“Is he telling the truth?”
“Yes,” I said. “Help us find Melinda, and you won't go down.”
“You mean I won't die?”
We both nodded.
Bash covered his face and began to weep. I believe that evil people all think about the day when they will be held accountable for the things they've done. It's called Judgment Day, and there's no escaping it. Bash was living that day.
“Jonny Perez lives with his brother Paco in a rented house a few miles west of here,” Bash said. “He's keeping Melinda there. That's where he kept all the girls.”
I leaned closer.
“What's the address?”
“It's written down in my trailer.”
“Is your trailer here?”
“Yeah. It's part of my deal with the station.”
I glanced up at Cheever to gauge his reaction. He nodded grimly.
“Take us there,” I said.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
Before we left the studio, Bash slipped a tape of an old show into a player on the console. He hit the Play button, and his abrasive voice filled the trailer.
“Won't your listeners notice it's a repeat?” Cheever asked.
“Who cares?” the DJ said.
We left the studio through a back door and walked down a dusty road into the bowels of the trailer park. Each trailer in the park sat on a tiny sliver of land. Many were sinking into the ground, their roofs patched with asphalt shingles and plywood. On screened porches sat shapeless women fanning themselves while shirtless men sucked cans of beer. No one said hello.
Bash's footsteps were measured, his hands gripping his gut. Turning down a street called Majesty Lane, he went to the last trailer. It was newer, with bright aluminum siding and a giant satellite dish on the roof. He unlocked the front door, then faced us.
“I need to tell you guys something,” Bash said.
We waited, the midday sun burning our faces.
“I was never
“Where were you?” I asked.
“I was
“So what's your point?” Cheever asked.
“I never laid a finger on any of them, or did anything horrible to them, or made them suffer or cry,” Bash said. “I just watched.”
“Is that your thing?” Cheever asked.
“Yeah,” Bash said. “I like to watch. My heart don't work so good anymore, so I never went down on them like Coffen and Jonny and Skell did. I didn't hurt them, either. I just stayed in my trailer and watched.”
His words sounded like a confession. Only something was missing. Guilt. His eyes were empty and soulless, and I wondered what event in his life had caused him to participate in the deaths of so many innocent young woman and not regret it.
“Did you watch them die?” I asked.
Bash stared down at his scuffed shoes.
“Most of them,” he said quietly.
“Not all?”
“I missed a couple,” he admitted.
“What happened?”
“Skell killed them when I was on the air doing my show.”
“Which ones did you miss?” Cheever asked.
“I don't know,” Bash said.
“What do you mean, you don't know?” Cheever said.
“I never knew the girls' names,” he said.
Cheever threw a right hand into Bash's face. The DJ let out a muffled yell and tumbled backwards into the trailer. Cheever looked around to make sure no one was watching, then followed him inside.
I glanced down at Buster, who was glued to my leg. My dog wanted no part of this. I made him go inside anyway.
The interior of Bash's trailer was like a cave. The walls and ceiling were painted black, the curtains tightly drawn. Natural light was not welcome here. An oversized leather chair with a TV remote on its cushion sat in the room's center. On the floor in front of the chair was a plastic bowl half filled with buttered popcorn.
Bash's throne.
Across from the chair, a wide-screen plasma TV was mounted on the wall. I stared at the TV, slack-jawed. On its screen, a bikini-clad Melinda Peters hung by her wrists inside someone's closet, her manicured toes scraping the floor. A cell phone lay by her feet, and I thought back to last night's call.
Bash staggered around the trailer, clutching his face. Cheever grabbed him by the shoulders and threw him into the leather chair.
“Please don't hit me again,” the DJ begged.
“You gonna behave?” Cheever asked.
“I didn't do anything.”
“Answer me, asshole.”
“Yeah, I'll behave.”
Cheever pointed at the screen. “Is that live?”
“Yeah, it's live.”
“They're playing voyeur cam with her, aren't they?”
Bash hid the smirk forming on his face. “Something like that.”
“When are your buddies going to kill her?”
“Tonight, after Skell gets back to Fort Lauderdale. He wants to see it.”
“Were they going to broadcast it to him?”
“No. He was going to Jonny's place to watch.”
I could not take my eyes off Melinda. The voyeur cam turned, and the Cuban who had shot out my windshield on 595 appeared on the big screen. It was Jonny Perez, wearing a bright red bandanna around his head and clutching a can of beer. He smiled and waved at the camera while doing a crazy little dance.
“Why is he dancing?” I asked.
“He's playing ‘Midnight Rambler,’” Bash said. “It's what we play when the girls are being tortured.”
“We?” I asked.
Bash nodded. Sensing that I wanted a more complete answer, he used the remote to start a CD player sitting on the floor beneath the TV. Out of its speakers came the opening harmonica riff from the live version of “Midnight Rambler.” The music was like a demonic chuckle.
I took a deep breath. If I saw any more, I was going to explode.
“Where's your address book?”
“In my bedroom. I'll get it for you.”
He started to get out of his chair, and Cheever shoved him back down.
“I told you not to move,” Cheever said.
“I was just going to get the address book for him,” Bash said.
