Midnight Rambler (20 page)

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

W
e limped down the sidewalk back to Trojan Communications.

“What's wrong with your dog?” Linderman asked.

Buster walked with his nose glued to the ground. The shooting had done a number on his head, and I promised myself to later take him running on Dania Beach. It was his favorite thing to do and would bring him around.

“He'll be okay,” I said. “What did Theis find on Coffen's computer?”

“Hundreds of photographs are stored on the hard drive,” Linderman said. “The memory's overloaded, which is why it froze on him. There's also a database. Theis is hoping it will lead us to the other members of the gang.”

And Melinda Peters, I hoped but would not say aloud, as if uttering her name might jinx our ability to rescue her. We reached the parking lot, and I put my dog into my car. Then we went inside.

Heidi the receptionist was still at her desk. Seeing Linderman, she slammed her fists on her desk and flew into a rage.

“My friend at the Riverview Hotel called and said you killed Mr. Coffen!”

Linderman put his palms on her desk as if he were doing a push-up.

“Calm down, or I'll arrest you,” he said.

“Why did you have to kill him?” she said.

“Let's see. For starters, he shot me.”

“Couldn't you have just wounded him?”

“Your boss had his chance.”

“You bastard!”

I walked around Heidi's desk and down the hallway to Coffen's office. Despite what had happened, it was business as usual, and through the walls came voices of faceless operators taking orders from around the state. They reminded me of Skell's victims, and how their voices were yet to be heard.

I stopped at the hallway's end and stuck my head into Coffen's office. Special Agent Theis sat at Coffen's desk, working the computer. He motioned me inside.

I stood behind Theis's chair. My eyes fell on the computer screen.

“How did you get it unfrozen?”

“I tried the idiot approach,” Theis said. “I turned off the power, then rebooted it. I needed a password to gain entry and found it on a business card in Coffen's briefcase. There's a ton of stuff on the hard drive, including a file that has pictures of you.”

“Let me see it,” I said.

Theis opened up a file called ENEMY. It contained a photograph of me taken from a newspaper article along with a short biography. There were also photographs and bios of Tommy Gonzalez, Sally McDermitt, and dozens of other Florida law enforcement agents who specialized in finding missing people.

“What about Coffen's database?” I asked.

“Who are you looking for?”

“Jonny Perez. Jonny's spelled without the h.”

Theis searched the database for Jonny Perez. Finding nothing, I suggested he try Ajony Perez. The results were the same.

“Try Neil Bash and Simon Skell,” I said.

Theis did and found nothing. On a hunch, he exited the database and checked Coffen's e-mail, first looking at his address book, then his sent e-mail folder and deleted bin. Everything he came across was business related and worthless to our search.

I shut my eyes and took a deep breath. Each road in my investigation had taken me to a dead end, and only an act of luck or God had let me progress. How the hell was I going to save Melinda if I couldn't locate Jonny Perez?

“Want to look at his photograph collection?” Theis asked.

“Sure,” I said quietly.

Theis exited the database and clicked on the My Pictures icon. It opened to reveal dozens of different folders. The ones at the top were labeled by city—Orlando, Miami, Tampa—while the ones on the bottom had cryptic notations. One file caught my eye:

MIDRAMB

“Open this one,” I said.

Theis opened MIDRAMB, and a page containing eight JPEG files filled the screen. Each JPEG had a date attached to it, spanning the past two and a half years.

I gripped the back of Theis's chair. I knew what the JPEGs contained without having to look at them. They were electronic snapshots of Skell's victims taken at McDonald's drive-throughs. I was one step closer to learning their fate.

I had dreamed of this moment. I was finally going to find out what had happened to Skell's victims. Yet, I was also filled with dread. Throughout the investigation, I'd continued to hope that I'd get a phone call from each of them, saying they were okay. It was what every person who lost someone told themselves.

Theis opened the first JPEG. The picture was of Chantel, an African American girl who got tossed out of her home at fourteen. She'd lived near the beach, where she did her hooking. The picture showed her in a car with a white-haired guy chomping on a cigar. Chantel's hand was in his lap, the guy all smiles. Coffen had caught her servicing a john.

“Know her?” Theis asked.

“She was Skell's first victim,” I said.

The next JPEG was of Maggie. Maggie worked for a Fort Lauderdale escort service, a fair-haired Irish girl whose stepfather had married her mother in order to sleep with Maggie. She worked the local hotels and was on a first-name basis with the concierges. In the picture, Maggie was on her cell while applying lipstick. Her face was all business, and I imagined Coffen overheard her getting a call for a job.

“What about her?” Theis asked.

“She was number two.”

“You knew all of the victims, didn't you?”

“Yes.”

“Want something to drink?”

“No thanks.”

“Want my chair?”

“I'm fine, really.”

Theis opened the rest of the JPEGs and let me study them. Had I not stuck the victims' photographs on the walls of my office, I wouldn't have recognized them so quickly. But I did, and their faces evoked a sharp pang of delayed grief.

In each photograph I searched for what Coffen saw, or heard, that alerted him to the potential for victimization. Most of the time it was obvious. Either the victim was talking on her cell, or she was talking to a passenger in the car. Some snippet of conversation must have tipped Coffen off to the type of person he was dealing with.

But in three of the photographs—those of Carmen, Lola, and Brie—there was no telltale clue. The women were in their cars, staring absently into space. They were all victims of family abuse, their faces hauntingly sad. I studied their photographs but learned nothing. Perhaps I would never know what Coffen had seen. Or perhaps he'd seen the same thing I just had. Three young women with faces like refugees. Maybe that was all he needed.

The office had a small refrigerator. Theis removed two bottles of Perrier and handed me one. Brie's picture was still on the screen. I drank while staring at her.

I'd stayed in contact with Brie for over ten years. Every few months we'd meet for a pancake breakfast, and she'd show me her most recent bank statement. She was saving up so that on her thirtieth birthday she could quit hooking and open a nail salon. She already had the location picked out, and the name: New Beginnings.

I pitched my empty bottle into the trash and headed for the door.

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

“I
'm sorry this was a dead end,” Theis said.

Pulling his wallet out, Theis placed a snapshot of a young woman in a cap and gown on the desk, then got back on the computer. I stopped in the doorway.

“Who's that?” I asked.

“Danielle Linderman,” Theis said.

“Ken's daughter?”

“Uh-huh.”

“You going to look for her on Coffen's database?”

Theis mumbled yes, his fingers tapping the keyboard. I came around the desk to get a better look at the photograph. Danielle Linderman bore a strong resemblance to her father, with a pretty, intelligent face and soft hazel eyes. The faces of scores of missing kids were stored in my memory, and I added hers to the group.

“Good luck,” I said.

I found Linderman in the reception area. He'd gotten Coffen's cell phone to work and was scrolling through the address book while pressing a hanky to his face. Lowering the hanky, he displayed a nasty gash running the length of his chin.

“Did the receptionist do that?” I asked.

He nodded grimly.

“Did you arrest her?”

“You're goddamn right I did,” he snapped. “So help me God, if I find out that little bitch knew what Coffen was doing, I'll ruin her.”

I didn't reply. More than likely, the receptionist didn't know that her boss was a predator. Coffen ran a respectable business and had a public face. That was the person she knew. Hearing he'd been killed, she'd snapped.

“How did you make out?” Linderman asked.

“We found photographs of Skell's victims on Coffen's computer, but nothing that will lead us to Jonny Perez,” I said. “Any luck with the phone?”

Linderman reapplied the hanky to his face. “So far, every number in the address book is a client's.”

“Who was he trying to call?”

“Another cell. I'm having the number traced.”

I had traced cell numbers before. It could take days to track them down.

I went outside to my car. Looking at the victims' photographs had reminded me how much I'd cared for those young women. It was hard to believe that I'd never speak with any of them again.

Opening the passenger door, I knelt down so I was eye level with my dog. Buster propped a paw on my shoulder and licked my face. I did everything I could not to cry.

I got behind the wheel and spent a few minutes massaging my leg. It was starting to feel better; the injury I'd suffered from my jump was just a sprain. I watched an ambulance carrying Coffen's body go past the building. In my wife's religion, the spirits of the dead never leave this earth. I imagined Coffen's ghost hovering over the ambulance, mocking us as we tried to unearth his dark secrets.

My cell phone rang. I took it off the dash and looked at Caller ID. It was Claude Cheever. I didn't want to talk to him and let the call go into voice mail.

My last encounter with Claude was still fresh in my mind. While Claude had been accusing me of sleeping with Melinda I'd heard another accusation as well, which was that he'd suspected it for a while. Which meant that all the honorable things he'd said about me in front of the police review board had been lies.

The phone rang several times over the next few minutes. Each time, Caller ID said it was Cheever. Finally I answered it.

“What do you want?” I said by way of greeting.

“Melinda was just on Neil Bash's show, talking about your affair,” Cheever said.

“Is that what you called to tell me?”

“No, no, calm down, buddy. I'm on your side.”

“You weren't the last time we got together.”

“I found Jesus and saw the light,” Cheever said. “You were right. Melinda was abducted from her apartment yesterday.”

You were right.
I hadn't heard those words in a long time.

“What brought you to that conclusion?” I asked.

“While Bash was interviewing Melinda, he asked her where she was calling from,” Cheever said. “Melinda told Bash she was at home. I was driving near her apartment and decided to pay her a visit. I banged on the front door, looked through the back slider, and talked to the next-door neighbor. Melinda hasn't been home since yesterday. I didn't like it, so I called Bash's show.”

“You called Bash? Jesus Christ, Claude. Bash is part of it.”

“Don't worry. I've called Bash's show plenty of times. He knows me.”

“Why do you call his show?”

“For kicks. I go by a pseudonym: Sex Hound. Anyway, Bash let me talk to Melinda. Now, I'm going to tell you something in confidence, and you can't repeat it.”

“I'm listening,” I said.

“I had a fling with Melinda,” Cheever said. “Lasted about a month. Sex every day, sometimes twice a day. She was a goddess. We had a special language all our own.”

I shook my head in disbelief. I couldn't imagine Melinda and Claude in bed together, even with the shades drawn and the lights turned out.

“When I talked with Melinda I used a few of our code words, and she realized it was me,” Cheever continued. “She told me she was being hurt, the fucking bastards.”

Claude paused to compose himself.

“Jack, I want you to help me rescue her.”

“How do you plan to do that?” I asked.

“I'm going to pay Bash a visit and make him tell me where she's being held.”

“What about the police? Or the FBI?” I asked.

“They'll only slow us down,” Cheever said.

I knew exactly how Cheever felt. Had I visited Trojan Communications without the FBI breathing down my neck, I could have made Coffen cough up Jonny Perez's address. It wouldn't have been pretty, but I could have done it.

“Count me in,” I said.

CHAPTER FORTY

N
eil Bash's radio station was in a semirural community called Davie in the center of Broward County. I agreed to meet Cheever there in thirty minutes. As I backed my car out, Linderman emerged from Trojan Communications. I lowered my window.

“The police want to talk with you,” Linderman said.

I glanced at the street. While I'd been talking with Cheever, a pair of police cruisers had pulled in the front of the building, and several sheriffs had gone inside.

“I thought you had the police covered,” I said.

“They're picking apart my story,” Linderman said. “Coffen is a big mover and shaker in town, and the police want to know why I shot him when he was unarmed.”

“Have Theis show them the photos of the victims on his computer,” I suggested.

“Theis did. The police are saying the photos don't mean squat. They're saying we can't even prove those women are dead. You need to straighten them out, Jack.”

“Me?”

“Yes, you.”

I threw the car into drive. I couldn't see myself explaining how I knew eight women were dead to a legal system that had let their killer walk free.

“Fuck 'em,” I said.

I drove to Davie, listening to Bash's talk show on my radio.

Bash was ripping me apart and making me the poster boy for everything wrong with the criminal justice system. He recited every injury I had inflicted upon Skell, without mentioning the crime for which Skell had been sent to prison. He was brainwashing his listeners, one moron at a time.

Every few minutes, Bash took a call-in. As the Davie exit appeared in my windshield a caller came on whose voice was instantly familiar.

“Hey, Neil, it's your old buddy Sex Hound,” Cheever said brightly.

“Sex Hound,” Bash said. “You always lighten up my day. What's up?”

“You going to bring her back on?”

“Who's that?”

“Melinda Peters.”

“Ah, yes, the lovely Melinda Peters, star of your friendly neighborhood strip club. Melinda has promised that she'll be calling again. Believe it or not, she actually has
more
dirt on our favorite cop, Jack Carpenter.”

“What kind of dirt?” Cheever asked.

“She's going to tell us what Carpenter was
really
up to,” Bash said.

“You mean there's more to the story?” Cheever said.

“Lots more,” Bash said. “But to tell any more would be cheating.”

“I'll be waiting,” Cheever said. “Oh, and Neil? Love your show.”

“Thanks, Sex Hound. And now it's time for a word from one of our sponsors.”

I took the exit and headed south. Davie was a blue-collar area, and I drove down a two-lane road with trailer parks hugging each side. Two miles later, I spotted a cluster of trailers with large antennas on their roofs. Above the trailers hung an elevated billboard with the station's call letters and Bash's round, devilish face.

I'd found him.

Trailer parks were as much a part of Florida as alligators and Mickey Mouse. They sat on land scraped clean of trees and were usually the first casualties of hurricanes and electrical storms. Low-income families flocked to them, as did the retired. They were their own worlds, and could be good or bad places to live. I'd known many cops who refused to answer a call from one on a Saturday night.

Bash's radio station was inside a trailer park called Tropical Estates. It was a cheapo operation, the main building a series of double-wides attached by flimsy covered walkways. Cheever's car was parked by the entrance. I parked beside him.

We got out and faced each other. I was still pissed, 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 screwing 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 porno 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 Sex 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 glassed-in space 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.

“Sex Hound,” he yelled through the glass. “You bring candy?”

Cheever held the box of goodies up to the glass. 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, asshole,” 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 button 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.