James Swain - Midnight Rambler

Then Linderman came out and set the cops straight. There were times when I wanted to hug the guy, and this was one of them. Linderman convinced the cops to give me my Colt back. As I slipped it into its pocket holster Buster came out from the shadows and pressed up against my leg.

By now the Rasta was unconscious, and two cops were doing their best to keep him breathing. I stood over him for a minute, then realized he probably wouldn't be opening his eyes for a while.

I followed Linderman into the mattress store. Once we were inside, he turned around and put his hand on my shoulder. It wasn't a gesture I expected from him.

“I've got shitty news,” Linderman said.

I braced myself.

“The police chopper lost the Nova.”

“How is that possible?”

Linderman explained how Perez had driven east on 595, gotten onto I-95 north, and taken the Broward Boulevard exit into downtown Fort Lauderdale. From there, Perez had driven to A1A and headed south, going through an underground tunnel in the heart of downtown. That was where the chopper had lost the car.

“I know where Perez is taking her,” I said.

Linderman dropped his hand. “You do?”

I showed him the Rasta's key ring. “Perez is going to dump Melinda in the ocean. You need to call the police and tell them to search Perez's house. There should be a bill from a marina where he keeps his boat.”

“Why wouldn't Perez just shoot her and dump the body?” Linderman asked.

I shook my head. “The gang was setting me up. They were going to kill Melinda and make it look like I did it.”

“You?”

“They were trying to convince people I was the Midnight Rambler, and take the heat off Skell.”

I watched Linderman punch in the Broward cops' phone number on his cell. Raising the phone to his face, he said, “You're always thinking, aren't you, Jack?”

I realized he was complimenting me, and smiled grimly.

The mattress store was filled with beds. While Linderman was on his phone, I sat down on the edge of a king-size bed and removed Perez's cell phone from my pocket. It was still powered up, and I went straight into the address book, hoping to find the number for the marina.

The address book had several dozen entries. No full names were listed, just first and last initials. There was NB, who I assumed was Neil Bash, and PC, who I guessed was Paul Coffen. A listing near the end jumped out at me.

LS.

It could have been anybody, but my gut told me it was Leonard Snook. The listing had two numbers: one work, the other a cell.

Both had 305 area codes, which was Miami/Dade County. I punched in the work number. It rang through, and a woman picked up.

“Law office,” the woman said sternly.

“Is he in?” I asked.

“Is who in?” she asked suspiciously.

“Leonard Snook.”

“Mr. Snook is out of the office. If you'd like, you can leave a message.”

I said no thanks and hung up. Snook represented Simon Skell and Cecil Cooper, and now I had evidence he was connected to Jonny Perez. There was no law against representing abductors and serial killers, and I found myself hoping that Snook could be persuaded to help us find Perez before he killed Melinda. I pulled up his cell number from the address book and called it. After several rings he answered.

“I can't talk to you right now, Jonny,” the lawyer said in a whisper. “We just got into Fort Lauderdale, and Simon's giving a news conference to a bunch of dim-witted reporters. I'll call you back when he's done.”

Before I could reply, Snook ended the call. I couldn't believe what I'd just heard, and rose from the bed. On the other side of the store, the two employees stood by a desk drinking coffee. I walked over to them.

“Is there a TV in the store?” I asked.

They pointed at a portable TV sitting on the desk. It was so small, I hadn't even noticed it. I picked up the remote and channel-surfed. Skell's news conference was on the local ABC affiliate. He was staying at a nearby hotel.

Skell stood in front of a podium answering questions, his wife and attorney flanking him. He still wore the Old Navy sweatshirt and blue jeans. I jacked up the volume.

“What will you do, now that you're free?” a reporter asked.

“Go back to my work,” Skell said.

“Do you hold a grudge against Jack Carpenter for what he did to you?” the same reporter asked.

Skell leaned into the mikes. “Jack Carpenter will get what's coming to him.”

“Are you angry at him?”

“He'll get what's coming to him,” Skell repeated.

“Is it true there's a movie deal in the works?” another reporter called out.

Leonard Snook stepped up to the mike and announced that a major motion picture deal was in the works, with a famous Hollywood actor being considered to play his client. There was also a six-figure book contract with a prominent New York publishing house.

“Who's writing it?” a reporter asked.

“I am,” Snook said.

Something inside of me snapped. Attorneys made money representing scumbags, but Snook was profiting on his client's victims' misfortune. It was evil, pure and simple.

Without thinking of the ramifications, I called Snook back. On the TV, Snook pulled out his cell and looked at it disapprovingly, then stepped out of the picture. Seconds later, his voice came on the line.

“For Christ's sake, Jonny, I can't talk to you right now. I'll call you back when I'm done.”

“This isn't Jonny,” I said.

Snook paused. In the background, I could hear Skell talking to the reporters.

“Then who am I speaking to?” he asked.

“Jack Carpenter,” I replied.

Snook gasped.

“What do you want?” he finally said.

“Tell Skell I have a message for him,” I said.

“A message?”

“That's right. And for you, too.”

“What's your message?”

“Tell him that Paul Coffen, Neil Bash, and Paco Perez are waiting for him in hell. Will you do that for me, Leonard?”

“Is this some kind of twisted joke?”

“No joke,” I said.

Snook hung up.

I stared at the portable TV. There was a time delay on the transmission, and several seconds passed before Snook reentered the picture. He edged up to Skell, and whispered in his client's ear.

Skell was directly facing the camera when he heard the news. His jaw clenched and his nostrils flared. I'd seen this look on the faces of other killers. It was called sociopathic rage. Skell was ready to blow.

Suddenly the news conference was over, and Skell walked away from the podium with his entourage in tow.

I turned off the portable TV and walked to the front of the mattress store. Linderman stood by the windows, gazing out on the parking lot while talking on his cell phone. I could tell by his posture and subdued voice that the police had not found the stolen Nova. I coughed, and he turned to stare at me.

“You need to call Special Agent Saunders,” I said.

He clamped his hand over the receiver.

“I'm on a call,” he said.

“Do as I say, and call him.”

“Just. .”

“Right now,” I said. “Skell is going to make a run for it. I tipped him off.”

Linderman's shoulder twitched, and for a second I thought he was going to punch me in the mouth. He said good-bye and ended the call.

“Why in God's name did you do that?”

“I popped my cork and called Snook on Perez's cell phone,” I said.

“For the love of Christ, Jack.”

Linderman called Special Agent Saunders and explained the situation. Putting his hand over the receiver, he said, “Saunders is sitting with his partner in a surveillance van outside the Executive Suites in Fort Lauderdale. They're watching Skell's motel room and listening through the walls to their conversations. Skell's in there with his wife and attorney. Everything is fine. Skell isn't going anywhere.”