Midnight Rambler: A Novel of Suspense

“If Skell is released, he'll be watched twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, as well as have his phones wiretapped,” Linderman said. “So will Neil Bash. We'll also take the laser print of the gang and compare the unknown men against photographs of known sexual predators. Assuming we make a match, we'll watch those two men as well. Skell may have won this battle, but he won't win the war.”

It all sounded good, but I wanted to ask Linderman how long he planned to tail Skell and his gang. A few months, a year? At some point the FBI would lose interest and move on to other cases. It was the single greatest weakness of any law enforcement operation. And once they did, a group of monsters would go back to work.

I looked at the wall in Saunders's office. It was bare except for a ticking clock. I found myself blinking. The photographs of Skell's victims that hung in my office had appeared. Chantel, Maggie, Carmen, Jen, Krista, Brie, Lola, and Carmella. Tears ran down their faces, and I wondered if I was seeing them from exhaustion, or maybe I was losing my mind.

Reaching across the desk, Saunders squeezed my biceps.

“Jack, you okay?” he asked.

“What's wrong?” Linderman asked through the box.

“Jack's looking a little pale,” Saunders said.

“Give him something to drink.”

Saunders rose from his chair.

“I'm okay,” I said.

“You sure, Jack?” Saunders asked.

I nodded while continuing to stare at the wall. The photographs faded away, leaving only the ticking clock. It was a perfect metaphor for what was about to happen. With the passage of time, the victims would be all but forgotten.

I thanked the special agents for their time and left the office.

I got into my car feeling angry at the world. Buster looked relieved to see me, and I scratched his head.

I decided to drive back to Dania and resume digging for evidence. It wasn't much of a plan, but I didn't see myself having any other choices. Rose was right. I wouldn't be able to live with myself until I knew what Skell had done with the victims.

As I backed out, my cell phone began beeping, indicating I had a message. I pulled my phone off the dash to see who'd called. Caller ID showed a number with a Fort Lauderdale area code. It wasn't one I knew.

I retrieved the message and listened. At first there was nothing. Then I heard a woman's voice. It was far away, as if coming from the bottom of a deep well.

“Jack.”

I hit my brakes hard. It was Melinda.

“Jack, are you there?”

Her voice was strained. I couldn't tell if it was drugs or fear.

“Jack, you gotta help me. Oh, God, where are you?”

I pulled back in to my spot and threw the car into park.

“I'm sorry what I said on the radio. They made me say those terrible things. I know it hurt you, and I'm sorry.”

She started to cry. She sounded messed up, and I decided it was drugs.

“I'll call you back as soon as I can. Please keep your phone nearby. And whatever you do, don't call me back. They don't know about the phone.”

It was classic Melinda. First she led me on, then she pushed me away.

“Good-bye, Jack. Oh, wait.”

In the background I heard a door open and the faint sound of music.

“Oh my God—here they come!”

The message ended. The music had sounded hauntingly familiar. I replayed the message and listened hard. It was the live version of “Midnight Rambler.”

PART THREE

HIDDEN MICKEYS

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

I wrestled with what to do with Melinda's message. It exonerated me, only I wasn't sure anyone else would interpret it that way. She sounded too messed up. If I called Russo or Cheever and played it for them, they might accuse me of doping her up and forcing her to talk. I decided to hold on to it and hope she called back.

As I drove away from the FBI building my cell phone rang. It made my heart race, and I answered without bothering to look at the Caller ID.

“Carpenter here.”

“Jack, this is Sally McDermitt. I hope I'm not catching you at a bad time.”

Sally was a former investigator with the Broward County Police Department who had worked in my department. I tried to hide the disappointment in my voice.

“Not at all. What's up?”

“I'm in a bind and need some advice,” she said. “A little girl disappeared inside the Magic Kingdom this morning, and we can't find her.”

Sally had left the force to take a great-paying job running internal security for the Walt Disney World theme parks in Or lando. The last time we'd spoken, she'd had over a thousand people working for her, was driving a BMW convertible, and lived in a gated community whose other residents included a bunch of well-known professional golfers.

“How old?” I asked.