“She's going to tell us what Carpenter was
“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 Perez 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.
