her to turn on me this way?
Russo cleared his throat. He had lifted his arm and was pointing at the door. I pulled three hundred dollars out of my wallet and tossed it on the table.
“Fix your car,” I said.
I left the War Room as fast as my legs would carry me.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
I decided to get drunk. Whatever was left of my reputation had gone up in flames, and Big Al's suggestion that I move out of the state suddenly seemed a good idea.
But before I got drunk. I wanted to look Melinda in the eye and ask her why she'd done this to me. It seemed cruel that she'd accuse me of sleeping with her when I'd spent so much energy fighting off her advances. It was also an accusation that I'd never live down. When a woman says you slept with her, there's no denying it.
I pointed the Legend toward her apartment complex. Buster had picked up on my sorry state and tried to crawl into my lap.
He wanted to comfort me, but I wasn't in the mood and made him stay on the passenger seat.
I parked a few units down from her place. At her door I knocked loudly. When she didn't answer, I pounded. Then I started to kick.
“Open up. It's Jack Carpenter.”
Sticking my face to the front window, I peered inside. Through a slit in the drapes I saw a floor plan like a cheap motel room. Everything looked in its place. A black kitty jumped at the glass, scratching at my face.
I knocked on her neighbors' doors. Melinda spent her days watching soap operas and reading romance novels. That doesn't sound like much of a life, but it was a far cry from living on the street and not knowing where her next meal was coming from.
An elderly neighbor wearing fuzzy bedroom slippers and a muumuu agreed to talk to me.
“I saw Melinda this morning,” the neighbor said, her face shrouded by a cigarette's fog. “Lent her some Sweet'N Low. You a cop?”
“A friend.”
“Boyfriend?”
“No, just a friend.”
“You look like a cop,” the neighbor said. “Act like one, too.”
“I used to be. How was Melinda's demeanor?”
“Her what?”
“Her attitude. How was she acting? Was she happy or sad? That sort of thing.”
The neighbor thought about it. “Pissed off was how I'd describe her.”
“About what?”
“Her cable TV was on the blink.”
An alarm went off inside my head.
“When did this happen?”
“This morning, I guess. Melinda got one of those plasma flat-screen TVs, and liked to watch the Discovery channel where they show those beautiful sunrises from all around the world. I've gone over to her place a couple of times and watched them with her. Ever seen the show?”
I nearly told her to drag her sorry ass out of bed some morning and come over to Dania and watch the real thing. Instead I shook my head.
“Did the cable repairman come?” I asked.
“I saw the van parked out front, so I guess they were here.”
“Was it white?”
“Come to mention it, yeah.”
“What time was this?”
“Couple hours ago.”
“So they came right away.”
She cackled. “Came like they were responding to a five-alarm fire. You ever see that girl in a bathing suit? That's all she wears in her apartment. Make your eyes pop out of your head. Even mine.”
“She's a beauty,” I said. “Can I go into your backyard, have a look around?”
“You don't think something's happened to Melinda, do you?” the neighbor asked.
“That's what I'm here to find out.”
She hesitated. A teacup-sized poodle darted out, sniffed my sandals, and started dry-humping my leg. Any other time, I would have drop-kicked the dog into the next county. Instead, I scooped it up and scratched its head.
“You got a dog?” she asked.
I pointed at Buster sitting regally in the Legend. She nodded approvingly.
“Anyone who owns a dog is okay in my book. My name is Gladys.”
“I'm Jack,” I said.
“Nice to meet you, Jack. Come on in.”
Gladys's backyard was the size of a postage stamp and surrounded by a sturdy picket fence. Hopping on the fence, I jumped onto the phone pole in the corner of the yard and started to climb. Running up the side of the pole was a black cable identical to the one I saw in Julie Lopez's backyard. Fifteen feet up, I stopped. The cable was cut right above the metal staple, same as Julie's pole. I climbed down.
“Find anything?” Gladys asked.
“The line's been cut.”
“You think someone cut Melinda's cable on purpose?”
“Could be.”
I hopped over the fence into Melinda's backyard and looked around. Through a glass slider I was able to peer into Melinda's kitchen. Everything looked normal except for a chair sitting upended on the floor. Taking out my cell phone, I called my police buddy Claude Cheever.
“I'm at Melinda Peters's place,” I said. “Something's happened.”
“I'll be right over,” Cheever said.
Cheever pulled into the parking lot driving a filthy Pontiac Firebird. Besides the grime and dirt caked to the vehicle, an assortment of dead palmetto bugs, moths, and lovebugs was prominently displayed on the bumper and headlights. Claude's success as a cop did not come from his superior intellect or astonishing investigative technique. His gift was the ability to look like a lowlife. The fact that this came naturally simply made him that much more effective at what he did. I led him around to the back of Melinda's place.
“I heard what Melinda said on the radio,” Claude said, his face pressed to the slider.
“Bad news sure travels fast.”
“Did you fuck her?”
“No.”
“Not even once?”
“No, not even once.”
“Think someone forced her to do that interview?”
Claude was looking at me in the slider's reflection, and I nodded.
“I once called into Neil Bash's show when he was talking about gun control,” Cheever said. “The show's broadcast live, you know.”
It took me a moment to get his drift. If Melinda had been forced to call Bash's show, her abductors were taking a risk, since she could have blurted out the truth. Yet, it wasn't something that I saw Melinda doing on her own.
