Midnight Rambler jc-1

by James Swain

  “What do you want?” I said by way of greeting.

  “Melinda was just on Neil Bash's show, talking about your affair,” Cheever said.

  “Is that what you called to tell me?”

  “No, no, calm down, buddy. I'm on your side.”

  “You weren't the last time we got together.”

  “I found Jesus and saw the light,” Cheever said. “You were right. Melinda was abducted from her apartment yesterday.”

  You were right. I hadn't heard those words in a long time.

  “What brought you to that conclusion?” I asked.

  “While Bash was interviewing Melinda, he asked her where she was calling from,” Cheever said. “Melinda told Bash she was at home. I was driving near her apartment and decided to pay her a visit. I banged on the front door, looked through the back slider, and talked to the next-door neighbor. Melinda hasn't been home since yesterday. I didn't like it, so I called Bash's show.”

  “You called Bash? Jesus Christ, Claude. Bash is part of it.”

  “Don't worry. I've called Bash's show plenty of times. He knows me.”

  “Why do you call his show?”

  “For kicks. I go by a pseudonym: Sex Hound. Anyway, Bash let me talk to Melinda. Now, I'm going to tell you something in confidence, and you can't repeat it.”

  “I'm listening,” I said.

  “I had a fling with Melinda,” Cheever said. “Lasted about a month. Sex every day, sometimes twice a day. She was a goddess. We had a special language all our own.”

  I shook my head in disbelief. I couldn't imagine Melinda and Claude in bed together, even with the shades drawn and the lights turned out.

  “When I talked with Melinda I used a few of our code words, and she realized it was me,” Cheever continued. “She told me she was being hurt, the fucking bastards.”

  Claude paused to compose himself.

  “Jack, I want you to help me rescue her.”

  “How do you plan to do that?” I asked.

  “I'm going to pay Bash a visit and make him tell me where she's being held.”

  “What about the police? Or the FBI?” I asked.

  “They'll only slow us down,” Cheever said.

  I knew exactly how Cheever felt. Had I visited Trojan Communications without the FBI breathing down my neck, I could have made Coffen cough up Jonny Perez's address. It wouldn't have been pretty, but I could have done it.

  “Count me in,” I said.

  CHAPTER FORTY

  Neil Bash's radio station was in a semirural community called Davie in the center of Broward County. I agreed to meet Cheever there in thirty minutes. As I backed my car out, Linderman emerged from Trojan Communications. I lowered my window.

  “The police want to talk with you,” Linderman said.

  I glanced at the street. While I'd been talking with Cheever, a pair of police cruisers had pulled in the front of the building, and several sheriffs had gone inside.

  “I thought you had the police covered,” I said.

  “They're picking apart my story,” Linderman said. “Coffen is a big mover and shaker in town, and the police want to know why I shot him when he was unarmed.”

  “Have Theis show them the photos of the victims on his computer,” I suggested.

  “Theis did. The police are saying the photos don't mean squat. They're saying we can't even prove those women are dead. You need to straighten them out, Jack.”

  “Me?”

  “Yes, you.”

  I threw the car into drive. I couldn't see myself explaining how I knew eight women were dead to a legal system that had let their killer walk free.

  “Fuck 'em,” I said.

  I drove to Davie, listening to Bash's talk show on my radio.

  Bash was ripping me apart and making me the poster boy for everything wrong with the criminal justice system. He recited every injury I had inflicted upon Skell, without mentioning the crime for which Skell had been sent to prison. He was brainwashing his listeners, one moron at a time.

  Every few minutes, Bash took a call-in. As the Davie exit appeared in my windshield a caller came on whose voice was instantly familiar.

  “Hey, Neil, it's your old buddy Sex Hound,” Cheever said brightly.

  “Sex Hound,” Bash said. “You always lighten up my day. What's up?”

  “You going to bring her back on?”

  “Who's that?”

  “Melinda Peters.”

  “Ah, yes, the lovely Melinda Peters, star of your friendly neighborhood strip club. Melinda has promised that she'll be calling again. Believe it or not, she actually has more dirt on our favorite cop, Jack Carpenter.”

  “What kind of dirt?” Cheever asked.

  “She's going to tell us what Carpenter was really up to,” Bash said.

  “You mean there's more to the story?” Cheever said.

  “Lots more,” Bash said. “But to tell any more would be cheating.”

  “I'll be waiting,” Cheever said. “Oh, and Neil? Love your show.”

  “Thanks, Sex Hound. And now it's time for a word from one of our sponsors.”

  I took the exit and headed south. Davie was a blue-collar area, and I drove down a two-lane road with trailer parks hugging each side. Two miles later, I spotted a cluster of trailers with large antennas on their roofs. Above the trailers hung an elevated billboard with the station's call letters and Bash's round, devilish face.

  I'd found him.

  Trailer parks were as much a part of Florida as alligators and Mickey Mouse. They sat on land scraped clean of trees and were usually the first casualties of hurricanes and electrical storms. Low-income families flocked to them, as did the retired. They were their own worlds, and could be good or bad places to live. I'd known many cops who refused to answer a call from one on a Saturday night.

  Bash's radio station was inside a trailer park called Tropical Estates. It was a cheapo operation, the main building a series of double-wides attached by flimsy covered walkways. Cheever's car was parked by the entrance. I parked beside him.

  We got out and faced each other. I was still pissed, and glared at him.

  “I'm sorry, Jack,” Cheever said.

  “You should be,” I said.

  “Hear me out, will you?”

  Bread crumbs peppered his mustache. I couldn't imagine him screwing Melinda.

  “I'm listening,” I said.

  “I'm sorry I doubted your story, and sorry I called you a liar. I hope you'll forgive me. I won't hold it against you if you don't.”

  “That's it?” I said.

  He nodded solemnly.

  “Maybe someday,” I said.

  He pretended to understand. Reaching into the backseat of his car, he removed a white box tied with string.

  “It's a pound of homemade chocolate fudge for Bash,” he explained. “I bought it from a candy store in my neighborhood. Eat one piece, and you can't stop.”

  “You going to bribe your way in?”

  “That was the idea.”

  “What if he refuses?”

  “He won't. A while back, he had a porno queen named Kissy in his studio taking calls. I'd seen her movies and wanted to get a glimpse of her in the flesh. I used the fudge then, and it worked fine.”

  Cheever again reached into the back of his car. This time, he came out with a pair of black cowboy hats. He put one on, and handed me the other.

  “Disguises?” I asked.

  “Yeah. You got shades?”

  “In my car.”

  “Get them, and your dog. You're going to be my blind cousin.”

  “Isn't that a little hokey?”

  “Not with these bozos. Listen, I got some bad news. Joy Chambers was found murdered yesterday in her house. There was a piece of skin under one of her fingernails. The lab ran a DNA check. It was from some Cuban guy.”

  “His name's Jonny Perez,” I said.

  Cheever blinked. “How the heck did you know that?”

  “Jonny Pe
rez shot out my car on 595. He's part of Skell's gang.”

  “You're one step ahead of me, aren't you?”

  “Try a mile,” I said.

  We entered the trailer that served as the radio station's reception area. It was a low-ceilinged arrangement with paneled walls and carpet that wasn't tacked down. A receptionist with fake eyelashes and eye-popping cleavage beamed at us.

  “Hey, I remember you,” she said. “You're Sex Hound.”

  Cheever doffed his hat. “It's Janet from another planet, right?”

  “Good memory. Bring any candy?”

  Cheever untied the box and showed her the fudge. She filched the biggest piece and stuck it sideways in her mouth.

  “Who's he?” she asked, nearly choking.

  “This is my cousin LeRoy,” Cheever said. “He's blind.”

  “What a shame. He's cute.”

  “Maybe you can babysit for him sometime,” Cheever said.

  “I think I'd like that,” she said.

  I kept my face expressionless. Janet from another planet looked like the type who'd molest me if given half a chance.

  “Can I go see Neil?” Cheever asked.

  “Be my guest,” she said.

  We walked down a claustrophobic hallway and entered a second trailer, where the studio was located. It had soundproof walls and a small glassed-in space where Bash sat, jabbering into a mike. His goatee was gone, revealing sunken eyes and a triple chin. Seeing Cheever, he cut to a commercial and clicked off his mike.

  “Sex Hound,” he yelled through the glass. “You bring candy?”

  Cheever held the box of goodies up to the glass. Bash pushed himself out of his chair and emerged from the studio. He was about five-six and tipped the scales near three hundred pounds. I had expected the Devil incarnate, but he was nothing more than a sad little man. Cheever gave him the fudge, and Bash started shoving pieces into his mouth. He paid no attention to me or my dog.

  “How's the fudge?” Cheever asked.

  “Delicious,” Bash said through a mouthful.

  Cheever punched Bash in the stomach. Bash spit up the candy and fell backwards onto the floor. Cheever shoved his detective's badge in Bash's face.

  “You're under arrest, asshole,” he said.

  Some cops will tell you that ethics are situational and that there is a time and a place for just about anything. I kept my mouth shut as Cheever silenced Bash's screams with several well-placed kicks to the ribs.

  Buster seemed perplexed by the whole scene. I made him sit in the corner and removed his leash. If anyone walked into the studio unannounced, I was hoping his presence would slow them down.

  “You going to cooperate?” Cheever asked.

  Lying on the floor, Bash groaned in the affirmative.

  “Good,” Cheever said. “Now get up.”

  Bash pulled himself off the floor. His lips were smeared with fudge, and he was gasping for breath. Cheever pushed him into the studio and threw him into his chair. ZZ Top's “Sharp Dressed Man” was playing over the room's speakers.

  I followed them in, shut the door, and removed my disguise. Bash stared at me.

  “You're Jack Carpenter,” he said.

  “That's right,” I said. “I just came from seeing a friend of yours.”

  “Who's that?”

  “Paul Coffen. He told us about the girls you and Skell and Jonny Perez molested in Tampa, and how you came down here and set up shop. He's selling you down the river.”

  Bash squirmed in his chair. “Paul wouldn't do that.”

  “He showed us the surveillance photographs of Skell's victims he kept stored on his hard drive,” I went on. “We've also connected him to a child abduction case at Disney World. He named you and Perez and Skell as his co-conspirators.”

  “What?” Bash said.

  “There's enough evidence to have all of you put to death,” I said. “Think about it, Neil. Fifteen years on death row, waiting on appeals, then one day they march you into the death chamber and it's lights out.”

  The song ended, and silence filled the studio. Bash reflexively pressed a button on the master console, and another song came on: George Thorogood's “Bad to the Bone.”

  Cheever was standing behind the chair and dropped his hand on Bash's shoulder. “Tell us where Jonny Perez is keeping Melinda, and we'll help you.”

  Bash looked up beseechingly into Cheever's face.

  “Help me how?”

  “We'll tell the district attorney that you pulled through for us,” Cheever said. “We'll say that without your help, we couldn't have solved the case.”

  “You mean you'll cut me a deal?”

  “That's right,” Cheever said.

  Swiveling in his chair, Bash looked at me.

  “Is he telling the truth?”

  “Yes,” I said. “Help us find Melinda, and you won't go down.”

  “You mean I won't die?”

  We both nodded.

  Bash covered his face and began to weep. I believe that evil people all think about the day when they will be held accountable for the things they've done. It's called Judgment Day, and there's no escaping it. Bash was living that day.

  “Jonny Perez lives with his brother Paco in a rented house a few miles west of here,” Bash said. “He's keeping Melinda there. That's where he kept all the girls.”

  I leaned closer.

  “What's the address?”

  “It's written down in my trailer.”

  “Is your trailer here?”

  “Yeah. It's part of my deal with the station.”

  I glanced up at Cheever to gauge his reaction. He nodded grimly.

  “Take us there,” I said.

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  Before we left the studio, Bash slipped a tape of an old show into a player on the console. He hit the Play button, and his abrasive voice filled the trailer.

  “Won't your listeners notice it's a repeat?” Cheever asked.

  “Who cares?” the DJ said.

  We left the studio through a back door and walked down a dusty road into the bowels of the trailer park. Each trailer in the park sat on a tiny sliver of land. Many were sinking into the ground, their roofs patched with asphalt shingles and plywood. On screened porches sat shapeless women fanning themselves while shirtless men sucked cans of beer. No one said hello.

  Bash's footsteps were measured, his hands gripping his gut. Turning down a street called Majesty Lane, he went to the last trailer. It was newer, with bright aluminum siding and a giant satellite dish on the roof. He unlocked the front door, then faced us.

  “I need to tell you guys something,” Bash said.

  We waited, the midday sun burning our faces.

  “I was never there when the girls died,” he said emphatically.

  “Where were you?” I asked.

  “I was here, in my trailer,” Bash said.

  “So what's your point?” Cheever asked.

  “I never laid a finger on any of them, or did anything horrible to them, or made them suffer or cry,” Bash said. “I just watched.”

  “Is that your thing?” Cheever asked.

  “Yeah,” Bash said. “I like to watch. My heart don't work so good anymore, so I never went down on them like Coffen and Jonny and Skell did. I didn't hurt them, either. I just stayed in my trailer and watched.”

  His words sounded like a confession. Only something was missing. Guilt. His eyes were empty and soulless, and I wondered what event in his life had caused him to participate in the deaths of so many innocent young woman and not regret it.

  “Did you watch them die?” I asked.

  Bash stared down at his scuffed shoes.

  “Most of them,” he said quietly.

  “Not all?”

  “I missed a couple,” he admitted.

  “What happened?”

  “Skell killed them when I was on the air doing my show.”

  “Which ones did you miss?” Cheever asked.

  “I don't
know,” Bash said.

  “What do you mean, you don't know?” Cheever said.

  “I never knew the girls' names,” he said.

  Cheever threw a right hand into Bash's face. The DJ let out a muffled yell and tumbled backwards into the trailer. Cheever looked around to make sure no one was watching, then followed him inside.

  I glanced down at Buster, who was glued to my leg. My dog wanted no part of this. I made him go inside anyway.

  The interior of Bash's trailer was like a cave. The walls and ceiling were painted black, the curtains tightly drawn. Natural light was not welcome here. An oversized leather chair with a TV remote on its cushion sat in the room's center. On the floor in front of the chair was a plastic bowl half filled with buttered popcorn.

  Bash's throne.

  Across from the chair, a wide-screen plasma TV was mounted on the wall. I stared at the TV, slack-jawed. On its screen, a bikini-clad Melinda Peters hung by her wrists inside someone's closet, her manicured toes scraping the floor. A cell phone lay by her feet, and I thought back to last night's call.

  Bash staggered around the trailer, clutching his face. Cheever grabbed him by the shoulders and threw him into the leather chair.

  “Please don't hit me again,” the DJ begged.

  “You gonna behave?” Cheever asked.

  “I didn't do anything.”

  “Answer me, asshole.”

  “Yeah, I'll behave.”

  Cheever pointed at the screen. “Is that live?”

  “Yeah, it's live.”

  “They're playing voyeur cam with her, aren't they?”

  Bash hid the smirk forming on his face. “Something like that.”

  “When are your buddies going to kill her?”

  “Tonight, after Skell gets back to Fort Lauderdale. He wants to see it.”

  “Were they going to broadcast it to him?”

  “No. He was going to Jonny's place to watch.”

  I could not take my eyes off Melinda. The voyeur cam turned, and the Cuban who had shot out my windshield on 595 appeared on the big screen. It was Jonny Perez, wearing a bright red bandanna around his head and clutching a can of beer. He smiled and waved at the camera while doing a crazy little dance.