight piles. Each pile represented one of the victims and contained a police report, dozens of interviews with friends and neighbors, and a personal history. On the wall above the files I'd taped the victims' photographs. Their names were Chantel, Maggie, Carmen, Jen, Krista, Brie, Lola, and Carmella. I'd known them all as teenagers living on the streets. They were all either thrownaways or run aways. I'd seen them grow up and helped them out whenever I could. I'd never stopped caring for them, even in death.

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

E
x-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?” the 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.