Midnight Rambler: A Novel of Suspense

My office grew deathly still. The silence was so complete that I felt as if I were underwater.

“What about Melinda Peters?” I asked. “Will Skell go after her, too?”

“That would be a logical assumption. Melinda is the object of Skell's murderous fantasies and is responsible for him going to jail. More than likely, she will be his first target.”

“What do you suggest she do?”

“Run.”

That was easy for Linderman to say. Melinda had left home as a teenager, and like so many runaways, she had no place to run to.

Linderman looked at his watch. Then he stood up.

“I'm sorry, but I need to go.”

“Of course,” I said.

Linderman took out his business card and placed it on my desk. He thanked me for the coffee and urged me to stay in touch. Then he walked out the door.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Bob Dylan said, “You don't need a weatherman to know which way the wind blows.”

I sat at my desk and stared into space. Although Linderman had left an hour ago, his presence hung like an odorless cloud. I thought about the timing of his appearance and the fact that our meeting had ended with a warning about my safety. It could mean only one thing: he knew something I didn't.

But what? Before paying me a visit, Linderman had met with Bobby Russo and the DA and shared the same information that he gave me. I had worked with the FBI enough times to know that this sharing didn't come without a price. Linderman got something in return, and I spent the next twenty minutes trying to determine what it was.

Buster crawled out from beneath my desk and stuck his head in my crotch, a cue that he wanted his ears scratched. I obliged him, and when I was done, he wagged his butt, then went to the door and whined. It was the same routine every day. Nap, scratch, pee. If only my own life were so simple.

I put my elbows on my desk and rested my head in my hands. I'd never been good for sitting in one place for very long pondering life's impossibilities. I was better on my feet and moving around. But this situation deserved serious thought, and I played back Linderman's warning.

If Skell walks, he'll come after you.

It wasn't the kind of thing someone in law enforcement would say to a brother-in-arms. Skell was in prison for first-degree murder, and for him to be set free, certain legal steps had to be followed, like his attorney petitioning the court, the judge finding the space on his docket to listen, and then the judge taking the new evidence and weighing it against the evidence presented at trial. The wheels of the legal system moved notoriously slow, and it might be weeks or even months before Skell was released, if the judge decided to swing that way.

So why did Linderman warn me? What disaster was on the horizon that warranted his seeking me out and telling me that Skell might be knocking on my door?

Five minutes later, it hit me.

It wasn't if Skell would be released from jail, it was when. Russo must have told Linderman that the body in Julie Lopez's backyard had been positively identified as Carmella's and that he was going to take the unusual step of asking the judge to release Skell so his department could save face. Learning this, Linderman had sought me out, hoping I might have uncovered additional evidence to keep Skell behind bars. And when he discovered I had none, he warned me.

I got on 595 and became a prisoner of late-afternoon traffic. Buster sat at stiff attention in the passenger seat, tuned in to my apprehension. Only one thought was running through my mind, and that was to provide safe haven for Melinda. I got her into this, and it was my responsibility to make sure nothing happened to her. My own safety was not important to me. I'd already had one confrontation with Skell and come out on the winning end. Until we tangoed again, I was alpha dog.

But Melinda was a different story. Despite her tough exterior, she was no fighter. She'd be easy prey for Skell once he was released from prison. I needed to track her down, and I called Cheever on my cell.

“Claude, it's Jack,” I said. “You looking at naked women?”

“Yes, Mr. President,” Cheever replied.

“Which club?”

“Church of the Sacred Body Shot.”

“Is Melinda Peters working there now?”

“Yes, if you call making guys horny working.”

“I'm coming over. Wait for me, okay?”

“Sure,” Cheever said. “This is two days in a row. Want me to get you a membership card?”

“No, but thanks for asking.”

Hanging up, I retrieved Dennis Vasquez's business card from my wallet and called his cell phone. He answered, and I heard Beethoven's Fifth Symphony playing loudly in the background and the joyful sounds of a woman's laughter.

“Mr. Vasquez?” I said.

“Who's calling?” he asked suspiciously.

“This is Jack Carpenter.”

“Jack, Jack! How are you?”

“Just great,” I said.

“Your ears must be burning. My wife and I were just talking about you. Hold on for a second, will you?” Taking his mouth away from the receiver, Vasquez said, “Honey, Jack Carpenter's on the line.”