Midnight Rambler_ A Novel of Suspense - James Swain [108]
“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.”
“No, it's not,” I said.
“You're sure about this?”
“Yes.”
Linderman's shoulder twitched again. Then he pulled his keys out of his pocket, and I followed him out the door.
Traffic in Broward was as unpredictable as the weather. Although the Executive Suites was not far, the drive took twenty minutes. We pulled into the parking lot, cursing.
The FBI's surveillance van was parked in a handicap spot and was painted to look like a dry-cleaning service. Linderman tapped three times on the rear door. The door opened, and Saunders hopped out.
“Skell hasn't