“Saunders found it in the courtyard behind the hotel,” Linderman said. “He thinks Skell dropped it running away.”
“How would Skell have gotten this?”
“Snook must have given it to him.”
I stared at the photo. Melinda looked just like the other victims I'd seen in Bash's trailer. That surprised me, and I flipped the photo over. There was writing on the back.
#9.
The number's significance was slow to register. When it did, I showed the writing to Linderman. He didn't understand, and I grabbed his arm.
“I was wrong,” I said.
“About what?”
“Skell isn't obsessed with Melinda.”
“I thought you said she had sent him over the edge.”
I pointed at the #9 on the back of the photograph.
“This is how the gang identifies the victims, by numbers. Melinda's just another number to him. She isn't what fuels his rages.”
The FBI had given Linderman an award for his accomplishments in hunting down serial killers. Understanding a serial killer's motivation was the only possible way of stopping them. He took the photo from my hands and studied it.
“Then why did Skell come to Fort Lauderdale?” he asked.
“To frame me.”
“Why not let his gang do that?”
“The gang tried. They killed a prostitute named Joy Chambers and tried to pin it on me. They left enough evidence behind that the police knew it wasn't me.”
“So Skell wanted to make sure they didn't blow it this time.”
“Yes.”
Linderman nodded. Then he took out his car keys.
“Get in the car,” he said.
“Why? Where are we going?”
“To the beach. The Rasta told you Jonny Perez was taking Melinda to a marina so he could dump her body in the ocean, right?”
“That's right,” I said. “Only the Rasta didn't remember the marina's name.”
“Your office is at a marina, isn't it?”
We drove to Tugboat Louie's with the blue light flashing on the dashboard of the 4Runner. This time, traffic got out of our way. I called Bobby Russo and told him what was going on. Then I called Kumar and told him to be on the lookout for the police.
Kumar was standing in the parking lot as we pulled in. His oversized bow tie was undone, and he looked upset. Two police cruisers were parked by the front door with their bubble lights flashing. A Jimmy Buffet song about getting wasted filled the air.
Linderman and I hopped out of the 4Runner and approached Kumar.
“Jack! I'm so glad you are here,” Kumar said. “The police arrived five minutes ago, just like you said they would. Can you please tell me what's going on?”
I introduced Linderman. Seeing the badge pinned to Linderman's lapel, Kumar fell silent.
“I need to talk to you about a man named Jonny Perez,” Linderman said.
“I know this man,” Kumar said.
“You do?”
“Oh, yes. Perez keeps a boat in my dry dock. He's a strange character, that is for sure.”
“How recently have you seen him?” Linderman asked.
“Twenty minutes ago,” Kumar said. “Is he involved in this?”
I ran around the parking lot looking for the stolen Nova. It was illegally parked in a handicap spot. I searched the interior and popped the trunk. No Melinda.
I went back to where Kumar was standing with Linderman.
“Perez was walking with a limp,” Kumar said. “His shirt was pulled out, and it was stained in the back. He had a beautiful woman with him, very tall and very blond, and she looked drunk. They were walking to the dry dock, and several times she nearly fell down. It was obvious she should have been at home, sleeping it off.”
“Didn't you find his behavior strange?” Linderman asked.
“I own a bar,” Kumar said. “I see a lot of strange behavior.”
“What happened then?”
“As they reached the dry dock, the woman fell and couldn't get up,” Kumar said. “I went over and offered my assistance. Then a second man appeared and started to help Perez. They appeared to be friends, so I left.”
“What did this second man look like?” Linderman asked.
“He had a baseball cap on and sunglasses. I didn't get a good look at his face. I did notice that he was missing a finger on both his hands.”
“Did you see them leave in Perez's boat?”
Kumar nodded. “Perez owns a Boston Whaler. It's probably the smallest boat in the marina. I saw the boat leave with the three of them in it.”
“Did they go inland, or out to the ocean?” I asked.
“To the ocean,” Kumar said.
“Anything else you remember?” Linderman asked.
Kumar scratched his chin. “I did find one thing strange.”
“What's that?” we both asked.
“The man who runs the dry dock is not on good terms with Perez. They have had words many times. I was surprised he got Perez's boat out so quickly.”
A good ole boy named Clyde ran the dry dock. Clyde had issues with dark skin and foreign accents. I took off running toward the dry dock, knowing what Perez and Skell must have done to persuade Clyde to get Perez's boat.
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
The dry dock was a blue-and-gold manufactured aluminum building designed like an airplane hangar. Inside, powerboats rested on steel-framed bunks stacked one atop the other, right up to the vaulted ceiling. A portable hydraulic lift, used to move the boats, sat in the corner as I entered. Normally, Clyde sat in a beach chair beside the lift, listening to country and western music while spitting tobacco juice on the ground.
Clyde's chair was empty, and his radio was turned off. I looked around the building for a sign of where he might have gone. The building did not have air-conditioning, and the air hung hot and still. Buster had disappeared, and I could hear him whining and scratching on wood. I followed the sound to a storage closet in the back.
“Good dog,” I said.
I pulled open the heavy sliding door. Sunlight filled the closet's interior, and I saw a sunburned man lying on the floor, holding his stomach with both hands and moaning. A large stain covered the bottom of his denim shirt.
“Clyde?”
“Don't hurt me,” he begged.
“It's Jack Carpenter. Where you hit?”
“That bastard Perez shot me in the stomach,” Clyde said.
Linderman entered the building. I called him over, and we pulled Clyde out of the closet by his ankles. Linderman started to tend to Clyde's wound while I dialed 911.
“Jack, he's okay,” Linderman said.
“How can he be okay?”
Linderman tossed me a pint metal flask that he'd pulled from Clyde's pants. The flask had a bullet hole in it. Holding it to my nose, I smelled rum. I saw Clyde tenderly rub his stomach.
“Lucky you,” I said.
Linderman called the Broward office of the FBI and asked for a cutter to be sent to the mouth of the canal leading out of Tugboat Louie's. The FBI, which was responsible for handling criminal investigations in waters twelve miles off shore, kept a high-speed cutter and crew on twenty-four-hour alert in nearby Port Everglades. It was the best chance we had of finding Perez's boat.
Linderman and I walked outside the hangar and waited for the cutter to arrive. Kumar came down the dock and pulled me into the hangar's cool shade.
“Jack, will you please tell me what's going on?”
Normally, it was best to say nothing during an investigation. But Kumar was my friend, and I couldn't keep him in the dark.
“The man you saw with Perez was Simon Skell, the Midnight Rambler. The woman was kidnapped. They're going to take her out and throw her overboard.”
“And I let him get away,” Kumar said.
“You did everything you could,” I said.
“No, I did not. There is something I did not tell your FBI friend.”
“What's that?”
“Over the past six months, Perez took his boat out many times, always when it was late at night. Several employees saw him and thought it was suspicious.”