Midnight Rambler: A Novel of Suspense

The older kids gave me blank stares. Then one pointed down the beach. I ran to the next dune and found Jessie's bucket. There were three sand dollars in it.

I couldn't believe this was happening. I was a cop. I should know better.

“Daddy!”

I ran to the sound of her voice. Twenty yards away, Jessie sat in the tall grass, crying and clutching herself. I gathered her into my arms.

“Make him go away,” she sobbed. “Make him go away!”

“Who, honey? Make who go away?”

“The man in the grass!”

“What man?”

“The naked man! He said he wanted to play with me. Make him go away!”

I clutched my daughter against my chest. My heart was pounding out of control, and I could not stop blaming myself for what had happened. Rose appeared, looking shaken, and I handed my daughter to her.

“Don't let her out of your sight,” I said.

Then I ran down the beach as fast as my legs would carry me and searched for the man who'd tried to molest my daughter.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

A pounding on my door awakened me the next morning. Pulling the sheet over my bare torso, I grabbed Buster by the collar.

“We're all friends here,” I said.

Sonny entered my rented room wearing black jeans, a Black Sabbath T-shirt with holes in the armpits, and a black crucifix—a dark messenger if there ever was one.

“Hey, Sleeping Beauty, you need to see this,” he said.

I threw on yesterday's clothes and followed him downstairs. A steaming cup of coffee awaited me in the bar. I sipped my drink and watched Bobby Russo on the TV. Russo was holding a news conference at police headquarters and fielding questions from a handful of reporters. He was dressed up and had traded his trademark fish tie for a more respectable solid blue one.

“How did the police confirm that the body found in Julie Lopez's backyard was her sister Carmella's?” a reporter asked.

“Dental records,” Russo said.

“How long was the body there?”

“There's no way for us to know. The rain washed away a great deal of evidence.”

“Have the police confirmed she was murdered?”

“Yes.”

“Do you know the cause of death?”

“Strangulation.”

“Do you have a suspect?” another reporter asked.

“We do,” Russo said. “Ernesto Sanchez.”

“Can you tell us what evidence you have against him?”

“Mr. Sanchez was an acquaintance of Carmella Lopez and lives in the same house with her sister,” Russo said. “We also found an item of Mr. Sanchez's clutched in the victim's hands.”

“Can you tell us what the item was?”

“A gold crucifix.”

“Has the suspect been charged?”

“The suspect has not been arraigned,” Russo said.

“When will that happen?”

“I can't comment at this time.”

The news conference ended. Russo was stalling Ernesto's arraignment to give his detectives more time to study the Skell file. It was a smart tactic, but he was only delaying the inevitable. I finished my coffee and told myself that I had done everything I could. I'd fought the good fight, and tomorrow would be another day. The words were hollow, but they were all I had left.

A perky female newscaster came on the screen. Imposed on a screen behind her was a photo of Simon Skell with a banner that read Hollywood Calling?

“The Simon Skell case is attracting attention in Hollywood,” she said cheerfully. “According to Variety, Paramount Studios is purchasing the rights to Skell's life story from Skell's wife, Lorna Sue Mutter. Possible stars being considered to play Skell are Brad Pitt, Tom Cruise, and Russell Crowe. No word on who might play Jack Carpenter, the Broward County detective who Lorna Sue claims tortured and framed her husband.”

I cursed like someone with Tourette's syndrome. On the TV, a blow-dried male newscaster appeared beside his perky colleague.

“How about Vince Vaughn?” the male newscaster suggested.

“You mean to play Jack Carpenter?” the female newscaster said.

“Absolutely. I saw him play a sociopathic killer in a movie called Domestic Disturbance with John Travolta,” the male newscaster said. “He was terrific.”

“I saw that movie, too. Good choice!”