Midnight Rambler: A Novel of Suspense

The phone was passed to a woman with a breathless voice and a slight Spanish accent. “Oh, Mr. Carpenter, it's so wonderful you called. We brought Isabella home this afternoon, and we were sitting here, thanking God that you appeared when you did.”

“She's a beautiful child,” I said. “I hope you and your husband make more of them.”

She squealed with delight and invited me to dinner Saturday night. Their address was in Key Biscayne. I envisioned them living in an estate home on the water, and knew I wouldn't fit in with my ratty clothes and aging car, even for a few hours. I asked for a rain check and got one. Her husband came back on the line.

“I need a favor, Mr. Vasquez.”

“Anything, Jack. Anything at all,” he said.

“I know this is presumptuous of me to ask, but do you own a second home?”

“We have two. A weekend place in Key West, and a four-bedroom house in Aspen. Either one is at your disposal.”

“Does your house in Aspen have security?”

“The best money can buy,” he said. “Besides the security system, the house is inside a walled community with a guard at the front gate, and another guard that patrols the grounds at night. Since my wife and I don't plan to use it for a while, you can have it for as long as you like.”

“It's not for me,” I said.

“A friend?”

“She's a witness in a case. I need to get her out of the state, let her lie low for a while. You're sure this won't be any trouble?”

“Consider it done. Just give me the dates she'll be arriving, and I'll arrange everything. She'll be very safe there, Jack.”

“Thank you, Mr. Vasquez. I really appreciate this.”

“There's no need to thank me, Jack,” he said. “No need at all.”

The sky was a dying amber when I arrived at the Body Shot. Parking in a strip center across the street, I told Buster to mind the fort.

The club was packed, and I elbowed my way through a mob of working-class guys leering at naked women dancing on the elevated stage. Being unemployed had its drawbacks, one of which was that I could easily lose track of the days. It was Thursday, which in south Florida was the official beginning to the weekend.

Cheever hailed me from the bar. A cold beer awaited me when I reached him.

“Sorry I split last night, but I got an emergency call,” he said, clinking his bottle against mine. “How did it go with Melinda?”

“She had me tossed,” I shouted in his ear.

“And you came back for more?”

“I need to talk with her. They're going to let Simon Skell out of prison.”

His bottle hit the bar. “Fucking what did you say?”

“You heard me. I found out from the FBI. I need to get Melinda someplace safe.”

Cheever gave me a thoughtful look. Even in the club's crummy neon I could see he was way drunk. He grabbed my shoulder and squeezed it.

“That's my Jack.”

“I'm going to the VIP lounge. When you see Melinda, ask her to join me. She'll listen to you.”

“Sure, man. Anything to help.”

“And make sure the bouncer doesn't come looking for me.”

I started to leave. Cheever got a fresh beer from the bartender and forced it into my hands.

“You deserve it,” he told me.

The VIP lounge was normally reserved for friction dances and, if you were not careful, a five-hundred-dollar bottle of pink champagne. I settled onto a couch as the perennial strip club favorite, “Shake Your Booty” by KC and the Sunshine Band, blasted over the speakers. KC was a Miami band, and you could not spend any serious time in a south Florida bar without hearing at least one of their songs.

The set ended and the house lights flickered. Three new dancers came out and peeled off their clothes. I sucked on my beer, thinking of Skell. One of his victims was a stripper, one worked in a massage parlor, and the rest were prostitutes employed by escort services. Yet, except for the phone call Skell had made to Carmella Lopez, no evidence existed of him ever being inside a strip club or massage parlor, or using an escort service. He did not know his victims either personally or professionally, even though they all fit the same profile. It was another piece of the puzzle with a question mark hanging over it.

I had a theory about this, which along with eight bucks would buy me another beer. It went like this. We all walk around in life with different odds. Some people have good odds; some have bad. Your odds are determined by your upbringing, your luck, and the strength of your desires. My guess was that everyone in this club had bad odds, myself included.

Skell's victims all had bad odds. They had chosen their professions out of necessity, and lived on the edge of despair. They'd been thrown away not only by their families but by society and were struggling not to fall into the abyss. Somehow, Skell knew this about his victims, which was why he chose them. Someday, I was going to find out how he knew.