Midnight Rambler

“Fire away,” I said.

“When you resigned from the force, whose side did you go on?”

The question stunned me.

“What is that supposed to mean?” I asked.

“You don't act like a cop anymore, and if your lifestyle is any indication, you're not a crook,” Cheever said. “You're living in some gray area, making up the rules as you go along. I can't make heads or tails of it, and neither can anyone else on the force.”

I wanted to yell at him at the top of my lungs. Eight women were dead and another one was missing, but no one seemed concerned about anything except my fucking behavior.

“I'm on my side, Claude,” I said, throwing the car into reverse. “It's the only one that makes sense anymore.”

CHAPTER TWENTY

I left the apartment complex with my head spinning.

I needed to prove Melinda was lying. That wasn't going to be easy, considering that it was her word against mine. But if I could punch holes in her story, people might stop believing her and start listening to me.

Joy Chambers was one way to do that. Joy was a local prostitute who'd dated several cops. I wasn't one of them, but I had done her a favor and helped her locate a child she'd put up for adoption years before. I knew a lot about Joy, including where she lived, and her real name, Joyce Perkowski. If I asked her to contact the newspapers and say we weren't sleeping together, I felt certain she'd do it.

I called Joy's number, and she didn't pick up. She lived in Tamarac, and fifteen minutes later I pulled into her driveway. Her gray clapboard house was eclipsed by the tangle of brush covering the front lawn and a veil of vines creeping down from the roof. It was an eyesore, which was how she liked it.

I banged on the front door, then tried the buzzer. It wasn't working, and I went around to the back. The kitchen door was open, and I tapped on the glass.

“Joy? Are you home? It's Jack Carpenter. I need to talk to you.”

There was no answer. I entered the kitchen with my dog. It was spotlessly clean. Joy kept the interior of the house immaculate. She did not bring her johns here, or any of her suitors. Just a few trusted friends.

I went down a hallway to the front of the house. The living room had brand-new nice furniture and looked like a department store showroom. In the corner was a TV with lines of static running across the screen. A remote lay on the glass coffee table. I picked it up and pressed the Cable button. Nothing happened.

Buster let out a yip. I followed the sound to the master bedroom on the side of the house. Joy lay on the bed, stripped naked, her head twisted at an unnatural angle. Her face was ashen, her mouth wide open as if it were frozen. Buster stood beside the bed, licking the fingers of her outstretched hand.

I made my dog lie down, then studied her corpse. The position of her body indicated she'd been dragged into the room, tossed on the bed, and had her clothes torn off. Her attacker had straddled her-the imprints from his knees were still on the sheets-and strangled her. The purple bruises ringing her neck said he'd used his hands. He'd left quickly, not bothering to cover her body or close her mouth. It had happened fast, which I supposed was a blessing.

I knelt down beside the bed. Joy had been a fighter, and I could not envision this happening without some struggle. I looked at her hands. The left was clenched into a fist; the right wide open. The knuckles of the left were bruised. Joy had punched her attacker as he'd killed her, and left her mark on him.

“We'll get him,” I told her.

I rose from the floor. I wanted to cover her but was afraid of contaminating the crime scene. I went into the kitchen to call 911. As I punched in the numbers an envelope on the kitchen table caught my eye. It was addressed to me.

I dropped the phone into the cradle, then picked up the envelope and tore it open. Inside was a handwritten letter. It was from Joy, dated two days earlier. She was breaking off the affair we'd never had. My hands began to tremble. Her killer had made her do this.

As I slipped the letter into my pocket a numbing realization swept over me. Joy had been killed in an effort to set me up. That setup included Melinda Peters telling Neil Bash that Joy and I were having an affair. As hard as it was for me to believe, Melinda was part of this.

I searched the house for anything else linking me to Joy. Finding nothing, I wetted a paper towel in the sink and wiped down everything I'd touched. This included the phone, but only after I dialed 911 and heard the call go through.

It was dark when I returned to the Sunset. The new TV was sitting over the bar, and the Dwarfs couldn't stop commenting about the sharpness of the picture. I bellied up to the bar and motioned to Sonny. He came over, and I handed him ten hundred-dollar bills to cover my double tabs and my rent. The sight of the money made his jaw drop.

“You don't have to pay me all at once,” he said.

I was tempted to take some of it back.

“Keep it,” I said.

Sonny slid a cold can of Budweiser toward me. “A reporter called for you earlier, said she wanted to talk about Melinda Peters. I've got her number in the till.”

I groaned, and everyone in the bar looked at me.

“Shitty day,” I said.

I killed the beer, then started to leave.

“Remember what the prophet said, Jack,” Whitey called out.

I stopped in the doorway. “What's that?”

“In the land of the blind, a one-eyed man will be king.”

“Hear, hear,” several of the Dwarfs said.

Climbing the stairs to my room, I wondered if Whitey was right. Perhaps I was a one-eyed man, seeing only those things I chose to see.

Joy's murder was going to haunt me. Russo would want to question me about her murder. If he didn't like my answers, he'd arrest me as a suspect. Since I couldn't post bail, I'd go to jail for a few weeks, or even longer.

Melinda's lies were also going to haunt me. Not only was Skell going to walk, but the Midnight Rambler case would be reopened. This time, the scrutiny wouldn't be focused on Skell. It would be on me, and how I'd handled the investigation.

I entered my room and switched on the light. I was in a world of trouble. So much so that I found myself counting the people I could ask for help: Kumar, Sonny, my wife, and my daughter. Not a big group, but better than nothing.

My cell phone rang. I dug it out of my pocket. Caller ID said it was Jessie. I sat on the bed and kicked off my shoes. Then I answered it.

“How's the world's best basketball player?” I answered.

My daughter was sobbing. It made my mind return to that horrible day on Hutchinson Island.

“How could you?” she wailed.

“How could I what?” I asked.

“I was in my dorm watching CNN, and they showed your photo and a photograph of some stripper. They said you were screwing her and had fabricated evidence and all sorts of horrible things. How could you do this to me and Mommy?”

“It's all lies,” I said emphatically.

“Then why are they showing it on TV?”

“It must be a slow news night.”

Jessie didn't see the humor and screamed at me. I tried to explain, but she refused to listen. Finally I hit my