Midnight Rambler_ A Novel of Suspense - James Swain [99]
“What a dump,” Cheever said.
I looked around the backyard. It was a disaster area, with newspapers floating in the dirty swimming pool and no grass. The place felt unattended to.
“I don't think Perez lives here,” I said.
“Then where is he?” Cheever asked.
Perez's trick of cutting the cable in his victims' backyards was fresh in my mind, and I gazed at the telephone poles lining the alley. It didn't take me long to find a thick black wire running from Perez's supposed house to the house next door. This house had some serious landscaping, plus a padlocked prefabricated storage shed in the backyard. Sitting in the carport was Perez's white van.
“They're in the house next door,” I said.
Cheever parked on the street, and we walked down the alley to look at the second house. It appeared to be a normal middle-class dwelling, except for the shed. It was way too big for the property.
“Wonder what's inside that thing?” Cheever said.
“Let's have a look,” I said.
A five-foot-high chain-link fence ringed the property. I picked up Buster and dropped him over the fence. Then Cheever and I climbed the fence and crossed the backyard. We took down the shed's door with our shoulders.
The shed's interior was easily a hundred degrees. I hit the light switch, and we cautiously entered. Hanging from the walls were tools and trenching equipment. Something was making me uneasy, and I drew my gun. So did Cheever.
We stood with our backs to each other and looked around. My eyes fell on a metal worktable that ran the length of one wall. Beneath the table sat eight coolers, each large enough to hold a human body. Buster was sniffing them, his tail wagging furiously.
I examined the cooler closest to me. It had a label with writing on it. I had to squint to read what it said.
#1.
The cooler beside it said #2, and the cooler beside that one said #3.
I walked the row and read the label on each cooler. They were numbered just like the photographs that had papered Bash's bedroom. No names, no identities.
Just numbers.
I decided to open cooler #1 first. I put my hand on the lid, and the image of Carmella Lopez lying in her sister's backyard came back to me.
“Want me to do that?” Cheever asked.
I shook my head.
“You sure, Jack? You look pale.”
“Positive,” I said.
I popped the lid. The cooler was empty. The smell of ammonia nearly knocked me sideways. I caught my breath, then opened the rest. They were all empty.
A glittering object inside the last cooler caught my eye. I held it up to the light. It was a gold earring.
“Perez must have already dumped the bodies,” Cheever said.
I put my hands on the worktable and took a moment to compose myself. I had desperately wanted the bodies to be here. Finding the victims was the only way I was going to be able to get on with my life. Cheever put a comforting hand on my shoulder.
“Sorry, buddy,” he said.
I nodded without looking at him.
“Let's go rescue Melinda,” he said.
I reached for the light switch, then noticed a map taped to the wall. It was of Broward County and had colored thumbtacks stuck in it, just like the map in my office. The thumbtacks were stuck in the same spots as on my map. Perez had chronicled where he'd nabbed his victims, just as I had. Only there was a thumbtack on his map that wasn't on mine. It was on the north end of Dania Beach, where I lived. I wondered what its significance was, and decided I'd have to ask him. I turned out the light.
We entered the backyard. Cheever stood by the end of the shed and cautiously peeked around the corner. I edged up beside him.
“I hear them talking inside the house,” he whispered.
“How many are there?”
“I'm not sure. You speak Spanish, don't you?”
“A little,” I said.
“Maybe you can understand what they're saying.”
We switched places, and I stuck my head around the shed. Jonny Perez's face was visible