by James Swain
Perhaps it was because I was not truly alone. Lurking just beneath the water's surface were scores of stingrays, tiger sharks, and jellyfish. I supposed I should be wary of these creatures, but I wasn't. Not once had I been stung, nibbled on, or had my space invaded. Someday I might get my arm chewed off, but until then, I was willing to take my chances.
I swam for an hour, then headed back to shore. I heard a siren coming over the bridge. Dania was God's waiting room, and I assumed it was an ambulance. But then the siren multiplied: two, three, four. Police cruisers, all in a line.
I hit the shore running. Sonny met me halfway, looking panicked.
“I blew it,” he said.
“What happened?”
“I went to piss, and the phone rang. Whitey grabbed it. Some cop asked if you were here. Whitey told them you'd gone swimming.”
My feet took the stairs to my room three at a time. Banging open the door, I called for my faithful companion. Buster jumped off the bed and followed me downstairs. Sonny stood in the bar's entryway.
“Hold my calls,” I said.
Beneath the Sunset was a shady space where the sand and the wood meet that was impossible to see from the beach. I hid there with my dog and peered out through a decorative latticework nailed to the side of the building. Four wailing police cruisers pulled into the lot, and a gang in blue piled out. Russo was with them and looked mad as hell. I guessed he'd already taken his Suburban to the shop.
The cops entered the Sunset, flat feet pounding hard boards.
“Where the hell is Carpenter?” Russo roared.
“Swimming!” Whitey replied.
I listened to Russo walk out of the bar and climb the narrow stairwell. At the top he addressed the uniforms searching my room.
“It's clean,” a cop said loudly.
“You couldn't have searched it that quickly,” Russo said.
“There's nothing in it,” the cop said.
“Search it again,” Russo said. “Tear the place upside down, rip the mattress in half, I don't fucking care. That file has to be here.”
I leaned back in the sand and shut my eyes. I'd forgotten all about the file.
The day I'd left my job with the sheriff 's department, I'd taken Simon Skell's case file with me, intent on poring over clues until I could unravel the mystery of how he'd made his victims vanish without a trace. I hadn't thought the file would be missed. So many things have vanished from the Broward County Sheriff Department's building, like bales of marijuana and thousands of rounds of ammunition, that one stinking file should have gone unnoticed. Stupid me.
Russo padded down the stairs and reentered the bar.
“That Acura parked in the lot. That's Carpenter's, isn't it?” he asked.
“That's his car,” Sonny said.
“You got a key?”
“No, but he leaves it unlocked.”
“I'm going to search it. I don't want any of you to move, understand?”
“No sir,” the Seven Dwarfs replied in a drunken chorus.
“That goes for you, too,” Russo said.
“I'm not going anywhere,” Sonny said.
Russo left the building and shuffled through the sand to the lot. He was twenty feet from where I was hiding, and I could hear him muttering under his breath. He was going to have a stroke someday, I'd make book on it.
Russo searched my car and returned to the Sunset, muttering even louder than before. One of the boys in blue met him at the door.
“Carpenter's room is clean,” the uniform said.
“Fuck, shit, piss,” Russo said, kicking the door. “Get the men out here. I want you to look up and down this stinking beach until you find him. We're not leaving here without that file, understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
An incoming wave broke over me, and I spit out a mouthful of salt water. Russo needed the Skell file to make his case to the district attorney, who was breathing down Russo's throat about the body in Julie Lopez's backyard. Only I wasn't going to give Russo the file. It was my last tie to the case, and I wasn't ready to let go.
The cops hit the beach and spread out. Because the tide was up, the team assigned to search the north end walked around the Sunset instead of coming down to the shoreline. It was the first break I'd caught all day.
Russo stayed behind and searched my car again, giving special attention to the cavity where the spare tire sat. Another wave broke over me. I realized that if I stayed here much longer, I was going to drown.
I slipped into the Sunset with my dog. As Buster raced up stairs I entered the bar. Sonny and the Dwarfs were watching old fight films on ESPN. I put my finger to my lips and shushed them, then took the lone stool at the bar.
My body temperature was dropping and I could not stop shivering. Sonny loaned me a spare T-shirt, one of the Dwarfs floppy fisherman's hat, and I was in business. Taking my beer out of the ice chest, Sonny filled a frosted mug.
“You really think this is going to work?” he asked.
“It beats drowning,” I replied. “How about another round for my mates?”
“Big tab or little tab?”
“Little tab.”
The Dwarfs' collective memory span was about five seconds, and they applauded my generosity. Through the window I saw Russo lift his head from the trunk of my car. His radar told him something wasn't right, and he made a beeline for the building.
I did what any self-respecting drunk would do and buried my face in my suds. Russo barged into the room with flushed cheeks.
“What's with all the racket?” he demanded.
Sonny pointed at the TV. “Ali just knocked out Foreman.”
“That's old news,” Russo said.
“Not to these guys.”
Russo glared at him. If he'd bothered to count heads when he'd come in the first time, he'd notice we'd multiplied. But he didn't, his mind wrapped up in other things. Like how he was going to tell the DA there was no file.
Muttering to himself, Russo went back outside. I continued to buy rounds while the cops conducted their snipe hunt. As the sun set they returned to their cruisers and drove away. Russo was the last to leave, the interior light of his car illuminating a solitary man wrestling with his situation.
Soon everything was back to normal. Sonny served me a bowl of house chili with some crackers. I ate quickly, then caught myself yawning and decided it was time for bed. As I rose from my stool the Dwarfs broke into a rousing rendition of “For He's a Jolly Good Fellow.” It was a fine way to end a lousy day. Returning the clothes I'd borrowed, I bid them all good night.
CHAPTER NINE
Morning came hard and bright.
Lying in bed, I watched a seagull float outside my window while trying to make sense of what had happened last night. The cops had torn apart my room searching for the Skell file, but they'd managed to put everything back in its place. That wasn't normal behavior, and I supposed the special treatment came from having been one of them. Or maybe Russo told them to. I decided the latter was probably what happened, meaning Bobby didn't hate me as much as I thought he did.
An immovable object lay beside me: Buster was positioned so snugly against my body that I could not get out of bed. I grabbed a hind leg and pulled.
“Rise and shine.”
We were both creatures of habit. Buster drank out of the toilet before I used it, then waited by the door. I washed up, threw on shorts and a long-sleeved running shirt, and took my dog outside for a run.
Breakfast awaited us at the bar upon our return. A bowl of table scraps for my dog, a cup of coffee and a copy of the Fort Lauderdale Sun-Sentinel for me. It was part of my rent, and I thanked Sonny, who sat on a stool behind the bar, half asleep.
Normally, I read the sports section first, but today it was the headlines. On the front page was a ghoulish overhead photo of the corpse in Julie Lopez's backyard. It was a good clear shot taken overhead from a helicopter. In journalism there were big murders and little murders, and this
was being sold as a big murder. Something was clutched between the skeleton's hands. I asked Sonny his opinion, and he opened his eyes and studied the paper.
“Looks like a gold crucifix,” Sonny said.
I had another look.
“I think you're right.”
“This was your last case, wasn't it?”
I sipped my coffee and nodded. I was thinking about Julie Lopez's pimp, Ernesto, who according to the paper was being held without bail. Ernesto was deeply religious, and I wondered if this was his way of giving Carmella a proper burial. I didn't want to believe it, but facts were facts. Ernesto must have killed Carmella, then waited until Skell was in prison before plopping her in the ground. I had sent away the right man for the wrong crime. It made my head hurt.
“A guy was checking out your car when I pulled in this morning,” Sonny said a few minutes later.
“Checking it out how?” I asked.
“Looking it over, reading the license plate.”
“What did he look like?”
“He was in plain clothes, late forties, short hair.”
“Think he was a cop?”
“I made him for a private dick.”
“How can you tell the difference?”
“Cops don't get up that early.”
The Legend was the only thing of value I owned, and I was sick of people messing with it. Going outside, I inspected my car, including the undercarriage. The black transmitter stuck to the gas tank was hard to miss. I went back inside.
“I need your help,” I said.
“Name it,” Sonny replied.
“This private dick put a transmitter on my car. I want you to take my car out for a spin. I'll follow you and see if I can nail this guy.”
“I got DUIed last month and had my license suspended,” Sonny said. “Why don't you ask Whitey?”
“Is he around?”
“Sure. Hey, Whitey, get up.”
There was stirring from the other side of the room. Whitey's snow-white head appeared an inch at a time over the bar as he pulled himself off the floor. He was wearing yesterday's clothes, his face a mosaic of broken blood vessels and gin blossoms. He brushed himself off while grinning lopsidedly.
“Wass up, captain?” Whitey asked.
“You got a car?” I asked.
“Last time I checked.”
“Your driver's license any good?”
Whitey jerked out his wallet, spilled his credit cards onto the bar and extracted his driver's license. He scrutinized it, then nodded enthusiastically.
“Here's what I want you to do,” I said.
Five minutes later we put my plan into action. Whitey drove south on A1A in my car while I followed in his filthy Corolla. Whitey was impaired and probably shouldn't have been driving, but that was true for a lot of folks in south Florida.
As I drove I watched the side streets. If my hunch was correct, the private dick hired by Simon Skell's sister would soon appear and start following Whitey. Most dicks were failed cops, which explained the harsh treatment I'd been getting.
Two blocks later, I was proved right. A black Toyota 4Runner with tinted windows pulled out and started tailing the Legend. At the next intersection, Whitey pulled into a 7-Eleven and hustled inside, the ten bucks I'd given him burning a hole in his pocket. The 4Runner also pulled into the lot, and the driver followed Whitey in. He was my size, with gunmetal hair and a dark suit that made him stand out like a sore thumb. The look on his face spelled trouble, and I parked on the street and hurried inside.
I found the guy in the rear of the store. He had cornered Whitey in the potato chip aisle and had his back to me. I shot my hands through his armpits and put him in a full nelson.
“Hey!” he yelled in alarm.
“Hey yourself,” I replied. “I'm sick of your crap.”
“Let me go.”
“Not until you answer a couple of questions.”
His muscles tensed. He felt powerful, and I sensed a fight coming on.
“Are you Jack Carpenter?” he asked.
“Whatever gave you that idea?” I replied.
“I need to talk to you.”
“Call my secretary and set up an appointment.”
“Come on. Stop acting like a fool,” he said. “I just want to talk.”
“Isn't that what we're doing?”
“Are you going to let me go?”
“Not until you apologize to me and my friend.”
“I have nothing to apologize for,” he said.
The guy was both stubborn and strong. There are some people in this world you can't reason with, and I decided he was one of them. Releasing my grip, I shoved him forward. To my surprise, Whitey stuck his leg out. The guy fell headfirst into the potato chips, and took down the entire aisle.
Whitey ran out of the store laughing like a delinquent kid. I followed him, apologizing to the manager as I passed the register.
“Stay out of here!” the manager shouted.
Whitey and I exchanged keys in the parking lot. I pulled out of the lot just as the guy staggered out. His jacket was ripped at the shoulder, and there was defeat in his eyes. Honking my horn, I waved and drove away.
I went to the Sunset and picked up my dog. I hadn't felt this pumped in a long time. I decided to go to my office and get some work done.
I took the bridge back to civilization and headed toward town. Halfway there, I turned down a dusty two-lane road flanked by palmetto trees and a junk-filled boatyard. My destination was a local hideaway called Tugboat Louie's that had everything a person could want: bar, grille, dockside dining, and a marina with dry dock storage.
The bar was a ramshackle affair with bleached shingles and hurricane shutters. Inside, I found the owner behind the bar checking inventory. His name was Kumar, and he wore a white Egyptian cotton shirt and an oversized black bow tie. He was a small Indian man with a big personality, and he shook my hand.
“Jack, how are you? You are looking well. Is everything good? What can I get you? Coffee, tea? How about something to eat? Scrambled eggs perhaps?”
“I'm fine,” I said.
“How about your dog?”
“He's fine, too. How are you?”
“Wonderful, fantastic. Business is good. I have no complaints.” “
You're a lucky man,” I said.
Belly-dancing music filled the air. It was the ring tone to Kumar's cell phone, and he removed it from his belt and took the call. Behind the bar was a stairwell with a chain strung across it and a sign marked private. Stepping behind the bar, I unclipped the chain and headed upstairs.
The second floor had two offices: Kumar's and my own, which I occupied rent free. I'd worked here for six months in total anonymity, with no one except Kumar and a handful of employees knowing about it.
My relationship with Kumar was based upon a single act, which he seemed obsessed with repaying. On a summer weekend two years earlier, I had come in with my wife and daughter for dinner. Outside a bikini contest was taking place, its sponsor a local rum distributor. Rum and beautiful girls are what made south Florida great, and they were flowing in abundance, with a gang of drunks ogling ten scantily clad ladies standing on a makeshift stage. A local DJ was hosting, and in a moment of true stupidity, he'd invited the drunks to dance with the ladies, then played Steppenwolf's “Born To Be Wild.”
The drunks had rushed the stage and started groping the ladies. Sensing a disaster, I went behind the DJ's equipment and pulled the plug on the main electrical outlet, then marched onto the stage holding my detective's badge over my head. I led the ladies into the bar and stood by while they got dressed. Within minutes everything was back to normal.
Ever since, when I wasn't doing odd jobs, I was here in my office. Along with a great view of the intercoastal waterway, my office contained a desk and chair, a dartboard with Michael Jackson's picture, an ancient PC and printer, and the Skell case file. I got behind my desk and went to work.
The Skell file
sat on the floor, separated into eight piles. Each pile represented one of the victims and contained a police report, dozens of interviews with friends and neighbors, and a personal history. On the wall above the files I'd taped the victims' photographs. Their names were Chantel, Maggie, Carmen, Jen, Krista, Brie, Lola, and Carmella. I'd known them all as teenagers living on the streets. They were all either thrownaways or run aways. I'd seen them grow up and helped them out whenever I could. I'd never stopped caring for them, even in death.
Behind my desk hung a map of Broward County with colored pins showing where each victim was last seen. The victims were not defined by a common geography but lived in rural areas, in the city, and in residential neighborhoods. What tied them together was the completeness of their disappearances. One day they were here; the next they were simply gone. No witnesses, no trace, nothing.
I studied this evidence whenever I could. It was my obsession, and for good reason. Because I'd beaten Skell up, I'd cast him in a sympathetic light with the media. As a result, his trial had been scrutinized, and it was apparent that the state's case was weak. Every legal expert I'd talked to had said that Skell would either get a new trial or have his case thrown out on appeal. And all because of me.
I was reading my e-mails when my cell phone rang. Caller ID said Bobby Russo. I let it go into voice mail, then picked up his message.
“Jack, you stupid son of a bitch, ” Bobby Russo's voice rang out. “I'm about to issue a warrant for your arrest.”
I'd fallen pretty hard in the past six months, but getting thrown in the county lockup would be a new low. I called Russo back.
“Tell me you're kidding,” I said.
“No joke,” Russo said.
“What's the warrant for?”
“Assault and battery on an FBI agent.”
I nearly dropped the phone on my desk.
“That guy you roughed up in the convenience store this morning is an FBI agent,” Russo said. “He paid me a visit yesterday. He's got an interest in the Skell case and wants to talk to you. Being a nice guy, I told him where you lived.”