Midnight Rambler: A Novel of Suspense

A1A took me to 595, which led to the Florida Turnpike. My car was old enough to have a tape deck, and I popped in a collection that I fondly called the soundtrack of my youth. It included songs by the Doors, the Allman Brothers Band, the Eagles, Crosby Stills Nash & Young, the Grateful Dead, and Led Zeppelin performing at New York's Madison Square Garden.

I reached the Vero Beach exit in two hours thirty minutes and got off. The sky was clear and there was a chill in the air. I took Highway 60 through Yeehaw Junction, a redneck burg of truck stops and squawking chickens strutting on the highway. Forty-five minutes later I stopped at a McDonald's in Bartow and ordered breakfast. As I pulled up to the take-out window, a teenage girl opened the slider.

“Two sausage biscuits and an OJ?” she asked.

“Not me,” I said.

She stared at her computer screen. “One egg biscuit and a small offee?”

“Wrong again.”

“You'd better repeat your order. My computer's messed up.”

There were no cars behind me in the take-out line, and I wondered how her computer could be placing orders for customers who didn't exist.

“Large coffee and hash browns,” I said.

I was back on 60 sipping my drink when my cell phone rang. Central Florida used to be one giant dead zone, but modern technology changed that. Caller ID said Unknown.

“Carpenter here,” I answered.

“Jack, this is Veronica Cabrero.”

“How's my favorite prosecutor?”

“I'm afraid I've got some bad news.”

Bartow was famous for its speed traps, and my foot eased up on the gas pedal.

“What's wrong? Don't tell me your case against Lars Johannsen went south.”

“Lars was found dead in his cell this morning,” she said.

“What happened?”

“He slit his wrists. The police think his wife slipped him a razor in court yesterday.”

I nearly said “Good riddance” but bit my tongue instead. Veronica was a devout Catholic who did not believe in capital punishment, and I could tell this turn of events had upset her.

“Any idea why he did it?” I asked.

“Lars knew he was going down.”

“How so?”

“I followed up on your hunch,” Cabrero said. “You told me Lars matched the profile of a predator who'd been beating up hookers in western Broward. I ran an advertisement in one of those strip club magazines with Lars's picture and asked any women who'd been brutalized by him to come forward. One finally did, and she agreed to testify.”

“So Lars knew you had him by the short hairs.”

“Yes. Now, I need to ask you a question. The police are considering charging Lars's wife as an accessory. What do you think?”

I braked at a stoplight and considered Veronica's question. If there was anything I'd learned as a cop, it was that there was no understanding the tangled relationships between men and women. Perhaps Lars's wife was an accomplice and into the same twisted things as her husband. But more likely she loved the guy and, when the truth became known, afforded him a graceful exit.

“I think you should leave her alone,” I said.

“Seriously?”

“Yes. She'll have to live with this for the rest of her life. That's punishment enough.”

There was a short, thoughtful silence.

“Thanks, Jack. I really appreciate this.”

“Anytime, Veronica,” I said.

I crept into Tampa with the rush-hour traffic. Tampa had the feel of a small southern city, the downtown streets paved with brick and uneven. The people were a lot friendlier, and it was rare to hear anyone honk their horn. The beaches weren't as pretty, but a lot more of them were unspoiled. And the sunsets beat any in the state.

At eight-thirty I pulled into Rose's apartment complex in Hyde Park. I had her address written down on a piece of paper and found her building without trouble. Her blue Nova was parked in front, and I parked two down.

I left Buster in the car with the windows rolled down. Rose's unit was on the second floor, and I took the stairs, feeling apprehensive. It had been a while since my wife and I had seen each other, much less had a real conversation.

A copy of the Tampa Tribune was stuffed into her mailbox. I pulled it out, then knocked. Rose answered in her white nurse's uniform.

“Surprise,” I said.

The resounding slap my wife delivered across my face had every ounce of venom in her body.

“You stinking bastard!”

She raised her arm to strike me again. I grabbed it in midair.

“I didn't sleep with Melinda Peters. Or Joy Chambers.”

“Let go of my arm,” Rose declared.

“You have to believe me.”

“Let go.”

I obeyed, and she slammed the door in my face.

“Don't you want your newspaper?” I asked.

“No,” she shouted through the door.

“It has my picture on the front page.”

“Lucky you.”

“Yours, too.”

The door opened, and my wife snatched the newspaper out of my hands. I got down on one knee and looked up into her face.

“I swear to you, Rose. I didn't sleep with them. You have to believe me.”