“Did he kill them in front of you?”
Snook shut his eyes, forcing out tears.
“The FBI was listening to the room,” I said. “You had to know that. Why didn't you scream for help?”
“You're a coward,” I said.
I heard Buster whining. He was standing at the bedroom door with his hackles up. I left Snook and went to the door. It was closed, and I covered my hand with my shirttail before twisting the knob. Then I went in.
The bedroom was dark, and I flicked on the lights as I entered. A man lay on the bed in his underwear. The left side of his head was crushed in, and his throat was slit from ear to ear. His eyes were wide open, as was his mouth. I looked at the recognizable portion of his face and decided it was Chase Winters.
A broken champagne bottle lay beside Winters's body. I guessed that Skell had killed him while celebrating, then stolen his clothes. The wounds Skell had inflicted were so severe that Winters had bled out, and I pulled my dog back so he didn't step in it.
I made Buster sit in the corner, then noticed several loose sheets of paper lying on the floor beside the bed. I picked one up without bothering to cover my hand. It was the cover page to a movie contract with Paramount Pictures for a film based on the life of Simon Skell. The working title was
My dog let out a pitiful whine. He could smell the death and despair and pure evil that had inhabited the room. I looked around the room for Lorna Sue Mutter. She wasn't in the closet or stuffed beneath the bed. I noticed a sliver of light streaming out from beneath the bathroom door. I crossed the room and knocked gently on the door.
“Lorna Sue?”
Nothing. I tapped again.
“Are you in there?”
Still nothing. I wanted to believe she might still be alive, even though I felt certain she wasn't. Despite our run-in outside the police station, I did not hate her. She had found it within her heart to love a monster. If more people had done that with Skell, he might not have become the person he was.
“I'm coming in.”
My body pressed against the bathroom door, and I heard it click open. I pushed the door open a few inches, and Buster pushed it open a few more.
The bathroom was large and contained a shower stall and a tub. The sink was filled with clippings from Skell's beard. On the floor I spied a bloody cotton ball, which Skell had used to pierce his own ear.
Lorna Sue Mutter lay in the tub, submerged in water. She was faceup, and her big hair floated in the water like a dead animal.
Like Winters, her eyes and mouth were wide open. I'd heard it said that death was the ultimate aphrodisiac, but the look on Lorna Sue's face told me otherwise. It was the look of betrayal, and love gone horribly bad.
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?”
“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.
