Midnight Rambler

CHAPTER FIFTY

I walked outside into the blinding sunshine. A police cruiser pulled into the parking lot, and two cops hurried inside. Linderman stood nearby with his phone pressed to his ear and a disgusted look on his face. He said, “All three of them dead?”

“He spared Snook,” I said.

“You never know when you'll need a good lawyer.”

“You on hold?”

“Waiting for the police,” he said.

Although I knew the answer to my next question, I asked it anyway.

“Any trace of Skell?”

“Looks like he stole a car and took off. Tell me what you think of this.”

He removed a photograph from his pocket and handed it to me. It showed Melinda lying provocatively on a bed without any clothes on. She was smiling through clenched teeth.

“Saunders found it in the courtyard behind the hotel,” Linderman said. “He thinks Skell dropped it running away.”

“How would Skell have gotten this?”

“Snook must have given it to him.”

I stared at the photo. Melinda looked just like the other victims I'd seen in Bash's trailer. That surprised me, and I flipped the photo over. There was writing on the back.

#9.

The number's significance was slow to register. When it did, I showed the writing to Linderman. He didn't understand, and I grabbed his arm.

“I was wrong,” I said.

“About what?”

“Skell isn't obsessed with Melinda.”

“I thought you said she had sent him over the edge.”

I pointed at the #9 on the back of the photograph.

“This is how the gang identifies the victims, by numbers. Melinda's just another number to him. She isn't what fuels his rages.”

The FBI had given Linderman an award for his accomplishments in hunting down serial killers. Understanding a serial killer's motivation was the only possible way of stopping them. He took the photo from my hands and studied it.

“Then why did Skell come to Fort Lauderdale?” he asked.

“To frame me.”

“Why not let his gang do that?”

“The gang tried. They killed a prostitute named Joy Chambers and tried to pin it on me. They left enough evidence behind that the police knew it wasn't me.”

“So Skell wanted to make sure they didn't blow it this time.”

“Yes.”

Linderman nodded. Then he took out his car keys.

“Get in the car,” he said.

“Why? Where are we going?”

“To the beach. The Rasta told you Jonny Perez was taking Melinda to a marina so he could dump her body in the ocean, right?”

“That's right,” I said. “Only the Rasta didn't remember the marina's name.”

“Your office is at a marina, isn't it?”

We drove to Tugboat Louie's with the blue light flashing on the dashboard of the 4Runner. This time, traffic got out of our way. I called Bobby Russo and told him what was going on. Then I called Kumar and told him to be on the lookout for the police.

Kumar was standing in the parking lot as we pulled in. His oversized bow tie was undone, and he looked upset. Two police cruisers were parked by the front door with their bubble lights flashing. A Jimmy Buffet song about getting wasted filled the air.

Linderman and I hopped out of the 4Runner and approached Kumar.

“Jack! I'm so glad you are here,” Kumar said. “The police arrived five minutes ago, just like you said they would. Can you please tell me what's going on?”

I introduced Linderman. Seeing the badge pinned to Linderman's lapel, Kumar fell silent.

“I need to talk to you about a man named Jonny Perez,” Linderman said.

“I know this man,” Kumar said.

“You do?”

“Oh, yes. Perez keeps a boat in my dry dock. He's a strange character, that is for sure.”

“How recently have you seen him?” Linderman asked.

“Twenty minutes ago,” Kumar said. “Is he involved in this?”

I ran around the parking lot looking for the stolen Nova. It was illegally parked in a handicap spot. I searched the interior and popped the trunk. No Melinda.

I went back to where Kumar was standing with Linderman.

“Perez was walking with a limp,” Kumar said. “His shirt was pulled out, and it was stained in the back. He had a beautiful woman with him, very tall and very blond, and she looked drunk. They were walking to the dry dock, and several times she nearly fell down. It was obvious she should have been at home, sleeping it off.”

“Didn't you find his behavior strange?” Linderman asked.

“I own a bar,” Kumar said. “I see a lot of strange behavior.”

“What happened then?”

“As they reached the dry dock, the woman fell and couldn't get up,” Kumar said. “I went over and offered my assistance. Then a second man appeared and started to help Perez. They appeared to be friends, so I left.”

“What did this second man look like?” Linderman asked.

“He had a baseball cap on and sunglasses. I didn't get a good look at his face. I did notice that he was missing a finger on both his hands.”

“Did you see them leave in Perez's boat?”

Kumar nodded. “Perez owns a Boston Whaler. It's probably the smallest boat in the marina. I saw the boat leave with the three of them in it.”

“Did they go inland, or out to the ocean?” I asked.

“To the ocean,” Kumar said.

“Anything else you remember?” Linderman asked.

Kumar scratched his chin. “I did find one thing strange.”

“What's that?” we both asked.

“The man who runs the dry dock is not on good terms with Perez. They have had words many times. I was surprised he got Perez's boat out so quickly.”

A good ole boy named Clyde ran the dry dock. Clyde had issues with dark skin and foreign accents. I took off running toward the dry dock, knowing what Perez and Skell must have done to persuade Clyde to get Perez's boat.