Buster wagged his tail and acted like a normal dog.
“I like this dog. You should breed him,” she said.
“You're the second person who's told me that,” I said.
“Then why don't you?”
“He's got a mean streak a mile long.”
“Maybe it's the people you hang out with.”
Rose got in her Nova and lowered her window. When I was a cop, we'd never said good-bye. It was always “See you later.” I said that now and saw a tinge of doubt in her beautiful brown eyes. So I added a postscript.
“I promise.”
“When will that be?” she asked.
“Once I get this mess cleaned up.”
“Another six months?”
I shook my head. “They'll run me out of town before then. A couple of weeks.”
“Don't make a promise you can't keep, Jack.”
“I mean it.”
“I know you mean it,” she said. “But that doesn't mean you will. You have to figure out what Skell did with those girls. If you don't, you won't be able to live with yourself, and neither will I.”
There was a finality to her voice that made arguing useless.
“I'll come the moment the case is solved,” I said.
“Is that a promise?”
“Yes, it's a promise.”
We kissed again, and then I watched my wife drive away.
I decided to get lunch and cruised the neighborhood. Hyde Park was an eclectic mix of old homes, funky watering holes, and ethnic restaurants. Rose liked it here, and I tried to imagine myself fitting in. A sign boasting the best sub sandwiches in town caught my eye, and I pulled in.
Soon Buster and I were sharing a steak hoagie in my car. My vet said that people food was bad for animals, so I asked him why we ate it. He didn't have a good answer, so I continued to share my meals with my dog.
On the other side of the street, two workers were replacing a billboard. They were fifty feet in the air and were using putty knives to strip away an ad for a popular lite beer. It looked like dangerous work, and I wondered why they did it.
As the lite beer ad came down, the old ad beneath it was exposed. That ad was for a morning radio program, and showed a bad-boy DJ sitting on a throne with a pitchfork, his ears pointed to make him look like the Devil. Printed beneath his picture were the words
I handed the last piece of my sandwich to my dog. The poster was for Neil Bash. Although I'd heard him on the radio many times, I'd never seen his face. He was big and homely, with a flat nose and jug ears. As more of his face became exposed I saw how someone had defaced his likeness with red spray paint. It said:
THIS MAN'S A FUCKING PIG!
The words bothered me. Whoever had written them had taken a real risk climbing up there. I wanted to know why. I got out of my car and called up to the two workers.
“Hey! You up there.”
One of the workers stopped, and found me with his eyes. His skin was the color of a pencil eraser, his hair jet black.
“What you want?” he called down.
“That guy in the sign. What did he do?”
“Dunno,” the worker said.
“Ask your partner, would you?”
The worker asked his partner. The partner shook his head. I guessed they were both illegals and scared I was from Immigration. The first worker turned back to me.
“We're busy,” the first worker said.
“Does your friend know?” I asked.
He hesitated.
“I just want to ask him a couple of questions.”
“Come back later,” the first worker said.
I knew what was going to happen if I came back later. They would both be gone.
The billboard had a ladder attached to it. I crossed the street and started to climb up. A stiff breeze was blowing, and I stopped midway and held on for dear life. One of my greatest fears was getting killed doing something stupid, like crossing the street without looking. Yet, for some reason, I continued to do stupid things. Finally the wind died, and I resumed my climb.
Reaching the top, I grabbed a handrail and looked around. I could see downtown's shimmering skyscrapers and rows of gritty warehouses in the Port of Tampa. Seeing me, the workers stopped what they were doing. I pointed at the devilish face on the poster.
“Tell me what he did.”
The second worker stepped forward. He was also Hispanic and looked scared out of his wits. I handed him and his partner some money, and they both relaxed.
“He did something bad,” the second worker said.
“What was that?” I asked.
The man scratched his chin.
“I think it was with a girl,” he said.
“A young girl?” I asked.
“Yeah. He did something bad on his radio show to a young girl. They ran him out of town.”
“How long ago was this?”
“Two, maybe three years ago.”
“Thank you very much,” I said.
He smiled. I'd made his day, and he'd made mine. Neil Bash was living in Tampa at the same time as Simon Skell, and he was doing something with underage girls that got him in trouble.
I'd found a link.
I climbed down and got into my car. My cell phone was stuck to a piece of Velcro on the dash, and I retrieved Ken Linderman's business card from my wallet and punched in his cell number. Getting voice mail, I told Linderman that I urgently needed to speak with him. Five minutes later, he called me back.
“I'm in Tampa, running down a lead on the Skell case,” I said. “Do you have an agent I could team up with for a few hours?”
“Of course,” Linderman said.
The drive to the FBI building on Gray Street was a short one. Although Tampa wasn't a big city, the FBI's presence was, and I waited on line at a security checkpoint for several minutes, then had a German Shepherd bomb sniff my car before I was allowed to drive onto the manicured grounds.
The three-story FBI building sat on seven pristine acres overlooking glistening Tampa Bay. It resembled the headquarters of a Fortune 500 company, and I found a shady spot beneath a mature oak tree and parked. Buster was not having fun, and he curled up into a ball and went to sleep without being told.
I walked through the building's front doors, feeling out of place in my beach-bum clothes. Having worked with the FBI many times, I knew that behind these walls were several hundred dedicated agents who did everything from finding missing children to stopping domestic terrorism.
At the reception desk I presented my driver's license to the uniformed male guard on duty. The guard kept my license and told me to have a seat. A minute later he called me back to his desk and returned my license.
“Go over to those glass doors,” the guard said. “Special Agent Saunders will be out shortly.”
I thanked him and stood by the shimmering glass doors. Thirty seconds later Saunders marched out. He wore a starched white shirt and dark blue necktie, was about thirty-five, and had a football player's broad shoulders and imposing physique. His palm swallowed mine as we shook hands.
“Ken Linderman called and said you had a lead in the Midnight Rambler case,” Saunders said when we were
