Midnight Rambler: A Novel of Suspense

Russo glared at him. If he'd bothered to count heads when he'd come in the first time, he'd notice we'd multiplied. But he didn't, his mind wrapped up in other things. Like how he was going to tell the DA there was no file.

Muttering to himself, Russo went back outside. I continued to buy rounds while the cops conducted their snipe hunt. As the sun set they returned to their cruisers and drove away. Russo was the last to leave, the interior light of his car illuminating a solitary man wrestling with his situation.

Soon everything was back to normal. Sonny served me a bowl of house chili with some crackers. I ate quickly, then caught myself yawning and decided it was time for bed. As I rose from my stool the Dwarfs broke into a rousing rendition of “For He's a Jolly Good Fellow.” It was a fine way to end a lousy day. Returning the clothes I'd borrowed, I bid them all good night.

CHAPTER NINE

Morning came hard and bright.

Lying in bed, I watched a seagull float outside my window while trying to make sense of what had happened last night. The cops had torn apart my room searching for the Skell file, but they'd managed to put everything back in its place. That wasn't normal behavior, and I supposed the special treatment came from having been one of them. Or maybe Russo told them to. I decided the latter was probably what happened, meaning Bobby didn't hate me as much as I thought he did.

An immovable object lay beside me: Buster was positioned so snugly against my body that I could not get out of bed. I grabbed a hind leg and pulled.

“Rise and shine.”

We were both creatures of habit. Buster drank out of the toilet before I used it, then waited by the door. I washed up, threw on shorts and a long-sleeved running shirt, and took my dog outside for a run.

Breakfast awaited us at the bar upon our return. A bowl of table scraps for my dog, a cup of coffee and a copy of the Fort Lauderdale Sun-Sentinel for me. It was part of my rent, and I thanked Sonny, who sat on a stool behind the bar, half asleep.

Normally, I read the sports section first, but today it was the headlines. On the front page was a ghoulish overhead photo of the corpse in Julie Lopez's backyard. It was a good clear shot taken overhead from a helicopter. In journalism there were big murders and little murders, and this was being sold as a big murder. Something was clutched between the skeleton's hands. I asked Sonny his opinion, and he opened his eyes and studied the paper.

“Looks like a gold crucifix,” Sonny said.

I had another look.

“I think you're right.”

“This was your last case, wasn't it?”

I sipped my coffee and nodded. I was thinking about Julie Lopez's pimp, Ernesto, who according to the paper was being held without bail. Ernesto was deeply religious, and I wondered if this was his way of giving Carmella a proper burial. I didn't want to believe it, but facts were facts. Ernesto must have killed Carmella, then waited until Skell was in prison before plopping her in the ground. I had sent away the right man for the wrong crime. It made my head hurt.

“A guy was checking out your car when I pulled in this morning,” Sonny said a few minutes later.

“Checking it out how?” I asked.

“Looking it over, reading the license plate.”

“What did he look like?”

“He was in plain clothes, late forties, short hair.”

“Think he was a cop?”

“I made him for a private dick.”

“How can you tell the difference?”

“Cops don't get up that early.”

The Legend was the only thing of value I owned, and I was sick of people messing with it. Going outside, I inspected my car, including the undercarriage. The black transmitter stuck to the gas tank was hard to miss. I went back inside.

“I need your help,” I said.

“Name it,” Sonny replied.

“This private dick put a transmitter on my car. I want you to take my car out for a spin. I'll follow you and see if I can nail this guy.”

“I got DUIed last month and had my license suspended,” Sonny said. “Why don't you ask Whitey?”

“Is he around?”

“Sure. Hey, Whitey, get up.”

There was stirring from the other side of the room. Whitey's snow-white head appeared an inch at a time over the bar as he pulled himself off the floor. He was wearing yesterday's clothes, his face a mosaic of broken blood vessels and gin blossoms. He brushed himself off while grinning lopsidedly.

“Wass up, captain?” Whitey asked.

“You got a car?” I asked.

“Last time I checked.”

“Your driver's license any good?”

Whitey jerked out his wallet, spilled his credit cards onto the bar and extracted his driver's license. He scrutinized it, then nodded enthusiastically.

“Here's what I want you to do,” I said.

Five minutes later we put my plan into action. Whitey drove south on A1A in my car while I followed in his filthy Corolla. Whitey was impaired and probably shouldn't have been driving, but that was true for a lot of folks in south Florida.