It could have been anybody, but my gut told me it was Leonard Snook. The listing had two numbers: one work, the other a cell.
Both had 305 area codes, which was Miami/Dade County. I punched in the work number. It rang through, and a woman picked up.
“Law office,” the woman said sternly.
“Is he in?” I asked.
“Is who in?” she asked suspiciously.
“Leonard Snook.”
“Mr. Snook is out of the office. If you'd like, you can leave a message.”
I said no thanks and hung up. Snook represented Simon Skell and Cecil Cooper, and now I had evidence he was connected to Jonny Perez. There was no law against representing abductors and serial killers, and I found myself hoping that Snook could be persuaded to help us find Perez before he killed Melinda. I pulled up his cell number from the address book and called it. After several rings he answered.
“I can't talk to you right now, Jonny,” the lawyer said in a whisper. “We just got into Fort Lauderdale, and Simon's giving a news conference to a bunch of dim-witted reporters. I'll call you back when he's done.”
Before I could reply, Snook ended the call. I couldn't believe what I'd just heard, and rose from the bed. On the other side of the store, the two employees stood by a desk drinking coffee. I walked over to them.
“Is there a TV in the store?” I asked.
They pointed at a portable TV sitting on the desk. It was so small, I hadn't even noticed it. I picked up the remote and channel-surfed. Skell's news conference was on the local ABC affiliate. He was staying at a nearby hotel.
Skell stood in front of a podium answering questions, his wife and attorney flanking him. He still wore the Old Navy sweatshirt and blue jeans. I jacked up the volume.
“What will you do, now that you're free?” a reporter asked.
“Go back to my work,” Skell said.
“Do you hold a grudge against Jack Carpenter for what he did to you?” the same reporter asked.
Skell leaned into the mikes. “Jack Carpenter will get what's coming to him.”
“Are you angry at him?”
“He'll get what's coming to him,” Skell repeated.
“Is it true there's a movie deal in the works?” another reporter called out.
Leonard Snook stepped up to the mike and announced that a major motion picture deal was in the works, with a famous Hollywood actor being considered to play his client. There was also a six-figure book contract with a prominent New York publishing house.
“Who's writing it?” a reporter asked.
“I am,” Snook said.
Something inside of me snapped. Attorneys made money representing scumbags, but Snook was profiting on his client's victims' misfortune. It was evil, pure and simple.
Without thinking of the ramifications, I called Snook back. On the TV, Snook pulled out his cell and looked at it disapprovingly, then stepped out of the picture. Seconds later, his voice came on the line.
“For Christ's sake, Jonny, I can't talk to you right now. I'll call you back when I'm done.”
“This isn't Jonny,” I said.
Snook paused. In the background, I could hear Skell talking to the reporters.
“Then who am I speaking to?” he asked.
“Jack Carpenter,” I replied.
Snook gasped.
“What do you want?” he finally said.
“Tell Skell I have a message for him,” I said.
“A message?”
“That's right. And for you, too.”
“What's your message?”
“Tell him that Paul Coffen, Neil Bash, and Paco Perez are waiting for him in hell. Will you do that for me, Leonard?”
“Is this some kind of twisted joke?”
“No joke,” I said.
Snook hung up.
I stared at the portable TV. There was a time delay on the transmission, and several seconds passed before Snook reentered the picture. He edged up to Skell, and whispered in his client's ear.
Skell was directly facing the camera when he heard the news. His jaw clenched and his nostrils flared. I'd seen this look on the faces of other killers. It was called sociopathic rage. Skell was ready to blow.
Suddenly the news conference was over, and Skell walked away from the podium with his entourage in tow.
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
I turned off the portable TV and walked to the front of the mattress store. Linderman stood by the windows, gazing out on the parking lot while talking on his cell phone. I could tell by his posture and subdued voice that the police had not found the stolen Nova. I coughed, and he turned to stare at me.
“You need to call Special Agent Saunders,” I said.
He clamped his hand over the receiver.
“I'm on a call,” he said.
“Do as I say, and call him.”
“Just. .”
“Right now,” I said. “Skell is going to make a run for it. I tipped him off.”
Linderman's shoulder twitched, and for a second I thought he was going to punch me in the mouth. He said good-bye and ended the call.
“Why in God's name did you do that?”
“I popped my cork and called Snook on Perez's cell phone,” I said.
“For the love of Christ, Jack.”
Linderman called Special Agent Saunders and explained the situation. Putting his hand over the receiver, he said, “Saunders is sitting with his partner in a surveillance van outside the Executive Suites in Fort Lauderdale. They're watching Skell's motel room and listening through the walls to their conversations. Skell's in there with his wife and attorney. Everything is fine. Skell isn't going anywhere.”
The Executive Suites was located on Military Trail near a busy shopping center. It was a crummy place to be holding news conferences, especially considering the big money Skell was making from his book and movie deals. I guessed Skell had an ulterior motive for staying there, and grabbed the phone out of Linderman's hand.
“Scott, this is Jack Carpenter,” I said into the phone. “I did a dumb thing, and I don't want you to have to pay for it. You need to grab Skell.”
“On what grounds?” Saunders said.
“Make something up,” I said.
“I can't do that.”
“Why not? You're the law.”
“Two reasons. Skell just got released from prison, and his lawyer is with him,” Saunders said. “Arresting him is a one-way ticket to North Dakota.”
North Dakota was where FBI agents got sent as punishment. I handed the phone back to Linderman. He ended the call and folded the phone.
“We need to go over to the Executive Suites,” I said.
“I just told you Jack, everything's under control.”
