Midnight Rambler (9 page)

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

I
stood on the shoulder of 595 with Buster pressed to my side, the white van long gone.

My Legend sat twenty feet away. The windshield was a memory, and there were smoldering bullet holes in the passenger seat and both backseats. One bullet had missed my head by less than six inches. I should have been grateful that I was still breathing, but all I wanted to do was run those bastards down.

Cars roared past, but no one stopped. Their drivers stared through me as if I were invisible. Next to a deserted island, there was no lonelier place than the shoulder of a highway. I called 911, and an automated answering service put me on hold.

Buster barked at the cars. I had leashed him out of fear that he might step into traffic and add an exclamation point to my already miserable day. I went to the Legend and turned the radio to my favorite FM station. They were playing a song by the Fine Young Cannibals called “She Drives Me Crazy.” Once upon a time they were my favorite band; then they suddenly disappeared. It seemed like a metaphor for my own sorry situation, and I leaned against my car and sang along.

I should have been dead. Three shots and you're usually out. I got spared, except now I didn't have wheels. I was one step closer to becoming a homeless person. I imagined myself pushing a shopping cart filled with garbage through Dania, a beaten and forgotten man.

A female dispatcher came on the line. I gave her my name and explained what had happened. She asked if I was hurt. I knew that if I said yes, a cruiser would be here in a New York minute.

“I'm okay,” I said.

“Hold tight,” the dispatcher said. “I'll get a car out there soon.”

I folded my phone. A tow truck was barreling down the interstate toward me. I'd been saved.

The tow truck parked, and an enterprising young guy hopped out. He gave my car a cursory inspection, then shoved a business card into my hand. It had his smiling picture on it and embossed lettering. larry littlejohn's 24-hour towing. i tow, you go!

“What the heck happened?” Larry asked.

“I ran into some old friends. Can you tow me to Dania?”

“What's the address?”

“Sunset Bar and Grille. It's over on the beach.”

He scratched his chin. “Yeah. I can do that.”

“Second question. Do you take IOUs?”

As the tow truck drove away I tore up Larry's card. The radio was playing another song from a vanished band. This time, I didn't sing along.

Fifteen minutes later a cruiser appeared with Bobby Russo at the wheel. He parked on the shoulder in front of my car and got out. He was wearing his suit from the news conference and steel-framed aviator's glasses turned to mirrors by the blinding Florida sun. He halted six feet from where I stood.

“Keep that monster back,” Russo said.

“He's a nice dog once you get to know him.”

“I heard he took a piece out of a guy's ass in the Grove.”

“You talk to Tommy Gonzalez?”

“Yeah,” Russo said. “He said you were a star.”

It was the nicest thing anyone had said to me in a while.

“How did you know where to find me?” I asked.

“The dispatcher recognized your name and gave me a call. Mind if I examine your car?”

“Be my guest.”

While Russo fly-specked my car, I told him what happened at Julie Lopez's house and gave him the numbers I'd memorized off the van's license along with a description of the vehicle. Without a word, he went to the cruiser and climbed in. I felt invisible again and knelt beside his open window.

“Are you going to help me, or not?” I asked.

“What do you want me to do, Jack?” Russo said, staring straight ahead. “Kill my day figuring out which white van in Broward belongs to the guys who potshotted you?”

“You could run a partial license check.”

“Those are expensive.”

“That never stopped you before.”

“In case you hadn't heard, we have a budget freeze. I now need authorization to run partial license checks. If I tell my boss you're involved, he'll say no.”

“Tell him it's connected to the Skell case,” I said.

“You don't know that for a fact.”

“Yes, I do. These guys bugged my car. They also put Carmella Lopez's body in her sister's backyard. For Christ's sake, Bobby, they're
involved.
You need to drag them in and put their feet to the fire. You don't want to see Skell released from prison, do you?”

“That's the judge's decision, not mine.”

“I have evidence that Skell isn't acting alone,” I said. “Don't you think the judge needs to know that?”

Russo shook his head, his mind made up. He wasn't doing it.

“What the hell's wrong with you?” I asked.

“What's wrong with me? I tell you what's wrong with me,” Russo said. “I have a wife and two kids and a sick mother-in-law. I have responsibilities, in case you've forgotten what those were.”

I had no answer for this, and hung my head in shame.

“Jesus, Jack, I didn't mean that. I'm sorry.”

I lifted my gaze. “Help me. Please.”

“Do you have the transmitter these guys were using to bug your car?”

The transmitter was lying on the bottom of the ocean outside the Sunset. I decided to lie to him.

“Yes.”

“Bring the transmitter to my office, and I'll put in a request for a partial license run to be done on all vans in Broward with those three numbers. If my boss squawks, I'll show him the transmitter, and tell him it's regarding another case.”

Russo was in my corner again, fighting the good fight. He started the cruiser, and I asked him for a lift back to Dania.

“Why don't you take your own car?” he suggested.

“Last time I checked, not having a windshield was against the law.”

“I'll escort you home,” Russo said.

I dropped my car at a body shop in Dania, and Russo drove us to the Sunset. He parked in the lot and left the engine idling. It was another beautiful day in paradise, and we sat in his car and watched waves crash against the shoreline.

“I've got a gang examining the Skell file,” Russo said. “Half of homicide, two investigators from Florida Department of Law Enforcement, and one of those crackerjacks from the FBI. I'd bring in the Boy Scouts if I thought it would do any good.”

“Nothing, huh?”

“Actually, there is something I think we can use.”

I felt a spark of hope. “What did you find?”

“Melinda Peters.”

“But she testified at the trial. The judge has already heard her.”

“I read her testimony and compared it with the deposition she gave before trial,” Russo said. “Her testimony at the trial was shorter. She left out some really sick things that Skell did to her when she was locked up in the dog crate in his house.”

“She was traumatized by the experience, so the prosecutor toned it down,” I explained. “It was the only way Melinda would agree to testify.”

“Would she tell the whole story now?”

I shook my head. Victims of sexual crimes were slow to heal and sometimes never healed at all. I couldn't see Melinda reliving the experience.

“I want a judge to hear what happened to her,” Russo said. “It's hard evidence that Skell is a sexual predator. Predators can be held in jail indefinitely in Florida if they're considered a threat.”

“But Skell wasn't put in prison for being a sexual predator.”

“It doesn't matter. If the judge determines that he is one, the state will hold him. It's called the William's Law, and we'll ask him to invoke it.”

I shook my head again. I didn't see Melinda doing it.

“Melinda likes you, doesn't she?” Russo asked.

“What does that have to do with this?” I asked.

“You can talk to her,” Russo said. “Take her out to dinner, beg her; hell, sleep with her if you have to, but get her to help us. She's our last chance.”

Melinda's coming on to me was still fresh in my mind. She probably would agree to testify if I tricked her by lying about my feelings, but I wasn't going down that road.

“I'll try,” I said.

I got out and retrieved Buster from the backseat. Russo backed out of the spot and pulled up alongside me. He leaned out his open window.

“I'll be by later this afternoon with the transmitter, and we can run those list of partial license plates,” I said.

“You do that,” Russo said. “Oh, by the way. I don't take IOUs. You still owe me three hundred bucks for the repairs on my Suburban.” Before I could tell him I didn't have the money, Russo drove away.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

T
he ocean had turned rough.

With my flippers propelling me through the choppy waves, I swam to the spot where I believed the transmitter had sunk, stopped to adjust my mask, and dove down.

Nearing the ocean floor, I stopped as a sand shark with a mouthful of frightening-looking teeth and small darting eyes swam past. Having spent my life swimming in Florida's waters, I'd encountered sharks many times and did not fear them. They were docile creatures, generally content to prey on smaller fish and roam with other sharks.

The sand shark left, and I resumed my search. The ocean floor was covered in a brownish silt. Hovering about it, I paddled my flippers and moved the silt around. Broken seashells and an assortment of bottles and rusted cans appeared before my eyes, but no transmitter. I paddled for a minute, then went up for air.

Breaking the surface, I spotted Sonny on the shoreline, holding a cordless phone in his hand while looking up and down the beach.

“Over here,” I yelled.

Seeing me, Sonny started to wave.

“I've got a phone call for you.”

“Who is it?”

“Kumar.”

“What's he want?”

“He's got a job for you, helping some couple find their lost kid.”

“Tell him I'm busy.”

“For Christ's sake, Jack. Ralph is coming by tomorrow. What am I going to tell him?”

Ralph was the Sunset's long-distance owner and made a monthly appearance to make sure the place hadn't burned down. Normally, Sonny didn't care about Ralph's visits, and I guessed he was afraid Ralph might fire him over the busted TV. The idea that Sonny might lose his job because of something I'd done didn't sit right with me.

“Tell Kumar I'll take it,” I yelled back.

“For real?”

“Yeah, for real.”

Sonny relayed the message, then ended the call.

“Kumar said the couple is coming to his restaurant, and you can meet them in his office,” Sonny yelled.

“Right now?”

“Yeah.”

I couldn't deal with Russo and try to help Kumar's friends at the same time. I decided Kumar's friends could wait, and dove back down.

Nearing bottom, I encountered another shark. This one was six feet long, with a yellowish brown tint, dual dorsal fins, and small pointed teeth. I decided it was an adult lemon shark, which were extremely rare. Fisherman believed lemon sharks brought good luck, and I was half tempted to rub my hand across its back.

Swimming away from the lemon shark, I picked another spot and started paddling my flippers. The silt lifted to reveal more garbage littering the ocean floor. The stuff was a distraction and made my task of finding the transmitter that much harder.

I repeated my routine several more times, then found myself growing frustrated. At this rate, it would take hours or even days to find the transmitter. There was even a chance I might never find it at all.

Then I had an idea. No one had seen the transmitter but me. The fact that I didn't have it anymore didn't matter. I'd get another transmitter, scuff it up, and present it to Russo as the original. It was the kind of crap dirty cops pulled all the time. Being desperate, I was willing to give it a try.

A pair of lemon sharks popped out from behind a coral ledge and began circling me. Sharks become aggressive only when antagonized, and I decided to wait them out. By conserving my movements, I could stretch the oxygen left in my lungs.

Soon more lemon sharks appeared. They continued to circle me, and I felt as if I were watching an underwater ballet. Seeing so many in one place was unusual, and I wondered what they were doing here. Had the water's warm temperature attracted them, or was it the ocean's salinity? Perhaps the females were in season, emitting strong chemical signals to their male suitors. Or maybe they'd been investigating tasty sacks of garbage dumped from a pleasure boat, and I'd spoiled their fun.

After a minute my lungs were aching, and I had no choice but to kick my legs and head up. To my great relief, the lemon sharks did not touch me. Moments before breaking the surface, I looked down and saw that they'd dispersed.

I threw on fresh clothes and drove to Tugboat Louie's. Sticking Buster in my office, I walked down to Kumar's office and knocked on the door. He bid me enter, and I poked my head in. Kumar and the couple with the missing child were waiting for me.

“Jack, Jack, we've been expecting you,” Kumar said.

Whenever I've annoyed people, they tend to say my name twice. I proffered a lame apology and entered. I was wearing frayed cargo pants and a Tommy Bahama shirt minus two buttons, and my hair was uncombed. The couple eyed me suspiciously.

Kumar introduced them. Amrita and Sanji Kahn. I put her age at forty, his over fifty. She was pretty, with nutmeg skin and clear amber eyes; he was overweight and brooding, with capped teeth that clashed with his jet-black turban. They both wore expensive country club clothes and matching platinum watches. Opening her purse, Amrita removed a snapshot and handed it to me. I knew it was of their missing daughter without having to look.

But I did look. Their daughter was sixteen going on twenty-five, with multiple rings in each ear, bee-stung lips, and a dazzling smile. She was as dark-skinned as her parents, but the sparkle in her eyes said all-American girl. I let the appropriate amount of time pass before handing the photograph back.

“Her name is Katrina,” her mother said.

“She's a very attractive young lady. How long has she been missing?”

“Three days,” her father said.

“Have either of you spoken to her?”

“I have,” Amrita said.

“Recently?”

“Last night. Actually, we didn't talk. My daughter posted a message for me on the National Runaway Hotline, and I responded and posted one for her.”

“So she wasn't abducted,” I said.

“Oh, no, this is nothing like that,” her father said.

“Her life is not endangered in any way?”

Both parents shook their heads.

“Did either of you ask her to leave?”

“No,” they said at the same time.

“Where is she staying? With friends?”

“She's staying at a hotel,” her mother said.

That told me a lot. Hotels don't take cash, only credit cards, which meant Katrina was staying on her parent's nickel. They could have forced their daughter's hand by cancelling the card and getting her thrown out, but they seemed divided on how to be handling this. I glanced at Kumar. He was sitting behind his desk with his hands steepled in front of his face. I gave him a look that said we needed some privacy.

“If you'll excuse me, I must go downstairs and check up on some things,” Kumar said.

The door clicked behind him. I pulled my chair closer to the parents. Waiting three days to take action was a serious mistake and could lead to more trouble. I didn't want to divide them by pointing fingers, so I tried a different tack.

“Did you consider calling the police?” I asked the father.

Sanji's eyes locked on to my face. “Yes.”

“Why didn't you?”

“I asked him not to,” his wife said.

“Why?”

“I assumed our daughter would return home.”

Sanji sat with his hands on his slacks, exposing his fingers. They were long and the nails were manicured, but without gloss. I pegged him as a surgeon.

“And when she didn't, you decided to get outside help,” I said.

“Yes,” Sanji said. “At first we considered hiring a private detective, but the ones we interviewed were too sleazy. Then Kumar told us about you. He said you were a good man, despite what the newspapers write about you.”

“Sanji! That was not necessary,” his wife scolded him.

Her husband looked at me.

“I'm sorry if I have offended you.”

I leaned back in my chair. I'd run into my share of Sanjis over the years. Like many wealthy people, he thought his problems could be solved by swiping a credit card through a machine, or hiring someone to fix them, instead of fixing the problems himself. I wondered how well Kumar knew them, and how badly I'd damage the relationship by what I was about to say.

I decided I didn't care, and said it anyway.

“You both should consider yourselves lucky.”

Amrita looked at me with surprise, Sanji with a deep frown.

“Are you trying to be sarcastic?” Sanji asked.

“Not at all.”

“Then explain yourself.”

“Your daughter isn't dead. She hasn't been sold into the sex trade, or been locked in some psycho's basement. She wasn't abducted by a neighbor or someone else that she knew, and my guess is, neither of you was physically or sexually abusing her.

Those are the kinds of cases I often deal with. They don't have happy endings.

“Your situation is different. Your daughter ran away, which is unfortunate, but not the worst that could happen. My guess is, you both know what the problem is and refuse to fix it.”

Sanji looked ready to explode. “I don't want to talk about this! Will you find our daughter, or won't you?”

“I can find your daughter, but what good will it do?” I asked. “If you don't fix the problem, she'll only run away again. Fix the problem.”

Amrita nodded her head like a metronome. I sensed she'd tried to reason with her husband, and hit a brick wall.

“This is about a boy, isn't it?” I asked.

“You are very perceptive,” she said.

Sanji jumped out of his chair and headed for the door.

“Come back here,” I said.

“Why should I listen to you?” he replied angrily.

“Because I'm trying to help you.”

Sanji stopped dead. He didn't return to his chair, but he didn't leave, either. Taking out my wallet, I removed a snapshot of Jessie and showed it to his wife. My baby looked enough like me that you didn't have to ask whose she was. Amrita smiled faintly.

“A lovely girl,” she said.

“Her name's Jessie,” I said. “When she was sixteen, she announced she was dating a nineteen-year-old boy she'd met. When I heard Jessie describe this boy, I knew that the relationship was serious, and my wife and I had a problem on our hands.”

Sanji came back to his chair and sat down.

“I was certain my daughter was sleeping with this boy,” I went on. “It made me so mad, I considered having him arrested for statutory rape. I saw my daughter as a victim. I also knew that the law was on my side. Only my wife talked me out of it.”

Amrita's hand found her husband's and clasped it.

“Please go on,” she said.

“My wife talked to my daughter and realized that my daughter didn't see herself as a victim. This boy was her best friend and confidant. He gave my daughter a level of attention that my wife and I could not. He
indulged
her. To my daughter, it was only natural to have sex with him.”

“But the boy was taking advantage of your daughter,” Sanji said.

“Yes, he was,” I replied. “But that wasn't the issue.”

“It wasn't?”

“No. The issue was pulling my daughter back into the fold. It was about maintaining our authority over her. And it was about controlling the situation without traumatizing her in the process.”

“Did you succeed?” Amrita asked hopefully.

“Yes, thanks to my wife.”

She looked at her husband. He swallowed hard.

“Will you share your solution with us?” he asked me.

“I'd be happy to. My wife asked the boy over for dinner. He ac cepted, and we spent the evening peppering him with questions. Was he going to college? How did he plan to make a living when he got out? What religion was he? When could we meet his parents? We made him realize that if he wanted to see our daughter, he was going to be part of the family, and with that came responsibilities. We treated him like a grown-up.”

Amrita's dark eyes were dancing.

“Did it work?”

“They broke up a few weeks later. I can't guarantee that will happen with your daughter, but it will at least give you the upper hand for a while.”

They shared a meaningful look. I know of no greater telepathy than the silent communion shared by husband and wife. I slapped my knees and rose from my chair.

“Good luck,” I said.

We went downstairs to the parking lot. They drove a white Mercedes with a bag of tennis rackets in the backseat. Sanji opened his wife's door, then came over to me. From his pocket he removed an envelope and stuffed it into my hand.

“Kumar said that you would prefer cash.”

The envelope was thick, and I felt my heart race. Sanji was an arrogant jerk, but most fathers were when it came to dealing with their teenage daughters. I know I was.

I offered my hand. He shook it warmly, and I decided that I liked the guy.

“I hope this works out.”

“Thank you,” he said.

Back in my office, I fanned twenty crisp hundred-dollar bills across my desk and let out a happy whistle. It was enough to pay my rent and my tabs and buy the Sunset a brand-new TV. I thought back to my encounter with the lemon sharks and decided that my luck had changed.