Midnight Rambler_ A Novel of Suspense - James Swain [19]
Normally, I read the sports section first, but today it was the headlines. On the front page was a ghoulish overhead photo of the corpse in Julie Lopez's backyard. It was a good clear shot taken overhead from a helicopter. In journalism there were big murders and little murders, and this was being sold as a big murder. Something was clutched between the skeleton's hands. I asked Sonny his opinion, and he opened his eyes and studied the paper.
“Looks like a gold crucifix,” Sonny said.
I had another look.
“I think you're right.”
“This was your last case, wasn't it?”
I sipped my coffee and nodded. I was thinking about Julie Lopez's pimp, Ernesto, who according to the paper was being held without bail. Ernesto was deeply religious, and I wondered if this was his way of giving Carmella a proper burial. I didn't want to believe it, but facts were facts. Ernesto must have killed Carmella, then waited until Skell was in prison before plopping her in the ground. I had sent away the right man for the wrong crime. It made my head hurt.
“A guy was checking out your car when I pulled in this morning,” Sonny said a few minutes later.
“Checking it out how?” I asked.
“Looking it over, reading the license plate.”
“What did he look like?”
“He was in plain clothes, late forties, short hair.”
“Think he was a cop?”
“I made him for a private dick.”
“How can you tell the difference?”
“Cops don't get up that early.”
The Legend was the only thing of value I owned, and I was sick of people messing with it. Going outside, I inspected my car, including the undercarriage. The black transmitter stuck to the gas tank was hard to miss. I went back inside.
“I need your help,” I said.
“Name it,” Sonny replied.
“This private dick put a transmitter on my car. I want you to take my car out for a spin. I'll follow you and see if I can nail this guy.”
“I got DUIed last month and had my license suspended,” Sonny said. “Why don't you ask Whitey?”
“Is he around?”
“Sure. Hey, Whitey, get up.”
There was stirring from the other side of the room. Whitey's snow-white head appeared an inch at a time over the bar as he pulled himself off the floor. He was wearing yesterday's clothes, his face a mosaic of broken blood vessels and gin blossoms. He brushed himself off while grinning lopsidedly.
“Wass up, captain?” Whitey asked.
“You got a car?” I asked.
“Last time I checked.”
“Your driver's license any good?”
Whitey jerked out his wallet, spilled his credit cards onto the bar and extracted his driver's license. He scrutinized it, then nodded enthusiastically.
“Here's what I want you to do,” I said.
Five minutes later we put my plan into action. Whitey drove south on A1A in my car while I followed in his filthy Corolla. Whitey was impaired and probably shouldn't have been driving, but that was true for a lot of folks in south Florida.
As I drove I watched the side streets. If my hunch was correct, the private dick hired by Simon Skell's sister would soon appear and start following Whitey. Most dicks were failed cops, which explained the harsh treatment I'd been getting.
Two blocks later, I was proved right. A black Toyota 4Runner with tinted windows pulled out and started tailing the Legend. At the next intersection, Whitey pulled into a 7-Eleven and hustled inside, the ten bucks I'd given him burning a hole in his pocket. The 4Runner also pulled into the lot, and the driver followed Whitey in. He was my size, with gunmetal hair and a dark suit that made him stand out like a sore thumb. The look on his face spelled trouble, and I parked on the street and hurried inside.
I found the guy in the rear of the store. He had cornered Whitey in the potato chip aisle and had his back to me. I shot my hands through his armpits and put him in a full nelson.
“Hey!” he yelled in alarm.
“Hey yourself,” I replied. “I'm sick of your crap.”
“Let me go.”
“Not until you answer a couple of questions.