Midnight Rambler

by James Swain

  “On the house,” Big Al said.

  “Thanks. And thanks for fixing my windshield so fast.”

  “What are friends for?”

  “You still dive, don't you?”

  Big Al said yes, and I recounted the incident with the lemon sharks. I hadn't stopped thinking about them, and he listened attentively.

  “Lemon sharks are strange,” Big Al said. “I once encountered a school during a dive. They were hovering around a spot and wouldn't leave. Turns out, there was a wreck on the ocean floor. A boat had caught on fire and sunk the day before.”

  “Were they scavenging it?”

  “No, they were protecting it,” Big Al said.

  “From what?”

  “Beats me, Jack. But that's what they were doing.”

  We went outside. Big Al was six-six and cast a long shadow across the dusty yard. Reaching my car, he put his hand on my shoulder.

  “I was listening to the news earlier,” he said. “This Skell thing is getting out of hand. You going to leave town?”

  “I wasn't planning to,” I said.

  “With all this shit flying around, I would.”

  “Where would you go?”

  “West coast.”

  “Of Florida?”

  “California. Southern part, where the weather's decent. You can get lost there.”

  I realized he was giving me advice. Since it came from a guy who had spent many years rebuilding his own life, I gave it some weight. Big Al knew the uphill battle I was facing, and he was telling me that staying and salvaging my reputation was a lost cause. He might have been right, only I wasn't willing to go there just yet. We shook hands, and I left.

  At Best Buy I purchased a new TV for the Sunset. For an extra thirty bucks the salesman promised to have it delivered by that afternoon.

  Then I drove to the Broward County sheriff's headquarters and circled the parking lot. Cars were parked illegally and in the handicap spots. I couldn't remember the place ever being so jammed.

  Finally a spot opened up. I parked and, with transmitter in hand, headed across the lot toward the shining four-story building that I had once called home. Along the way, I noted all the cars owned by cops. They were easy to spot. Cops always backed in.

  A well-dressed crowd of about twenty was gathered by the building's front steps. A news conference was taking place, and I heard a woman's voice speak my name.

  “Jack Carpenter is a goddamn monster,” Lorna Sue Mutter hissed into the mikes. She was wearing her trademark black dress and too much makeup. Behind her stood Leonard Snook in a black pin-striped suit with wide lapels, nodding beatifically.

  “Jack Carpenter should be sitting in a prison cell, not my husband!” she went on. “Do the police need any more evidence than they heard today? Do they need more proof?”

  “Have you asked a judge to release your husband?” a reporter asked.

  Leonard Snook answered. “We cannot do that until the Broward County sheriff's office formally charges Ernesto Ramos with the murder of Carmella Lopez.”

  “Why haven't the police done that?” the same reporter asked.

  “The sheriff's office is purposely dragging its heels,” Snook replied. “What they need to do is face the truth. Simon Skell did not kill Carmella Lopez, nor did he kill seven other young women in Broward County, whose bodies, I might add, have never been located. My client is not the Midnight Rambler.”

  I stood on my tiptoes for a better look. Snook was pressed up next to Lorna Sue, and there was a real sexual tension between them. I wondered if anyone else was picking up on it. Lorna Sue nudged Snook out of the way.

  “My husband was convicted because of the testimony of a woman named Melinda Peters,” Lorna Sue continued. “Melinda Peters said my husband abducted and tortured her. What she didn't say was that she had a relationship with my husband and an affair with Jack Carpenter. When Jack Carpenter found out, he forced Melinda Peters to fabricate a story about my husband and have him thrown in jail.”

  My mouth had been washed out with soap plenty when I was a kid, but it never stopped me from swearing when the situation warranted it. In a loud voice I said, “That's a fucking lie, and you know it.”

  The reporters parted like the Red Sea, leaving a clear path between me and my two accusers. Pointing my finger at them, I said, “Why don't you tell them the truth, which is that you have a movie deal in the works. The only reason you're here campaigning for Simon Skell is because you stand to make a bundle if he gets out of jail.”

  A reporter shoved a mike in Snook's face. “Is that true? Do you have a deal with a Hollywood studio?”

  “No comment,” Snook replied.

  “He's getting 20 percent and his name in the credits,” I yelled.

  Someone must have told Snook that cowardice was the better part of valor. He retreated backwards, hit the steps, and fell down with a groan. Lorna Sue ignored him and pointed a manicured finger at me.

  “You railroaded my husband,” she screamed.

  “Your husband is a serial killer, and you're a crazy lunatic bitch for marrying him.”

  “How dare you!”

  Lorna Sue charged me. I hadn't battled with a member of the opposite sex since fighting with my sister, and I tried not to laugh as her balled fists bounced harmlessly off my arms. Instead of breaking up the melee, the TV crews filmed us. I realized how bad this was going to look on the six o'clock news and decided to extricate myself.

  I feinted to my right. Lorna Sue took the bait and lunged at air. I scooted around her and darted up the steps. It was all I could do not to kick Snook in the stomach.

  Reaching the building's front doors, I wondered where the cops were. Normally, they were the first to arrive when a fight took place on the grounds.

  Inside, I discovered a gang in the lobby, standing by the windows. Many of the faces were familiar. Russo was one of them.

  Russo hustled me into an elevator and took me to the War Room on the top floor. It was actually a spacious conference room outfitted with sixteen phone lines and a wall of TV sets that carried all the major networks, and was where strategy was coordinated when there were emergencies like major hurricanes and wildfires. The room resembled my office at Tugboat Louie's, with pictures of Skell's victims taped to the wall and the case files spread on a large oval desk. Dead coffee cups lay everywhere, and when Russo slammed the door, they started to shake.

  “You are a bad news buffet, you know that?” he shouted at me. “Every time I turn around, this case gets worse, and you're standing in the middle of it, pretending you don't have a fucking clue as to what's going on.”

  I wanted to apologize for my behavior outside, but I didn't see it doing much good. Instead I handed him the transmitter.

  “This is the transmitter I found on my car. The guy I saw at Julie Lopez's house put it there. The same guy who shot three holes into my car on 595.”

  Bobby gave the transmitter a cursory look and tossed it into the trash.

  “What are you doing?” I asked.

  “Park your ass in a chair and shut up,” he replied.

  “But that's evidence.”

  “Leave it there.”

  There was real menace in his voice. I sat in the nearest chair and watched him remove a cassette tape from his pocket and insert it into a player on the desk.

  “When was the last time you spoke with Melinda Peters?” Russo asked.

  “Last night.”

  “What was her mood like?”

  “She was scared out of her mind that Skell would get out.”

  “So she didn't tell you that she was going public.”

  “I don't know what you're talking about, Bobby.”

  Russo started the player. Music came out of the machine that faded into Neil Bash's abrasive voice. It was a tape of his talk show.

  “I have a special guest on the line with me today,” Bash said. “Her name is Melinda Peters, and along with being one of Fort Lauderdale's premier adult ent
ertainers, she was a key witness in the murder trial of Simon Skell, aka the Midnight Rambler. How are you doing today, Melinda?”

  There was a short pause.

  “I'm okay,” Melinda said.

  “May I call you Melinda?”

  “Sure.”

  “I appreciate your coming on the show. There's been a lot of buzz in the last few days about Simon Skell being railroaded by a Broward County detective named Jack Carpenter. So far, the sheriff 's office hasn't responded. Since you were a witness at the trial, I was hoping you'd share your thoughts with our audience.”

  Another pause.

  “It was all Jack's idea,” Melinda said.

  “What was Jack's idea?” Bash asked.

  “My testifying.”

  “Well, that's his job. He's a detective and he gets people to testify. Nothing new there.”

  “He told me what to say,” Melinda said.

  My fist slammed the table, knocking several empty coffee cups to the floor.

  “It gets worse,” Russo said.

  I leaned forward in my chair and stared at the tape player.

  “Are you saying that Jack Carpenter coached you?” Bash asked.

  “He made everything up,” Melinda blurted out.

  “Everything?”

  “Yeah.”

  “But he is, or should I say was, a police officer. Why would he do that?”

  Another pause. “Jack and I were going out together . . .”

  “You mean you were having an affair,” Bash jumped in.

  “That's right. Then I met Simon Skell while I was dancing at a club, and he asked me out. He was nice, so I started seeing him on the side.”

  “So you were dating Simon Skell and Jack Carpenter.”

  “Yeah.”

  “What happened?”

  “Jack found out and didn't like it.”

  “Now, wait a minute, Melinda,” Bash said. “If I remember correctly, you testified at trial that Simon Skell abducted you and kept you locked in a dog cage in his house and tortured you while playing Rolling Stones songs, specifically ‘Midnight Rambler.’ Are you telling us now this wasn't true?”

  “It didn't happen,” Melinda said.

  I closed my eyes and imagined I was still submerged in thirty feet of water and the lemon sharks were swarming around me, only this time they were tearing me apart, one limb at a time. The water clouded with blood, and I silently screamed.

  “So everything you said was a lie, Melinda,” Bash said.

  Another pause.

  “That's right,” she replied.

  “And you helped send an innocent man to jail,” Bash said.

  “Uh-huh,” she said.

  I opened my eyes. Now it all made sense. Big Al's questions about me leaving town, the crazy scene outside.

  “Are you still there, Melinda?” Bash asked.

  “Yeah,” she said.

  “Tell me why you did it.”

  Again, she didn't answer.

  “Did you love him? I'm talking about Jack Carpenter.”

  “No,” she said.

  “But you had an affair with him.”

  “I found out he was cheating on me.”

  “He was seeing another woman?”

  “Yes. Her name is Joy Chambers.”

  “Is she a dancer?”

  “She's a prostitute,” Melinda said.

  “If you don't love Jack Carpenter, then why did you do it?”

  Another pause.

  “He threatened me. Said he'd make my life living hell if I didn't play along. He had all these cases of missing girls that he couldn't solve, and he saw Simon as the perfect suspect, if I'd just play ball.”

  “So you went along with him.”

  “That's right.”

  “Can I ask you one more question, Melinda?”

  “Okay.”

  “Do you feel ashamed by what you did?”

  There was a short silence, followed by a dial tone. Bash took a commercial break, and Russo turned off the cassette player while looking at me as if I were some piece of trash in a holding cell. I wanted to defend myself but didn't know where to start. I thought back to last night's conversation with Melinda. What had I said to cause her to turn on me this way?

  Russo cleared his throat. He had lifted his arm and was pointing at the door. I pulled three hundred dollars out of my wallet and tossed it on the table.

  “Fix your car,” I said.

  I left the War Room as fast as my legs would carry me.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  I decided to get drunk. Whatever was left of my reputation had gone up in flames, and Big Al's suggestion that I move out of the state suddenly seemed a good idea.

  But before I got drunk. I wanted to look Melinda in the eye and ask her why she'd done this to me. It seemed cruel that she'd accuse me of sleeping with her when I'd spent so much energy fighting off her advances. It was also an accusation that I'd never live down. When a woman says you slept with her, there's no denying it.

  I pointed the Legend toward her apartment complex. Buster had picked up on my sorry state and tried to crawl into my lap.

  He wanted to comfort me, but I wasn't in the mood and made him stay on the passenger seat.

  I parked a few units down from her place. At her door I knocked loudly. When she didn't answer, I pounded. Then I started to kick.

  “Open up. It's Jack Carpenter.”

  Sticking my face to the front window, I peered inside. Through a slit in the drapes I saw a floor plan like a cheap motel room. Everything looked in its place. A black kitty jumped at the glass, scratching at my face.

  I knocked on her neighbors' doors. Melinda spent her days watching soap operas and reading romance novels. That doesn't sound like much of a life, but it was a far cry from living on the street and not knowing where her next meal was coming from.

  An elderly neighbor wearing fuzzy bedroom slippers and a muumuu agreed to talk to me.

  “I saw Melinda this morning,” the neighbor said, her face shrouded by a cigarette's fog. “Lent her some Sweet'N Low. You a cop?”

  “A friend.”

  “Boyfriend?”

  “No, just a friend.”

  “You look like a cop,” the neighbor said. “Act like one, too.”

  “I used to be. How was Melinda's demeanor?”

  “Her what?”

  “Her attitude. How was she acting? Was she happy or sad? That sort of thing.”

  The neighbor thought about it. “Pissed off was how I'd describe her.”

  “About what?”

  “Her cable TV was on the blink.”

  An alarm went off inside my head.

  “When did this happen?”

  “This morning, I guess. Melinda got one of those plasma flat-screen TVs, and liked to watch the Discovery channel where they show those beautiful sunrises from all around the world. I've gone over to her place a couple of times and watched them with her. Ever seen the show?”

  I nearly told her to drag her sorry ass out of bed some morning and come over to Dania and watch the real thing. Instead I shook my head.

  “Did the cable repairman come?” I asked.

  “I saw the van parked out front, so I guess they were here.”

  “Was it white?”

  “Come to mention it, yeah.”

  “What time was this?”

  “Couple hours ago.”

  “So they came right away.”

  She cackled. “Came like they were responding to a five-alarm fire. You ever see that girl in a bathing suit? That's all she wears in her apartment. Make your eyes pop out of your head. Even mine.”

  “She's a beauty,” I said. “Can I go into your backyard, have a look around?”

  “You don't think something's happened to Melinda, do you?” the neighbor asked.

  “That's what I'm here to find out.”

  She hesitated. A teacup-sized poodle darted out, sniffed my sandals, and started dry-humping my leg. Any othe
r time, I would have drop-kicked the dog into the next county. Instead, I scooped it up and scratched its head.

  “You got a dog?” she asked.

  I pointed at Buster sitting regally in the Legend. She nodded approvingly.

  “Anyone who owns a dog is okay in my book. My name is Gladys.”

  “I'm Jack,” I said.

  “Nice to meet you, Jack. Come on in.”

  Gladys's backyard was the size of a postage stamp and surrounded by a sturdy picket fence. Hopping on the fence, I jumped onto the phone pole in the corner of the yard and started to climb. Running up the side of the pole was a black cable identical to the one I saw in Julie Lopez's backyard. Fifteen feet up, I stopped. The cable was cut right above the metal staple, same as Julie's pole. I climbed down.

  “Find anything?” Gladys asked.

  “The line's been cut.”

  “You think someone cut Melinda's cable on purpose?”

  “Could be.”

  I hopped over the fence into Melinda's backyard and looked around. Through a glass slider I was able to peer into Melinda's kitchen. Everything looked normal except for a chair sitting upended on the floor. Taking out my cell phone, I called my police buddy Claude Cheever.

  “I'm at Melinda Peters's place,” I said. “Something's happened.”

  “I'll be right over,” Cheever said.

  Cheever pulled into the parking lot driving a filthy Pontiac Firebird. Besides the grime and dirt caked to the vehicle, an assortment of dead palmetto bugs, moths, and lovebugs was prominently displayed on the bumper and headlights. Claude's success as a cop did not come from his superior intellect or astonishing investigative technique. His gift was the ability to look like a lowlife. The fact that this came naturally simply made him that much more effective at what he did. I led him around to the back of Melinda's place.

  “I heard what Melinda said on the radio,” Claude said, his face pressed to the slider.

  “Bad news sure travels fast.”

  “Did you fuck her?”

  “No.”

  “Not even once?”

  “No, not even once.”

  “Think someone forced her to do that interview?”