“Did you ever use your real name at the station?”
“No.”
“Good.”
I shifted my attention to the wide-screen TV. Jonny Perez and the other Hispanic had stopped torturing Melinda and were no longer in the picture. Melinda was looking directly into the camera, fighting back tears.
“We're coming,” I said to the screen.
We went to the door and I whistled for my dog. Then I looked at Bash lying dead on the floor. His face looked as if he'd been dead a long time. As we walked out, “Midnight Rambler” was still playing on the CD player.
We left the station and drove our cars to a deserted strip center. We got out of our vehicles, and I took Bash's address book from my pocket and showed Cheever the listing for Jonny Perez.
Perez lived in a marginal neighborhood in Sunrise. Cheever suggested that we take his car and leave mine behind. He believed his filthy vehicle was less likely to arouse suspicion as we searched for Perez's hideout.
I agreed, and soon we were heading west on 595 in his car. Cheever drove with his body hunched over the wheel and his eyes glued to the highway. I sensed he was trying to shake off Bash's death, and tried to comfort him.
“Don't blame yourself for what happened back there,” I said.
He shook his head without taking his eyes off the road.
“Bash got what was coming to him,” I said.
Several miles passed before Cheever replied.
“I need to ask you something,” he said.
“What's that?”
“Do you love Melinda? I have to know, Jack.”
The question stunned me, and I jerked sideways in my seat.
“How many times do I have to tell you, Claude? I didn't sleep with her. Not yesterday, not last week, not last year. We never got it on.”
“But do you love her?”
“No!”
The pain showed in Cheever's face.
“I'm sorry, Jack, but you're the reason she and I broke up.”
“How is that possible?”
“She said your name one night in bed. She had this thing about me wearing my badge on my T-shirt. She looked at it and said your name.”
I hadn't forgotten the cartoon drawings I'd seen on Melinda's kitchen table, and the stick figure with a badge pinned to his chest. That figure had been holding hands with a female stick figure and standing before a house with smoke billowing from its chimney. Now I understood its significance.
“I'm sorry that happened to you,” I said.
Cheever nodded regretfully.
“So am I,” he said.
Cheever took the Sawgrass Expressway to the Sunrise exit and soon got lost. Sunrise had been built by developers and was a mishmash of identical-sounding street names. Fifteen excruciating minutes later we found Perez's street and did a quick sweep.
The houses were small, their windows covered with security bars. An alley ran behind the properties. It made spying easy, and we crawled down it and braked behind Perez's place. His house was a single-story concrete-block structure with a tar-paper roof and rotted hurricane shutters. A bike with two flats sat on the back porch.
“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 through a screened window on the back of the house. He was washing his hands in the kitchen sink while carrying on a conversation. He moved away from the window. “He's talking to his brother Paco, and some guy named Alberto,” I whispered. “They're discussing a restaurant they want to visit after they kill Melinda.”
“So we're outnumbered,” Cheever said.
“Looks that way.”
Cheever pulled out his cell phone and powered it up.
“Time for reinforcements,” he said.
“You calling the cops?” I asked.
“Yes.”
I thought about the ramifications of bringing in the Broward cops, and how Bobby Russo was going to react after hearing what we'd been up to.
“Give me the phone,” I said.
“Why?” Cheever asked.