by James Swain
“I don't know,” I told her.
“Please come inside and talk to me,” she said.
“I can't.”
“You don't want to talk to me?”
I showed her my cuffed wrists.
“I'm under arrest.”
“What did you do?”
I took a deep breath. My brain was on overdrive trying to come up with a way to tie the body in Julie's backyard to Simon Skell. Only I couldn't make the connection. My case against Skell had just gone up in flames.
“I fucked up,” I replied.
Julie shut the garage door in my face. My shoulders sagged. As a cop I had never left a stone unturned. When I was hunting for Carmella, I had the sheriff 's office search Julie's property. The backyard was searched several times, including after Simon Skell was arrested. There had been no body.
The uniform climbed out of the cruiser and shoved my wallet into my hip pocket. The look on his face said I checked out. I showed him my handcuffs.
“Let me go, will you?”
“I need to get permission from Russo,” the uniform said.
“Come on. I'm going to get struck by lightning.”
“It's Russo's call,” he said.
“That's horseshit 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 helluva 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.
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 albums. One album in particular still stands out: Everything You Know Is Wrong, by a comedy troupe called The Firesign Theatre. I blew steam off my drink thinking of that album.
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 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 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 shit 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 passed 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 sex 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 sex 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 damn 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-fuckers. I have a gun, and I know how to use it.’
“The guys run like hell. 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.
“Hello, 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 fucking 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 piss 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 fucking 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.”
Her nails sunk deeper into my flesh.
“They're going to let him out, aren't they, Jack?” she said. “That's why you came here. They're going to let him out, and you wanted me to know so I could put extra locks on my apartment and buy a gun for when he comes tippy-toeing to my bedroom door.”
I lowered my head. She'd hit the nail on the head. It was exactly why I'd come.
“I'm sorry, Melinda,” I said.
She slapped my face. It stung, and I reflexively grabbed her arm before she could do it again. She let out a bloodcurdling scream.
A huge bouncer stepped into the lounge. He yanked me off the couch and hustled me through the club. I looked for Cheever at the bar, but he was gone.
As we went through the club's front door I expected the bouncer to stop, but he instead gave me a mighty shove. I flew forward with my arms flapping like a bird and hit the pavement hard.
“Stay out of here,” the bouncer yelled.
I lay on the pavement and watched the rain come down in sheets. The knees of my pants were shredded, my jacket torn. I tried to find the bright side, only there was no bright side. I walked stiff-legged to my car.
As I got in, Buster cowered fearfully against the passenger door. Then the rancid smell hit me. My dog had puked Slim Jims on the floor.
“It's okay, boy,” I told him. “It's okay.”
The words seemed to reassure him, and Buster slithered into my lap. He stayed there all the way back to the Sunset.
CHAPTER EIGHT
The storm skirted south of Dania, and I reached the Sunset in blinding sunshine. I washed the floor mat in the ocean and placed it on the hood to dry. A few hours of daylight were left, and I went inside to change.
In my room I tugged on my Speedo bathing trunks. I'd lost twenty pounds in the past six months and acquired a flat stomach and deep tan. Although my hair has thinned, my friends said I looked younger than my forty years. Maybe I had found the fountain of youth. It was called hitting the skids.
I rolled my wet clothes into a ball and headed downstairs. At the bar, one of the Seven Dwarfs, Whitey, was doing a magic trick with a book of burning matches. The comic effect was great, only he was enough of a menace to burn the place down. I extinguished the matches in a glass of water, and he howled in protest.
I tried to catch Sonny's eye. He wouldn't meet my gaze, and I guessed he was still ticked off about the punch-in-the-face crack. I said, “Heads up,” and tossed my clothes over the bar like a basketball. Sonny caught them with a puzzled look on his face.
&nbs
p; “Throw those out for me, will you?” I said.
“Your suit?” Sonny asked.
“Yeah. I'm shedding my old skin. And while you're at it, give everybody a round of drinks, including yourself.”
The Dwarfs gleefully pounded the bar. Sonny tossed the clothes into the trash with a grin on his face. All was forgiven.
“You want the drinks on the big tab, or the little tab?” Sonny asked.
“The little tab. I'm trying to balance them out.”
“Little tab it is.”
I lowered my voice. “I need a favor. You might get some calls from people looking for me. Reporters, police, that sort of thing.
Tell them I haven't been around, okay?”
“You in trouble?” Sonny asked.
Normally, I would have lied to him, but with my ever-dwindling pool of resources, I needed all the friends I could get. I nodded. Reaching into a cooler, Sonny removed a sixteen-ounce can of Budweiser, my signature drink, and stuck it into the ice chest.
“Have a nice swim,” he said.
The day my wife walked out on me, I took a drive. I didn't know how I was going to cope with her being gone, and eventually I found myself parked on the northern tip of Dania Beach. Then, I'd done what any heartbroken male would do. I got naked and went for a swim. I don't know why I did this; it just seemed the right thing to do at the time. And when I stepped out of the water an hour later, I knew I was going to be all right.
I started swimming competitively when I was ten and was good enough to get my name engraved on a plaque at the Swimming Hall of Fame in Fort Lauderdale. My specialty was the backstroke. What started out as a sport had become my daily therapy. I made it a point to swim every day, rain or shine. When I didn't, I got grouchy as hell.
The ocean was the temperature of bathwater, and I waded in with minnows darting between my legs. A hundred feet from shore I began my laps. I started with the crawl, then reverted to the backstroke. There was no lifeguard at this end of the beach, or other swimmers to call if I should need help. If I cramped and drowned, no one would know. I'd sink like a stone and get swept out to sea. Death scared me as much as the next guy, but the idea of drowning never had.
