Midnight Rambler: A Novel of Suspense

“Cover me!” Perez yelled.

I came out from hiding. The Rasta had finally found his nerve.

He aimed the machine pistol at me, and we exchanged shots. It was obvious he'd never handled an automatic weapon before, and the bullets sprayed harmlessly into the ground. I kept firing and saw him go down.

I sprinted across the lot with Buster hugging my side. Perez had jumped into the Nova and was backing out. He spun the wheel like a professional driver, hopped the curb, and headed down a connector road toward 595. I could do nothing but watch.

The back door of the mattress store opened, and Linderman hustled over.

“Jack, are you okay?”

I stood helplessly with my Colt dangling by my side.

“He's getting away,” I said.

Linderman found the chopper in the sky and waved the pilot down. He pointed at the interstate, and the pilot took off after the Nova. We walked back to the store, and Linderman addressed the two employees.

“Whose car was that?”

One of the employees was short, the other tall. They both lowered their hands.

“Mine,” the taller one said.

“What's the tag number?”

“It's in my wallet.”

“Where's that?”

“Inside.”

“I need to see it.”

They started to go inside. I looked down at the Rasta. Shot in the waist, he was barely alive, his eyes blinking rapidly. If anyone knew where Perez was headed, it was him. Kneeling, I pulled his head into my lap and shielded his eyes from the sun.

“What are you doing?” Linderman asked.

“Maybe he can help us,” I said.

“Don't hold your breath,” he said.

They went inside. As the back door closed, the Rasta gazed up at me.

“You the boyfriend?” he whispered in a Jamaican accent.

“What boyfriend?” I asked.

“Jonny said his woman was cheating on him, and he wanted to teach her a lesson.”

“Is that why you kept her in your house?”

The Rasta nodded weakly.

“Jonny is a killer,” I said. “He lied to you.”

The Rasta shut his eyes and took a deep breath.

“Will you tell me something?” I asked.

The Rasta's eyes opened, but he did not answer me.

“Where's Jonny taking her? You must have some idea.”

The Rasta looked through me, his face losing its strength.

“Jonny was going to leave you behind,” I said. “He didn't give a rat's ass about you. You don't owe him anything.”

The Rasta thought about it, then spoke.

“Jonny's taking her to the ocean. He said he was going to surprise you.”

“Surprise me how?”

“I dunno, man.”

“Was he taking her to a boat?”

The Rasta blinked in the affirmative. His right hand was hovering over his pants pocket. I stuck my fingers into the pocket and pulled out a plastic key ring from which a single key dangled. I held the key up to the Rasta's face.

“Is this your boat?” I asked.

“Jonny's. He let me use it sometimes.”

“Did he keep it in a marina?”

“Yeah.”

“Do you know which one?”

“Don't know the name. It's on one of the canals.”

There was a roar of sirens, and I lifted my gaze as six police cruisers pulled into the lot. The cruisers surrounded us in a tight circle. Twelve doors opened simultaneously, and more guns than I could count were pointed at my head.

“Don't shoot,” I said.

CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

A pair of cops threw me against a wall. I told them an FBI agent was inside the store who could explain everything, and the cops told me to keep my mouth shut. While I was being patted down I glanced at Buster. My dog was parked in the building's shade with a concerned look on his face.

Then Linderman came out and set the cops straight. There were times when I wanted to hug the guy, and this was one of them. Linderman convinced the cops to give me my Colt back. As I slipped it into its pocket holster Buster came out from the shadows and pressed up against my leg.

By now the Rasta was unconscious, and two cops were doing their best to keep him breathing. I stood over him for a minute, then realized he probably wouldn't be opening his eyes for a while.

I followed Linderman into the mattress store. Once we were inside, he turned around and put his hand on my shoulder. It wasn't a gesture I expected from him.

“I've got shitty news,” Linderman said.

I braced myself.

“The police chopper lost the Nova.”

“How is that possible?”

Linderman explained how Perez had driven east on 595, gotten onto I-95 north, and taken the Broward Boulevard exit into downtown Fort Lauderdale. From there, Perez had driven to A1A and headed south, going through an underground tunnel in the heart of downtown. That was where the chopper had lost the car.

“I know where Perez is taking her,” I said.

Linderman dropped his hand. “You do?”

I showed him the Rasta's key ring. “Perez is going to dump Melinda in the ocean. You need to call the police and tell them to search Perez's house. There should be a bill from a marina where he keeps his boat.”

“Why wouldn't Perez just shoot her and dump the body?” Linderman asked.

I shook my head. “The gang was setting me up. They were going to kill Melinda and make it look like I did it.”

“You?”

“They were trying to convince people I was the Midnight Rambler, and take the heat off Skell.”

I watched Linderman punch in the Broward cops' phone number on his cell. Raising the phone to his face, he said, “You're always thinking, aren't you, Jack?”

I realized he was complimenting me, and smiled grimly.

The mattress store was filled with beds. While Linderman was on his phone, I sat down on the edge of a king-size bed and removed Perez's cell phone from my pocket. It was still powered up, and I went straight into the address book, hoping to find the number for the marina.

The address book had several dozen entries. No full names were listed, just first and last initials. There was