The Night Monster (14 page)

I folded the check and slipped it into my shirt pocket. My wife had a favorite expression: Everything happens for a reason. I shook Long’s hand, sealing the deal.

“I want regular updates on your progress,” he said. “Even if the news is bad, I want you to call me.”

“You’ll be the first to know. You have my word.”

The car fell silent. I sensed that Long wanted to continue the conversation, only there wasn’t much left to say. He glanced into the backseat at Buster.

“What kind of dog is that?”

“He’s an Australian Shepherd, but he’s got a nose like a bloodhound,” I said.

“Is the breed really from Australia?”

“Northern California. They were originally bred for herding sheep and cattle. He’s a champ at finding things, especially people.”

“So he’s your partner.”

“I guess you could call him that.”

Long bravely stuck his hand beneath my dog’s snout, and to my surprise, got his fingers licked in return. “Sara’s mother and I divorced when Sara was two,” he said. “I didn’t see Sara much when she was growing up, too busy building shopping centers and strip malls. When Sara was fourteen, my ex-wife got killed in a car wreck, and I suddenly became a parent. I struggle with it.”

“We all do,” I said.

“My situation is different. You have a good relationship with your daughter. I could tell by the way she looked at you during the game. I don’t have a good relationship with Sara. She hates me, thinks I’m an egotistical blowhard. I started coming to her games hoping to break the ice, but it hasn’t worked. The only time we speak is when she needs money for schoolbooks or to pay the rent on her apartment. I want to change that. I’m
committed
to changing that. I just need a second chance. Please find her for me, Jack.”

Making promises to clients was a curse in my line of work, but I was going to make an exception for Long. Maybe it was the blunt honesty in his words. That counted for something in my book.

“I’ll do everything I can,” I said.

“Thank you.”

I watched Long peel across the lot in his fancy sports car, ignoring the lane markings and stop signs. I took the check out of my pocket, and stared at the sum, just to be sure it was real. Whoever had said that money didn’t buy happiness had never been broke. Buster poked his head between the seats, his cold nose pressed against my arm.

“We’re eating steak tonight,” I told him.

bought two filet mignon dinners from the takeout at Outback, and I ate in my car with Buster. Then I drove to a nearby Holiday Inn, and rented a room with a king-size bed, an in-room coffeemaker, and seventy-two channels of cable TV. Buster seemed to know that there had been a seismic shift in my world, and would not stop wagging his tail.

I awoke with the first rays of sunlight and took my dog for a walk. The sky was an aching blue without a single cloud, the air warm and moist. Back at the motel, I peeled off my clothes, and took a swim in the motel pool in my underwear, the chilly, overchlorinated water snapping me awake and clearing my head.

The motel offered a free continental breakfast, and I grabbed a couple of warm rolls and a newspaper before hopping on 595 and heading east along with a few thousand other commuters. My destination was the First Atlantic Bank on Sheridan Street, where I’d done my banking for most of my adult life. It was just past eight when I pulled into their parking lot, found a shaded spot, and spread the paper across my lap.

At 8:30 the first employees began to trickle in. At 8:45 it was upper management’s turn. At 8:58 the bank manager arrived, a short,
thick, disagreeable guy with an architecturally complex comb over. His name was Ed Nagle.

“Stay,” I told Buster.

I followed Nagle into the icy building. I’d heard it said that Florida could solve half its problems by outlawing air-conditioning. The idea certainly appealed to me.

Nagle’s office was a corner space with plenty of light. I found him at his desk, erasing voice mails. I rapped on his door, and he looked up with a start.

“Top of the morning,” I said.

Nagle scrunched his face, trying to place me.

“I’m sorry, but do I know you?” he asked.

“Jack Carpenter,” I said.

“I remember you. You’re the detective who got thrown off the force. What can I do for you this morning?”

Nagle’s words stung like a hornet. I entered without being invited and plopped down in the chair directly across from his desk. The expression on Nagle’s face told me I wasn’t a pretty sight. Unshaven, wearing two-day clothes, hair uncombed. The beach bum look.

“I have a business proposition for you,” I said.

Nagle drummed his fingers on his desk. I removed Karl Long’s check from my shirt and laid it on his blotter, smoothing the crease as I did. Nagle stared down at the piece of paper like I’d dropped a turd.

“Is this a joke?” he asked.

“Not at all,” I replied.

“Karl Long is a client of this bank. I know his signature.”

“Then you should be able to identify the one on this check as being his.”

Nagle picked up the check with both hands and studied the signature. The expression on his face changed from hostile to pleasant in a snap of the fingers.

“Well, this is definitely Mr. Long’s signature,” he said, passing the check back to me. “May I ask why Mr. Long gave you this?”

“He hired me to find his missing daughter.”

“I heard about his daughter’s disappearance on the news. Such a tragedy.”

“Yes, it is.”

“So, what can I do for you?”

I looked Nagle squarely in the eye, and watched him squirm uncomfortably. Twelve months ago, I’d sat in this same room with Nagle, and begged him not to foreclose on my house. Nagle’s response had been to cut me off at the knees.

“I want to buy my house back,” I said.

Nagle’s face became a frown. It was not the reaction I was expecting, considering the dismal state of the housing market.

“Did you already sell it?”

Nagle shook his head sadly as if to say
I wish
.

“Then what’s the problem?”

“The bank entrusted your home to a real estate agent, who was negligent in the care of your property,” the bank manager said. “Your home was vandalized several months ago and the agent did nothing about it. The agent also turned off the air-conditioning to save money. I’m afraid there’s been considerable damage.”

I’d woken up on a high, and felt myself crashing back to earth. Everyone had dreams: Mine was to buy back my old house, stand on the front lawn and snap photos with my cell phone, then e-mail them to my wife and my daughter with a one-word message:
Surprise!

Nagle rose from his chair. “Take a look at the house, and decide what you want to do. I’ll call the new agent handling the listing, and have her meet you there.”

Nagle was dismissing me, just like he had a year ago. I wanted to slug him, only I didn’t need the aggravation that would cause. I emptied the candy dish on his desk and went outside to my car. Buster crawled into my lap as I fired up the car.

“Different day, same shit,” I told him.

My old neighborhood was south of the city nestled between a public park and an elementary school playground. Twenty-six houses on a dead-end street. The name of each owner painted on the mailbox. Bikes in the driveways and plenty of dogs. Home sweet home.

The agent was there when I arrived. A young Hispanic woman
with big hair, full red lips, and a pair of hips that could have stopped traffic. Real estate was a tough sell these days, but she had all the right equipment.

“Well, Mr. Carpenter, there’s a lot of work that needs to be done,” she said.

“How bad a shape is the house in?” I asked.

“It’s a catastrophe. Why don’t you let me show you some of our other homes? They’re much more attractive than this one.”

She headed down the sidewalk toward her car. The dull realization hit me that Nagle hadn’t told her that I was the previous owner. Son-of-a-bitch.

“I’m just interested in this house,” I said.

She shot me a look that said I was crazy. I held my ground, and saw her remove a key ring from her purse, and toss it to me.

“Suit yourself,” she said.

“You’re not coming in?”

“No. Toss the keys under the mat when you’re done.”

She left without saying good-bye.

I unlocked the front door with a sense of mounting dread. A wave of warm, sticky air swept over me. I entered without turning on the lights.

I padded silently through my house. Memories floated through the air without any regard to time. In the living room, my mother, father, and older sister sat on a couch with wineglasses in their hands. In the bedroom, Rose lay on our bed, her swollen stomach carrying our soon-to-be-born daughter. In the foyer, Jessie stood in her first prom dress, her face flushed with excitement. More than once, I choked up.

After all the memories had played themselves out, I flipped on the lights. Vandals had spray-painted the walls and torn out the light sockets, leaving gaping holes that made the place look like a war zone. Light fixtures were smashed, toilets cracked, the carpet torn to bits. But what concerned me most were the walls. Mold had settled into the plaster and was wet to the touch. It smelled like a rotting corpse.

I went to the garage. I’d spent many hours there repairing stuff on my worktable or tooling around with my car. Thankfully, it looked the same as before. My old furniture was lined up on the far wall, covered in plastic sheeting. I’d left it behind because I didn’t have the money to store it. That was how bad things had been.

I noticed that the sheeting was torn. I pulled it away, and had another setback. The vandals who’d destroyed my house had also ruined my furniture. Not a single piece looked salvageable.

Opening the garage door, I dragged the furniture down to the curb. I could taste my anger now. It was like a spoonful of acid swirling around in my mouth.

My cell phone rang. Caller ID said
LINDERMAN.
I took a deep breath.

“Hey,” I said.

“How far are you from Hollywood Beach?” Linderman asked.

“About ten minutes.”

“I need you to go there right now.”

“What’s going on?”

“I e-mailed the Dade and Broward police, and asked them to report any sightings of guys who were unusually big. This morning, an elderly woman reported seeing a giant taking a piss on Hollywood Beach. The Hollywood police sent a bicycle cop to investigate. So far, they haven’t heard back from him.”

“Where on the beach was the sighting?”

“Near the parking garage south of the Hollywood Beach Hotel.”

The area was not far from where I lived. It was a hangout for vagrants, the covered levels a perfect place to camp out for the night. I pulled out my car keys.

“I’m leaving right now,” I said.

“Good. I’m heading there myself.”

I ended the call and hurried toward my car. A black Cadillac Eldorado was coming down the street toward me. The Eldorado braked at the curb, and the driver’s door flew open. Frank Yonker leapt out, appropriately dressed in a sharkskin suit and bloodred tie. Yonker had a pasty white face and crooked eyebrows. Clutched in his hand were the subpoenas he wanted to serve me.

“Just the man I was looking for,” Yonker declared.

“How did you find me?” I asked.

“This was your last known address, so I took a shot.”

“Business must be bad for you to take up process serving.”

“On the contrary, business is great. I just happen to dislike you, so I’m getting pleasure out of this.”

“What did I do to piss you off?” I asked.

“You think you’re above the law.”

“It’s better than being below it.”

“Aren’t we funny.”

Yonker came forward, waving the subpoenas. I didn’t have time for this, and let out a shrill whistle. Buster, who’d been watching the action from the car, scampered out the open driver’s window, barking ferociously.

“Get that beast away from me,” Yonker cried.

“Go for the throat!” I yelled.

Yonker stumbled backward and tripped over the curb. The subpoenas fell from his hand. The gods must have been smiling down on me because a stiff wind lifted the papers into the air and carried them across the street into a vacant lot. Grabbing Buster by the collar, I dragged him to my car.