tolerance point and jumped in.
“Lower your voice, or I'm hanging up this phone,” I said.
My daughter grew quiet, and I continued. “Whatever you might think of me at this moment in time, I'm still your father, remember?”
“Yes,” she said softly.
“Good. Now, let me ask you a question. When have I ever lied to you?”
My words were met by a short silence.
“Never,” she replied.
“That's right. Never, ever have I lied to you.”
“Not that I know about,” she chimed in.
“But that stripper said you had an affair with her, and another woman as well.”
I could hear my teeth clench. I didn't give a rat's ass if the rest of the world thought I was slime, but with Jessie it mattered.
“None of it is true,” I said.
“You need to talk to Mom,” my daughter said. “She heard it on the news in Tampa. She's awfully upset.”
“I'll call her right now.”
“Promise?”
“Yes, I promise. I love you.”
“I love you, too, Daddy.”
I ended the call. Then I spent a minute gathering the courage to call Rose.
I'd always blamed myself for our breakup. My wife was from Mexico and deeply religious. In her faith, the spirits of the dead hung around long after the body was gone. Many times she'd told me that Skell's victims were clinging to me and that she couldn't compete with them. Like a fool, I didn't argue, so she left me.
I punched her number into my cell phone.
“Hey, Rose,” I said when she answered.
“Who is this?” she asked suspiciously.
“It's me. Jack.”
“What do you want?”
“To apologize.”
“It's too late for that.”
“No, listen. Everything you heard on TV is a bunch of crap.”
“I don't believe you.”
“You have to believe me.”
“No, I don't.”
I put my hand over my eyes. “Rose, please, listen to me.”
“I'm filing for a divorce.”
“What? No. Please don't do that.”
“Tomorrow. First thing in the morning. I already have a lawyer. I'll send you the papers. Now I have to go to bed.”
My heart felt ready to break. I could not let her go.
“You can't give up on me,” I said.
“Give me one good reason why.”
“Because I need you, and because I love you.”
I heard my wife's sharp intake of breath.
“Go to hell, Jack Carpenter,” she said.
I had no answer for that, and heard her hang up.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
At four a.m. my alarm clock went off. I dragged myself out of bed and rousted Buster. My dog rolled over, expecting to get his tummy scratched. Instead, I tugged on his hind leg.
“Road trip,” I said.
Five minutes later we pulled out of the Sunset's parking lot. Tampa was three hundred miles away, and my goal was to reach my wife's place before she left for work, and beg her for another chance. We'd been married for twenty years, and I wasn't going to let it end with a phone call.
Driving through the streets of Dania, I found myself wondering if I'd ever return to south Florida. I'd never run away from a fight before, but this fight was destroying me. I needed to regroup and come up with another strategy. Then I would come back.
But before I did any of those things, I needed to see Rose.
A1A took me to 595, which led to the Florida Turnpike. My car was old enough to have a tape deck, and I popped in a collection that I fondly called the soundtrack of my youth. It included songs by the Doors, the Allman Brothers Band, the Eagles, Crosby Stills Nash amp; Young, the Grateful Dead, and Led Zeppelin performing at New York's Madison Square Garden.
I reached the Vero Beach exit in two hours thirty minutes and got off. The sky was clear and there was a chill in the air. I took Highway 60 through Yeehaw Junction, a redneck burg of truck stops and squawking chickens strutting on the highway. Forty-five minutes later I stopped at a McDonald's in Bartow and ordered breakfast. As I pulled up to the take-out window, a teenage girl opened the slider.
“Two sausage biscuits and an OJ?” she asked.
“Not me,” I said.
She stared at her computer screen. “One egg biscuit and a small offee?”
“Wrong again.”
“You'd better repeat your order. My computer's messed up.”
There were no cars behind me in the take-out line, and I wondered how her computer could be placing orders for customers who didn't exist.
“Large coffee and hash browns,” I said.
I was back on 60 sipping my drink when my cell phone rang. Central Florida used to be one giant dead zone, but modern technology changed that. Caller ID said Unknown.
“Carpenter here,” I answered.
“Jack, this is Veronica Cabrero.”
“How's my favorite prosecutor?”
“I'm afraid I've got some bad news.”
Bartow was famous for its speed traps, and my foot eased up on the gas pedal.
“What's wrong? Don't tell me your case against Lars Johannsen went south.”
“Lars was found dead in his cell this morning,” she said.
“What happened?”
“He slit his wrists. The police think his wife slipped him a razor in court yesterday.”
I nearly said “Good riddance” but bit my tongue instead. Veronica was a devout Catholic who did not believe in capital punishment, and I could tell this turn of events had upset her.
“Any idea why he did it?” I asked.
“Lars knew he was going down.”
“How so?”
“I followed up on your hunch,” Cabrero said. “You told me Lars matched the profile of a predator who'd been beating up hookers in western Broward. I ran an advertisement in one of those strip club magazines with Lars's picture and asked any women who'd been brutalized by him to come forward. One finally did, and she agreed to testify.”
