Midnight Rambler_ A Novel Of Suspense Part 2

Two of Miami's finest appeared in the backyard with their weapons drawn. They cornered Castillo and disarmed him. I kept my distance, content to hold Isabella against my chest and let the scene play itself out. One of the cops said, "Is that your dog?"

"Sure is," I said.

"Make him let the guy go, or I'll have to shoot him."

Buster's hackles were up, and he looked twice as big as his sixty pounds. I slapped his nose, and he released Castillo and pinned himself to my side.

Margolin and Tommy came out of the house, covered in dirt.

While Tommy explained the situation to the cops, Margolin came over to me. She could not stop admiring the baby.

"She's beautiful. Look at those golden locks of hair."

"Want to do the honors?" I asked.

She almost said yes, then shook her head.

"You do it."

"You were first responder," I reminded her.

"You cracked the case. You deserve it."

"That's very nice of you," I said.

Margolin put her hand on my cheek and looked deeply into my eyes. She was the kind of woman I find attractive, and her smile ignited emotions buried deep within me. As she walked away, my eyes followed her longer than they probably should have.

Babies are perfect; ask any parent. I walked up the street to Vasquez's BMW, admiring Isabella. I had saved a lot of kids, and it never got old.

Exhaust was coming out of the BMW's tailpipe, and the windows were shut tight. I still wore my wedding ring, and I used it to tap on the driver's window. Vasquez was deep in prayer and lifted his head.

"You can come out now," I said.

Vasquez got out of the car saying, "Oh, my G.o.d, oh, my G.o.d," with tears streaming down his face. I handed him his daughter, and he nearly dropped her. I realized he'd never held his child before, and showed him how to do it.

"Keep her head up," I said.

"Like this?" he asked, cradling her head with his hand.

"That's it. Don't worry. She won't break."

Holding Isabella against his chest, he pulled out his cell phone to call his wife. I started to walk away, and he stopped me.

"I'm sorry for what I said at the hospital," he said.

"Don't worry about it," I said.

"I was wrong."

"Heat of the moment."

He took out a business card and shoved it into my hand.

"That's my card. My cell phone number's on the bottom. Call me if you ever need anything."

"That's not necessary, Mr. Vasquez."

"I mean it. Anytime, day or night, call me. I won't ever forget this."

I pocketed the card. When I was a cop, a lot of people I helped find loved ones made me similar offers, and I always turned them down. But times had changed. My life was a train wreck, and I needed all the friends I could get.

"Thank you, Mr. Vasquez," I said.

I followed Tommy and Margolin to police headquarters in downtown Miami to get my money. Tommy paid me out of petty cash and did not make me sign a receipt. Then he and Margolin offered to buy me brunch.

I was tempted to say yes. I was hungry, and I wanted to celebrate with them. It was not every day that things went this well.

But there was the matter of the homicide trial that I was expected to appear at tomorrow. I was the prosecution's key witness, and I needed to spend time going over my testimony. I'd been told by the prosecutor that I would be grilled by the defense and would need to be ready.

I asked them for a rain check. Tommy said okay, while Margolin just smiled with her eyes. She was a nice lady, and if I hadn't been clinging to the falsehood that my wife and I would someday reunite, I would have asked her on a date.

Outside, in the visitors' parking lot, I found a uniformed cop standing beside my car. It was the same cop who had threatened to shoot my dog if he wouldn't let Castillo go.

"Something wrong?" I asked.

"That's some dog you've got," the cop said.

I didn't know if he meant this as a compliment, and grunted under my breath.

"You thinking of breeding him?" the cop asked.

"Actually, I was going to neuter him."

"Get puppies first," he said.

"You want one?"

"Yeah. I'll give you a hundred bucks for one of the males."

"He's a purebred Australian shepherd," I said.

"Two hundred," he countered.

I was desperate enough for cash to take the guy's name and number. As I climbed into my car, Buster stuck his head into my lap.

"You just might get laid," I told him.

CHAPTER FOUR.

"State your name," the bailiff declared.

"Jack Harold Carpenter," I replied.

"Place your left hand on the Bible, your right hand in the air.

Do you solemnly swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you G.o.d?"

My fingertips rested lightly on the Bible's cracked leather cover. I hadn't given testimony at a trial in six months, and I felt out of place standing in a courtroom. My navy Ralph Lauren suit was too large for my thinned-down, six-foot frame, and the skinny necktie I'd purchased at a thrift shop that morning didn't adequately hide the monstrous coffee stain on my white cotton s.h.i.+rt. Although my life had changed drastically since my departure from the police force, its purpose had not, and I straightened my shoulders.

"I do," I replied.

"Please be seated," the bailiff said.

I took the hard wooden chair in the witness stand and felt the previous witness's warmth. Wilson Battles, the silver-haired judge presiding over the case, acknowledged me with a nod. I'd testified in his courtroom before, and I nodded back.

Then I looked at the jury of eight women and four men. Their faces were hard, filled with skepticism and doubt. I was not a popular person. Back when I was a detective, I put a murder suspect named Simon Skell into the hospital for an extended stay.

The case was still discussed in the newspapers and on TV. One editorial had called me a stain on the conscience of the community. But that wasn't why I was here. Before my fall from grace, I had been a d.a.m.n good cop and had pulled plenty of monsters off the streets. One of those monsters was sitting in this courtroom.

By the time my testimony was over, I wanted there to be no doubt in this jury's minds as to who that monster was, and what he'd done.

Lars Johannsen sat at the defense table flanked by two high-priced defense attorneys. Lars was a big Swede with a face shaped like a milk bottle and a shock of blond hair. He stared coldly at me. His pet.i.te wife sat behind him in the spectator gallery, tearfully shredding a Kleenex.

The prosecutor stepped forward to begin her questioning. Her name was Veronica Cabrero, and she wore heavy makeup and an emerald-green dress that clung to her body like Saran wrap. Around the courthouse she was called the Cuban firecracker, and she had been fined for contempt by several judges for outbursts in their courtrooms. I would do just about anything for her.

"Mr. Carpenter, you were formerly chief investigator of the Broward County Missing Persons unit, correct?" she began.

"Yes," I answered into the microphone perched by my chair.

"How long did you hold this position?"

"Sixteen years."

"Would you say you're an expert at locating missing people?"

I'd heard it said that an expert was someone who lived a hundred miles away. The truth was, I enjoyed finding missing people and had never wanted to do anything else. When people went missing, there was always the hope of finding them alive. And even the tiniest ray of hope looked bright compared to the blackness of most police work.

"Yes," I said.

"The afternoon of Abby Fox's disappearance, you were the first policeman to arrive at Lars Johannsen's house," she went on. "As chief investigator, did you normally handle cases like this?"

"No."

"Who did?"

"Usually one of my people."

"Why did you take this case?"

All good testimony is rehea.r.s.ed, and mine was no exception. Facing the jury, I explained how years earlier I'd found Abby Fox working the streets of Fort Lauderdale as a teenage prost.i.tute. She'd been tossed out of her house by her parents and was what people in law enforcement call a "thrownaway." I'd gotten her into a shelter and, over time, helped her get her life together. Since then, we'd talked on a regular basis, and I knew that she'd gone to work as a nanny for a big Swede who'd been giving her funny looks. When the call came in that she was missing, I took it.

"Please describe what you found when you arrived at Lars Johannsen's house," Cabrero said.

Lars had met me at the front door. He'd explained how Abby had left five hours earlier to buy groceries and had not returned. I immediately got the color and model of Abby's car from him and issued a tri-county alert for the vehicle.

An hour later, Abby's car was found parked near a wooded area a few miles from Lars's home. I decided to conduct a search using several sheriff 's deputies, plus some neighbors who'd volunteered to help. I also let Lars tag along.

The search was conducted by the book. Everyone lined up six feet apart in the woods, took one giant step, stopped and visually inspected the ground, then repeated the process. After a few hours, everyone had started to slow down.

Then something odd happened. Lars sped up and started plowing through the woods. As a result, the rest of the search party also sped up. It felt like a ploy, and I instructed the deputies to remain with the group while I stayed behind to search the area.

It did not take me long to find Abby's shallow grave. She'd been buried in a shaded area behind a stand of thick cypress trees. I cleared away the earth with my hands until her head was uncovered. She was an attractive girl, and the ring of purple bruises around her neck made me choke up.

There was also a white handkerchief covering her eyes. The placement of the handkerchief told me a lot. It said that the killer had known Abby and had feared her gaze, even in death.

I caught up to the search party, found Lars, and took him to my car. I told him that I'd located Abby's body and watched his reaction. When he refused to meet my gaze, I took the handkerchief out of my pocket and showed it to him. It was in a plastic evidence bag, which I dangled in front of his nose.

"Whose fingerprints do you think we'll find on this?" I asked.

Lars looked away. The truth was, his fingerprints on the handkerchief wouldn't have proved a thing. It could have been Abby's handkerchief, which he might have touched at some time. Only Lars hadn't known this, so he broke down and confessed. A voice-activated tape recorder in the glove compartment had recorded everything.

"Is that when you arrested him?" Cabrero asked.

"Yes," I said.

I leaned back in my chair and took a deep breath. I had avoided looking at the jury while speaking, but I looked at them now. Their icy resolve had melted away. I'd swayed them.

"Did Lars Johannsen tell you why he killed Abby?" Cabrero asked.

"No," I said.

"Do you have any theories why he did it?"

One of Lars's defense attorneys sprang to his feet.

"Objection!" he said.

"Sustained," Judge Battles said. "Ms. Cabrero, this courtroom is no place for theories, despite the witness's obvious credentials."

"I'm sorry, your honor," Cabrero said. "I have no further questions."