Midnight Rambler (23 page)

CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

F
ort Lauderdale has three categories of drivers. Crazies, blue hairs, and people without licenses. Despite the blue flasher on the dashboard of Linderman's 4Runner, not a single vehicle on 595 got out of our way.

“Screw this,” Linderman said.

He drove onto the shoulder and hit the gas. I held on to my dog while looking for the getaway car. Less than a mile up the highway, a black Mustang convertible sat abandoned. Three tattooed guys with crowbars were in the process of dismantling it.

“There's the car Perez was driving,” I said.

“Who are those clowns?” Linderman asked.

“Your everyday car thieves.”

“Look for the police chopper.”

My eyes scanned the sky and found the police chopper hovering over a strip center near where the Mustang had been ditched. Pointing, I said, “Over there.”

Linderman pulled into the strip center and parked. It was a slow day, and only a handful of cars were in the lot. We got out, and Linderman waved his arms in the air to signal the chopper. The pilot saw us and dipped down, momentarily eclipsing the sun.

The pilot was a woman with blond hair. She pointed at the anchor store in the strip. It was called Mattress Giant and was going out of business. Linderman gave the okay sign, and she went back up. Linderman got his shotgun from the 4Runner.

“You still have bullets?” he asked.

I touched the bullets resting in my pocket.

“Yes.”

“Good. Go around to the back of the mattress store, and call me on your cell. If things look okay, we'll enter the store at the same time, and trap them.”

“I left my phone back at Perez's house,” I said.

He shot me a disapproving look. Between my marksmanship and not having my cell, I could tell his opinion of me wasn't very high.

“You're in luck. I've got a spare,” he said.

He removed a bright red cell phone from his jacket pocket, and tossed it to me. It was a newer model and reminded me of one my daughter carried.

“I found it on the lawn at Perez's house,” he explained. “I'm guessing it fell out of Cheever's pocket. You have my number?”

I had his number memorized, and nodded.

“Good. Call me when you reach the back. Okay?”

He was talking to me like I was a kid. I said okay, and walked around the strip center with the phone in my hand. I flipped it open, and a greeting in Spanish appeared on its face. Cheever didn't speak Spanish, and I realized it didn't belong to him.

It was Jonny Perez's.

As I came around the strip center, Buster let out a menacing growl. The Rasta stood by the service door to Mattress Giant. He had the machine pistol trained on two male employees, both of whom wore dress shirts and neckties and had their hands clasped on their heads like POWs.

My eyes searched for Perez. Behind the building was a small parking lot, with signs indicating the spots were for employees only. Perez was in the rear of the lot, forcing Melinda into a blue Chevy Nova, his gun shoved into her back.

I went into a crouch and aimed my weapon. I had a shot at Perez, only it wasn't a good one, and there was a chance I might hit Melinda. I thought about what Linderman had said in the car. Then I squeezed the trigger.

The bullet winged Perez in the head. He let out a startled yell and grabbed his ear. Then he pulled Melinda in front of him and turned her into a human shield.

“Stay back!” he shouted.

I kept my gun trained on Perez. The Rasta remained by the service door, his machine pistol pointed at the employees.

“Jack, help me!” Melinda yelled.

“I'm trying,” I called back.

“I love you, Jack.”

“I know you do,” I said under my breath.

Some hostages shut down when faced with death. Melinda did the opposite, and started throwing her elbows and stomping her heels on Perez's toes. It was one of the bravest things I'd ever seen. Perez lowered his hand and put her in a choke hold. His ear was gone, and blood was streaming down the side of his neck.

“Let her go, and I won't come after you,” I called out.

Perez's eyes said he wasn't buying it.

“Come on,” I said.

Perez aimed his weapon at me. I ducked behind the building and heard a sickening thud. I stole a look around the corner. He had knocked Melinda unconscious and was putting her into the Nova.

“Cover me!” Perez yelled.

I came out from hiding. The Rasta had finally found his nerve.

He aimed the machine pistol at me, and we exchanged shots. It was obvious he'd never handled an automatic weapon before, and the bullets sprayed harmlessly into the ground. I kept firing and saw him go down.

I sprinted across the lot with Buster hugging my side. Perez had jumped into the Nova and was backing out. He spun the wheel like a professional driver, hopped the curb, and headed down a connector road toward 595. I could do nothing but watch.

The back door of the mattress store opened, and Linderman hustled over.

“Jack, are you okay?”

I stood helplessly with my Colt dangling by my side.

“He's getting away,” I said.

Linderman found the chopper in the sky and waved the pilot down. He pointed at the interstate, and the pilot took off after the Nova. We walked back to the store, and Linderman addressed the two employees.

“Whose car was that?”

One of the employees was short, the other tall. They both lowered their hands.

“Mine,” the taller one said.

“What's the tag number?”

“It's in my wallet.”

“Where's that?”

“Inside.”

“I need to see it.”

They started to go inside. I looked down at the Rasta. Shot in the waist, he was barely alive, his eyes blinking rapidly. If anyone knew where Perez was headed, it was him. Kneeling, I pulled his head into my lap and shielded his eyes from the sun.

“What are you doing?” Linderman asked.

“Maybe he can help us,” I said.

“Don't hold your breath,” he said.

They went inside. As the back door closed, the Rasta gazed up at me.

“You the boyfriend?”
he whispered in a Jamaican accent.

“What boyfriend?” I asked.

“Jonny said his woman was cheating on him, and he wanted to teach her a lesson.”

“Is that why you kept her in your house?”

The Rasta nodded weakly.

“Jonny is a killer,” I said. “He lied to you.”

The Rasta shut his eyes and took a deep breath.

“Will you tell me something?” I asked.

The Rasta's eyes opened, but he did not answer me.

“Where's Jonny taking her? You must have some idea.”

The Rasta looked through me, his face losing its strength.

“Jonny was going to leave you behind,” I said. “He didn't give a rat's ass about you. You don't owe him anything.”

The Rasta thought about it, then spoke.

“Jonny's taking her to the ocean. He said he was going to surprise you.”

“Surprise me how?”

“I dunno, man.”

“Was he taking her to a boat?”

The Rasta blinked in the affirmative. His right hand was hovering over his pants pocket. I stuck my fingers into the pocket and pulled out a plastic key ring from which a single key dangled. I held the key up to the Rasta's face.

“Is this your boat?” I asked.

“Jonny's. He let me use it sometimes.”

“Did he keep it in a marina?”

“Yeah.”

“Do you know which one?”

“Don't know the name. It's on one of the canals.”

There was a roar of sirens, and I lifted my gaze as six police cruisers pulled into the lot. The cruisers surrounded us in a tight circle. Twelve doors opened simultaneously, and more guns than I could count were pointed at my head.

“Don't shoot,” I said.

CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

A
pair of cops threw me against a wall. I told them an FBI agent was inside the store who could explain everything, and the cops told me to keep my mouth shut. While I was being patted down I glanced at Buster. My dog was parked in the building's shade with a concerned look on his face.

Then Linderman came out and set the cops straight. There were times when I wanted to hug the guy, and this was one of them. Linderman convinced the cops to give me my Colt back. As I slipped it into its pocket holster Buster came out from the shadows and pressed up against my leg.

By now the Rasta was unconscious, and two cops were doing their best to keep him breathing. I stood over him for a minute, then realized he probably wouldn't be opening his eyes for a while.

I followed Linderman into the mattress store. Once we were inside, he turned around and put his hand on my shoulder. It wasn't a gesture I expected from him.

“I've got shitty news,” Linderman said.

I braced myself.

“The police chopper lost the Nova.”

“How is that possible?”

Linderman explained how Perez had driven east on 595, gotten onto I-95 north, and taken the Broward Boulevard exit into downtown Fort Lauderdale. From there, Perez had driven to A1A and headed south, going through an underground tunnel in the heart of downtown. That was where the chopper had lost the car.

“I know where Perez is taking her,” I said.

Linderman dropped his hand. “You do?”

I showed him the Rasta's key ring. “Perez is going to dump Melinda in the ocean. You need to call the police and tell them to search Perez's house. There should be a bill from a marina where he keeps his boat.”

“Why wouldn't Perez just shoot her and dump the body?” Linderman asked.

I shook my head. “The gang was setting me up. They were going to kill Melinda and make it look like I did it.”

“You?”

“They were trying to convince people I was the Midnight Rambler, and take the heat off Skell.”

I watched Linderman punch in the Broward cops' phone number on his cell. Raising the phone to his face, he said, “You're always thinking, aren't you, Jack?”

I realized he was complimenting me, and smiled grimly.

The mattress store was filled with beds. While Linderman was on his phone, I sat down on the edge of a king-size bed and removed Perez's cell phone from my pocket. It was still powered up, and I went straight into the address book, hoping to find the number for the marina.

The address book had several dozen entries. No full names were listed, just first and last initials. There was NB, who I assumed was Neil Bash, and PC, who I guessed was Paul Coffen. A listing near the end jumped out at me.

LS.

It could have been anybody, but my gut told me it was Leonard Snook. The listing had two numbers: one work, the other a cell.

Both had 305 area codes, which was Miami/Dade County. I punched in the work number. It rang through, and a woman picked up.

“Law office,” the woman said sternly.

“Is he in?” I asked.

“Is who in?” she asked suspiciously.

“Leonard Snook.”

“Mr. Snook is out of the office. If you'd like, you can leave a message.”

I said no thanks and hung up. Snook represented Simon Skell and Cecil Cooper, and now I had evidence he was connected to Jonny Perez. There was no law against representing abductors and serial killers, and I found myself hoping that Snook could be persuaded to help us find Perez before he killed Melinda. I pulled up his cell number from the address book and called it. After several rings he answered.

“I can't talk to you right now, Jonny,” the lawyer said in a whisper. “We just got into Fort Lauderdale, and Simon's giving a news conference to a bunch of dim-witted reporters. I'll call you back when he's done.”

Before I could reply, Snook ended the call. I couldn't believe what I'd just heard, and rose from the bed. On the other side of the store, the two employees stood by a desk drinking coffee. I walked over to them.

“Is there a TV in the store?” I asked.

They pointed at a portable TV sitting on the desk. It was so small, I hadn't even noticed it. I picked up the remote and channel-surfed. Skell's news conference was on the local ABC affiliate. He was staying at a nearby hotel.

Skell stood in front of a podium answering questions, his wife and attorney flanking him. He still wore the Old Navy sweatshirt and blue jeans. I jacked up the volume.

“What will you do, now that you're free?” a reporter asked.

“Go back to my work,” Skell said.

“Do you hold a grudge against Jack Carpenter for what he did to you?” the same reporter asked.

Skell leaned into the mikes. “Jack Carpenter will get what's coming to him.”

“Are you angry at him?”

“He'll get what's coming to him,” Skell repeated.

“Is it true there's a movie deal in the works?” another reporter called out.

Leonard Snook stepped up to the mike and announced that a major motion picture deal was in the works, with a famous Hollywood actor being considered to play his client. There was also a six-figure book contract with a prominent New York publishing house.

“Who's writing it?” a reporter asked.

“I am,” Snook said.

Something inside of me snapped. Attorneys made money representing scumbags, but Snook was profiting on his client's victims' misfortune. It was evil, pure and simple.

Without thinking of the ramifications, I called Snook back. On the TV, Snook pulled out his cell and looked at it disapprovingly, then stepped out of the picture. Seconds later, his voice came on the line.

“For Christ's sake, Jonny, I can't talk to you right now. I'll call you back when I'm done.”

“This isn't Jonny,” I said.

Snook paused. In the background, I could hear Skell talking to the reporters.

“Then who am I speaking to?” he asked.

“Jack Carpenter,” I replied.

Snook gasped.

“What do you want?” he finally said.

“Tell Skell I have a message for him,” I said.

“A message?”

“That's right. And for you, too.”

“What's your message?”

“Tell him that Paul Coffen, Neil Bash, and Paco Perez are waiting for him in hell. Will you do that for me, Leonard?”

“Is this some kind of twisted joke?”

“No joke,” I said.

Snook hung up.

I stared at the portable TV. There was a time delay on the transmission, and several seconds passed before Snook reentered the picture. He edged up to Skell, and whispered in his client's ear.

Skell was directly facing the camera when he heard the news. His jaw clenched and his nostrils flared. I'd seen this look on the faces of other killers. It was called sociopathic rage. Skell was ready to blow.

Suddenly the news conference was over, and Skell walked away from the podium with his entourage in tow.