Midnight Rambler_ A Novel of Suspense - James Swain [14]
That was our history. Melinda had helped me, and it was my responsibility to tell her about the body in Julie Lopez's backyard. I didn't want her hearing about it on the TV and freaking out. I owed her the decency of a face-to-face.
The hard part was going to be finding her. Melinda was a stripper and bounced between clubs. I didn't have her address, and the phone number she'd given me was an answering service.Then I had an idea.
Since resigning, I'd stayed friendly with a handful of cops. One was a redneck named Claude Cheever. Although Cheever and I were on opposite sides of the spectrum on every issue you could name, he had come forward at my hearing and testified that every move I'd made during the Skell investigation was by the book. None of my friends had stuck up for me like that. Not a single one.
Cheever was also a sex hound, and on a first-name basis with every stripper in town. Pulling up his cell number, I called him.
“Cheever here,” he answered.
Blaring disco music in the background made me guess he was at a club.
“Carpenter here,” I said. “Can you talk?”
“As good as the next guy,” Cheever said. “How you been?”
“I'm hanging in there. You?”
“Loving life. What's up?”
“I'm looking for Melinda Peters. Any idea where she's working these days?”
“About three feet from my drooling face.” His voice changed. “Ooh, baby, you are so damn beautiful. Come over here and make me smile.”
“You talking to her right now?” I asked.
“No, this is another hottie,” he said.
“Is Melinda really there?”
“Of course she's here. She just went on break.”
“Which dollar store are you at?”
“The Body Shot on State Road 80,” Cheever said. “I'll hold you a seat.”
If there was one business that flourished in Broward County, it was strip clubs. There were so many that several glossy magazines were published each month to highlight the girls who danced in them. The clubs near the ocean attracted tourists and were high priced, while those out west were dives catering to locals. The Body Shot was out west, the parking lot filled with cars in worse shape than mine.
The club smelled of cheap beer and failed deodorant. Up on the oval stage, three women in G-strings danced to Santana's “Everybody's Everything” beneath a pulsating strobe light. As I crossed the room the strobe's clockwise rotation made me feel as if I were circling a giant drain.
Cheever was at the bar. With Claude, “cop” was never the first word that came to mind. In his mid-forties, he had a droopy mustache, a hard-looking belly, and a short choppy haircut that was the worst I'd seen on a grown man. He pumped my hand.
“You look good,” I shouted over the music.
“Liar,” he said.
I caught the bartender's eye and ordered two beers. Moments later, she slapped down two bottles and said, “Sixteen bucks” as if expecting a fight. I paid up, and we clinked bottles.
“Didn't anyone ever tell you not to shower with your clothes on?” Cheever asked.
I was still soaking wet. These clothes were my last link to my old life, and I didn't know if I should feel sad or elated. Taking a swig of beer, I decided on elation.
“Did you tell Melinda I was coming?” I asked.
“No. Was I supposed to?”
I threw a five at the bartender and asked her to find Melinda. The bartender disappeared, and Cheever nudged me in the ribs with his elbow.
“This little old lady in Fort Lauderdale goes to