Midnight Rambler: A Novel of Suspense

“I hope this works out.”

“Thank you,” he said.

Back in my office, I fanned twenty crisp hundred-dollar bills across my desk and let out a happy whistle. It was enough to pay my rent and my tabs and buy the Sunset a brand-new TV. I thought back to my encounter with the lemon sharks and decided that my luck had changed.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Kumar gave me a lift to Big Al's body shop on Sheridan Street.

My Legend was parked in front with a shiny new windshield. I loaded Buster into the back, then visited the office.

Big Al sat at his cluttered desk eating a sandwich. He was into steroids and body art, and every inch of his body was either ripped or inked. He was a high school classmate of mine who in the '80s got busted for importing bales of marijuana, or what locals fondly call square barracudas. I guessed he still peddled on the side; the lure of easy money was hard to get out of your system. I paid for the windshield, then asked if he had a transmitter for sale. Opening a desk drawer, he tossed me one. It was scratched and dirty and exactly what the doctor ordered. I asked him how much.

“On the house,” Big Al said.

“Thanks. And thanks for fixing my windshield so fast.”

“What are friends for?”

“You still dive, don't you?”

Big Al said yes, and I recounted the incident with the lemon sharks. I hadn't stopped thinking about them, and he listened attentively.

“Lemon sharks are strange,” Big Al said. “I once encountered a school during a dive. They were hovering around a spot and wouldn't leave. Turns out, there was a wreck on the ocean floor. A boat had caught on fire and sunk the day before.”

“Were they scavenging it?”

“No, they were protecting it,” Big Al said.

“From what?”

“Beats me, Jack. But that's what they were doing.”

We went outside. Big Al was six-six and cast a long shadow across the dusty yard. Reaching my car, he put his hand on my shoulder.

“I was listening to the news earlier,” he said. “This Skell thing is getting out of hand. You going to leave town?”

“I wasn't planning to,” I said.

“With all this shit flying around, I would.”

“Where would you go?”

“West coast.”

“Of Florida?”

“California. Southern part, where the weather's decent. You can get lost there.”

I realized he was giving me advice. Since it came from a guy who had spent many years rebuilding his own life, I gave it some weight. Big Al knew the uphill battle I was facing, and he was telling me that staying and salvaging my reputation was a lost cause. He might have been right, only I wasn't willing to go there just yet. We shook hands, and I left.

At Best Buy I purchased a new TV for the Sunset. For an extra thirty bucks the salesman promised to have it delivered by that afternoon.

Then I drove to the Broward County sheriff's headquarters and circled the parking lot. Cars were parked illegally and in the handicap spots. I couldn't remember the place ever being so jammed.

Finally a spot opened up. I parked and, with transmitter in hand, headed across the lot toward the shining four-story building that I had once called home. Along the way, I noted all the cars owned by cops. They were easy to spot. Cops always backed in.

A well-dressed crowd of about twenty was gathered by the building's front steps. A news conference was taking place, and I heard a woman's voice speak my name.

“Jack Carpenter is a goddamn monster,” Lorna Sue Mutter hissed into the mikes. She was wearing her trademark black dress and too much makeup. Behind her stood Leonard Snook in a black pin-striped suit with wide lapels, nodding beatifically.

“Jack Carpenter should be sitting in a prison cell, not my husband!” she went on. “Do the police need any more evidence than they heard today? Do they need more proof?”

“Have you asked a judge to release your husband?” a reporter asked.

Leonard Snook answered. “We cannot do that until the Broward County sheriff's office formally charges Ernesto Ramos with the murder of Carmella Lopez.”

“Why haven't the police done that?” the same reporter asked.

“The sheriff's office is purposely dragging its heels,” Snook replied. “What they need to do is face the truth. Simon Skell did not kill Carmella Lopez, nor did he kill seven other young women in Broward County, whose bodies, I might add, have never been located. My client is not the Midnight Rambler.”

I stood on my tiptoes for a better look. Snook was pressed up next to Lorna Sue, and there was a real sexual tension between them. I wondered if anyone else was picking up on it. Lorna Sue nudged Snook out of the way.

“My husband was convicted because of the testimony of a woman named Melinda Peters,” Lorna Sue continued. “Melinda Peters said my husband abducted and tortured her. What she didn't say was that she had a relationship with my husband and an affair with Jack Carpenter. When Jack Carpenter found out, he forced Melinda Peters to fabricate a story about my husband and have him thrown in jail.”