“Only like someone was sticking a knife in you. Come downstairs and I’ll buy you a beer. I was just cleaning up.”
“What time is it?”
“About three-thirty.”
“Was I really loud?”
“Shit, yeah. I almost called the cops.”
My room had grown chilly, and I draped the bedspread over my shoulders, and followed Sonny downstairs. I took a stool at the bar, and tried to pull myself together. Stone’s haunting voice still rang in my ears. I could feel her hands, and the hands of the other dead women, clutching me like they were never going to let go.
Sonny served me a beer. “This will make you feel better.”
“You think so?” I asked.
“It’s always worked for me.”
I took a swallow. The beer was cold and good, but it didn’t make me feel any better. I pushed it away.
“What was I yelling?” I asked.
“I don’t know. Something about being sorry.”
“Being sorry about what?”
Sonny began to wipe down the bar. “It was weird. You were yelling ‘I’m sorry! I’m sorry!’ and your voice kept getting louder. Finally I ran upstairs and woke you up.”
I thought back to the dead women. Each one had seemed real, and not just a figment of my imagination. So real that I’d felt compelled to tell them that I was sorry.
Then I understood what my nightmare had meant, and jumped off my stool.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
I sucked down coffee while driving through downtown Dania. The town’s main traffic light was blinking red, and in the shadows dark figures lurked, some with sleeping bags thrown over their shoulders, others pushing shopping carts filled with junk, the homeless on parade.
Pulling out my cell phone, I retrieved Burrell’s cell number, and hit Send. I knew Burrell wasn’t happy with me, but I wasn’t going to let that affect how I handled this. She needed to know what I knew.
Burrell’s voice mail picked up. I ended the call, and hit redial. I kept doing that until I was heading north on the Florida Turnpike. When I was a few miles from the Pompano Beach exit, Burrell answered the call, her voice thick with sleep.
“Hello…?”
“It’s Jack Carpenter,” I said.
“For the love of Christ, what time is it?”
“Four in the morning.”
“What do you want?”
“I need to talk to you about the case.”
Burrell snapped awake. “Listen to me, and listen good. You’re off the case, and there’s nothing I can do about it. Please don’t argue with me. It wasn’t my call.”
“Whose call was it?”
“The mayor’s. He decided you were a liability.”
“Am I?”
“Please don’t make me have this conversation,” Burrell said.
“Did you stand up for me?”
“Of course I stood up for you. I did everything I could. I just couldn’t tell you to your face. So I let Special Agent Whitley give you the bad news.”
“How do you know Whitley?”
“I worked with him a few months ago.”
“I still want to talk to you about the Grimes case.”
Burrell let out a noise that was half-shout, half-scream. “You’re not listening to me!”
“Whitley is wrong about Jed Grimes,” I said. “Jed didn’t commit these crimes. Someone else did, and they’ve killed before. We’re dealing with another serial killer.”
“Really? Where’s your proof?”
“The victims are my proof.”
“I’m not buying it.”
A giant flock of seagulls loomed over the turnpike. There were several hundred of them, maybe more. It looked like a scene straight out of The Birds, their incessant cawing loud enough to awaken my dog.
“What’s that noise?” Burrell asked.
“Birds,” I said.
“Where are you? The beach?”
“I’m driving north on the turnpike.”
“And I’m going back to sleep,” Burrell said “Now stay off the case.”
Burrell hung up on me before I could reply. I weighed calling her back, but decided there was no point. Her mind was made up. The Pompano Beach exit was in my headlights, and I dug the change for the toll out of my pocket.
The Pompano Beach landfill was the largest in south Florida, and was where garbage from Broward and Palm Beach Counties was brought to be buried. It was one of the few areas of the county not at sea level, and the man-made hills of garbage towered over many office buildings in town, and were covered in grass that was country-club green. During the day, thousands of birds feasted on the garbage, then flew back to their nests when the sun went down.
I drove down a gravel road and parked in front of the gate. I had been to the landfill many times as a cop. It was the last stop when I was looking for a missing person who might be dead. I was hoping an employee would remember me, and I wouldn’t have to lie through my teeth to get in.
The guardhouse door opened, and a white-haired guard emerged. Although he was older, the starched white shirt and necktie told me he took his job seriously.
The guard came over to my window, and shone a flashlight into my face. “What can I do for you?”
“I’m Jack Carpenter,” I said. “I don’t know if you remember me. I used to run the Broward County Sheriff’s Department’s Missing Persons unit.”
“Didn’t your daughter play basketball?” the guard asked.
“You’ve got a good memory. She’s now at Florida State on a full scholarship.”
“Jessica Carpenter.”
I smiled and nodded.
“You must be very proud of her,” the guard said. “What can I do for you?”
“I’m working with the Broward police on a missing kid’s case,” I said. “I was wondering if I could come inside, and have a look around.”
“There’s a lot of garbage back there. What are you looking for?”
“Commercial garbage from Davie. It’s from a supermarket.”
“That would be section P. If you’d like, I can draw you a map.”
“That would be great.”
The guard drew me a map on a sheet of paper. The landfill was divided into sections that were identified by letters of the alphabet. Going into the guardhouse, he hit a switch, and the gate slid back. I waved to him and drove inside.
Following the guard’s map, I drove down a bumpy dirt road that cut between the hills. It was pitch dark, and my car lurched uncertainly every few feet. There were no other people back here, and I found myself petting Buster
