Midnight Rambler: A Novel of Suspense

My mouth had been washed out with soap plenty when I was a kid, but it never stopped me from swearing when the situation warranted it. In a loud voice I said, “That's a fucking lie, and you know it.”

The reporters parted like the Red Sea, leaving a clear path between me and my two accusers. Pointing my finger at them, I said, “Why don't you tell them the truth, which is that you have a movie deal in the works. The only reason you're here campaigning for Simon Skell is because you stand to make a bundle if he gets out of jail.”

A reporter shoved a mike in Snook's face. “Is that true? Do you have a deal with a Hollywood studio?”

“No comment,” Snook replied.

“He's getting 20 percent and his name in the credits,” I yelled.

Someone must have told Snook that cowardice was the better part of valor. He retreated backwards, hit the steps, and fell down with a groan. Lorna Sue ignored him and pointed a manicured finger at me.

“You railroaded my husband,” she screamed.

“Your husband is a serial killer, and you're a crazy lunatic bitch for marrying him.”

“How dare you!”

Lorna Sue charged me. I hadn't battled with a member of the opposite sex since fighting with my sister, and I tried not to laugh as her balled fists bounced harmlessly off my arms. Instead of breaking up the melee, the TV crews filmed us. I realized how bad this was going to look on the six o'clock news and decided to extricate myself.

I feinted to my right. Lorna Sue took the bait and lunged at air. I scooted around her and darted up the steps. It was all I could do not to kick Snook in the stomach.

Reaching the building's front doors, I wondered where the cops were. Normally, they were the first to arrive when a fight took place on the grounds.

Inside, I discovered a gang in the lobby, standing by the windows. Many of the faces were familiar. Russo was one of them.

Russo hustled me into an elevator and took me to the War Room on the top floor. It was actually a spacious conference room outfitted with sixteen phone lines and a wall of TV sets that carried all the major networks, and was where strategy was coordinated when there were emergencies like major hurricanes and wildfires. The room resembled my office at Tugboat Louie's, with pictures of Skell's victims taped to the wall and the case files spread on a large oval desk. Dead coffee cups lay everywhere, and when Russo slammed the door, they started to shake.

“You are a bad news buffet, you know that?” he shouted at me. “Every time I turn around, this case gets worse, and you're standing in the middle of it, pretending you don't have a fucking clue as to what's going on.”

I wanted to apologize for my behavior outside, but I didn't see it doing much good. Instead I handed him the transmitter.

“This is the transmitter I found on my car. The guy I saw at Julie Lopez's house put it there. The same guy who shot three holes into my car on 595.”

Bobby gave the transmitter a cursory look and tossed it into the trash.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

“Park your ass in a chair and shut up,” he replied.

“But that's evidence.”

“Leave it there.”

There was real menace in his voice. I sat in the nearest chair and watched him remove a cassette tape from his pocket and insert it into a player on the desk.

“When was the last time you spoke with Melinda Peters?” Russo asked.

“Last night.”

“What was her mood like?”

“She was scared out of her mind that Skell would get out.”

“So she didn't tell you that she was going public.”

“I don't know what you're talking about, Bobby.”

Russo started the player. Music came out of the machine that faded into Neil Bash's abrasive voice. It was a tape of his talk show.

“I have a special guest on the line with me today,” Bash said. “Her name is Melinda Peters, and along with being one of Fort Lauderdale's premier adult entertainers, she was a key witness in the murder trial of Simon Skell, aka the Midnight Rambler. How are you doing today, Melinda?”

There was a short pause.

“I'm okay,” Melinda said.

“May I call you Melinda?”

“Sure.”

“I appreciate your coming on the show. There's been a lot of buzz in the last few days about Simon Skell being railroaded by a Broward County detective named Jack Carpenter. So far, the sheriff 's office hasn't responded. Since you were a witness at the trial, I was hoping you'd share your thoughts with our audience.”

Another pause.

“It was all Jack's idea,” Melinda said.

“What was Jack's idea?” Bash asked.

“My testifying.”

“Well, that's his job. He's a detective and he gets people to testify. Nothing new there.”

“He told me what to say,” Melinda said.

My fist slammed the table, knocking several empty coffee cups to the floor.

“It gets worse,” Russo said.

I leaned forward in my chair and stared at the tape player.

“Are you saying that Jack Carpenter coached you?” Bash asked.

“He made everything up,” Melinda blurted out.

“Everything?”

“Yeah.”

“But he is, or should I say was, a police officer. Why would he do that?”

Another pause. “Jack and I were going out together . . .”