"Your witness," Battles told the defense.

I did did have a theory as to why Lars Johannsen strangled Abby Fox, and it went like this: Lars matched the description of a guy who'd been picking up prost.i.tutes in Fort Lauderdale and brutalizing them. It had gotten so bad that Vice had set up a sting operation in an attempt to catch him. have a theory as to why Lars Johannsen strangled Abby Fox, and it went like this: Lars matched the description of a guy who'd been picking up prost.i.tutes in Fort Lauderdale and brutalizing them. It had gotten so bad that Vice had set up a sting operation in an attempt to catch him.

My theory was that Lars knew about the sting and had decided to lie low. But over time, his cravings became too strong, so he hired Abby to watch his daughter. In Abby he saw a perfect victim. She was young and attractive and had no family. By having her in his employ, he could abuse her whenever he wished-what cops call one-stop shopping.

Only Lars's plan had a flaw. Abby had gone through intensive counseling, and along with no longer being a prost.i.tute, she was also no longer a victim. She was her own person, and when she rebuffed Lars's advances, he flew into a rage, strangled her, and buried her body in the woods.

I didn't have a shred of proof to support this theory, just sixteen years of dealing with sc.u.m like Lars to know I'm right. Lars had hurt many women before Abby and, if let back into society, was going to hurt many more.

The shorter of Lars's defense attorneys approached the witness stand. I disliked defense attorneys who work in pairs. They reminded me of tag teams in wrestling matches, with neither member strong enough to go solo.

This one was named Bernie Howe. Howe had a clogged-sinus voice and a hair transplant that looked like rows of miniature cornstalks. Clutched in his hand were several sheets of paper, the top of which I was able to read upside down. It was a certificate of death, commonly called a COD, from Starke State Prison.

"Mr. Carpenter," Howe began, "isn't it true that when Lars Johannsen confessed in your car, you in fact were physically a.s.saulting him, and inflicting such pain that he was forced to say that he'd killed Abby Fox?"

"No," I replied.

"Isn't it true that you put your hands around the defendant's neck, choked him for over a minute, and threatened to kill him if he didn't confess?"

"No."

"Mr. Carpenter, isn't it true that without your taped confession, there is no other solid evidence linking my client to this crime?"

"Yes."

"Mr. Carpenter, two weeks after my client was arrested, you were thrown off the police force, correct?"

Cabrero jumped to her feet and started to object. With a stare, I killed the words coming out of her mouth. The defense had only one tactic, and that was to turn the case against Lars Johannsen to one against me. I was ready for it. Cabrero sat back down, and I answered the question.

"I wasn't thrown off the force," I replied.

"But you were asked to step down," Howe said.

"I resigned."

"So you did remove yourself from the force."

"That is correct."

"Before you resigned, didn't the police conduct a hearing where you were accused of a.s.saulting a suspected serial killer named Simon Skell, also known as the Midnight Rambler, who spent two weeks in the hospital as a result of a beating you inflicted upon him?"

"Yes."

"Isn't it true that you fractured Samuel Skell's nose, jaw, and arm; knocked out several of his front teeth; threw him through a window; and fractured three of his ribs during that beating?"

"He attacked me during his arrest."

"Please answer the question."

The injuries that I'd inflicted upon Simon Skell had been in the newspapers enough times that I imagined every person in the courtroom could recite them from memory.

"Yes," I said.

"Mr. Carpenter, isn't it true that while you ran the Missing Persons unit of the Broward County Police Department, you conducted a personal vendetta against people committing violent crimes of a s.e.xual nature?"

"No, I did not."

Howe flipped over the sheets of paper in his hand and shoved them beneath my nose. "Do you recognize these, Mr. Carpenter?"

I looked down and studied the pages.

"No," I said.

"You're saying you don't know what they are?"

"No, I didn't bring my gla.s.ses."

The jury rewarded me with a few thin smiles. Scowling, Howe displayed the sheets to them. "These are certificates of death issued by the warden at Florida State Prison in Starke for three s.e.xual predators who Jack Carpenter sent there. These certificates were found thumbtacked to Jack Carpenter's office door the day he left the police force."

Howe faced me. "You put them on your door, didn't you, Mr.

Carpenter?"

"That's correct," I said.

"Would you care to explain why?"

"If a bad guy died in the joint, I usually let the other detectives know. We liked to keep up on that sort of thing."

Howe bore a hole into me with his eyes. "Isn't it true, Mr. Carpenter, that you sent information to the warden at Starke that was so damaging to these men's reputations that it eventually led to them being murdered by other inmates?"

"I'm sorry, but which men are you're talking about?" I asked.

Howe read off the three men's names from the CODs. Finished, he glanced up at me with a smug look on his face.

"Recognize them, Mr. Carpenter?"

"They sound familiar, but I'm not sure," I said.

Howe looked to the judge's box. "Your Honor, the witness is being evasive."

"Mr. Carpenter, you are required to answer the question," Battles said in a scolding voice. "Do you recognize the three names Mr. Howe just read, or don't you?"

Howe was accusing me of ethical misconduct. It was a hard charge to make stick, and it would have been easy for me to deny that I'd set those three men up. But I had something else in mind.

"Your Honor, I honestly don't remember if I did or not," I said. "Perhaps the defense would be so kind as to jog my memory."

Battles was a thirty-year veteran of the legal system and had seen his share of artful dodges in the courtroom. He studied me before replying.

"How would you propose Mr. Howe do that?" Battles asked.

"Have the defense read aloud the crimes these three men committed. I'm sure that once I hear what they did, I'll remember them and can tell Mr. Howe if I sent information to the warden at Starke that was inappropriate."

A disapproving howl came out of Howe's throat. The last thing he wanted was to have his client a.s.sociated with the heinous crimes committed by the three men whose names were on those CODs.

Battles silenced Howe with a wave of the hand. Then he removed his gla.s.ses and ma.s.saged the bridge of his nose. There were many people in the Broward legal system who did not approve of the things I did as a cop. But there were also many who did. I had always wondered which side of the fence Battles stood on.

"That sounds like a fine idea," Battles said. "Mr. Howe, read the crimes."

CHAPTER FIVE.

I descended the courthouse steps, tugging off my tie. Howe had spent another twenty minutes soiling me before finally quitting. I am a big guy with a reputation for being tough, but it doesn't mean I don't feel pain. The tie landed in a trash bin, which I kicked for good measure. descended the courthouse steps, tugging off my tie. Howe had spent another twenty minutes soiling me before finally quitting. I am a big guy with a reputation for being tough, but it doesn't mean I don't feel pain. The tie landed in a trash bin, which I kicked for good measure.

Crossing the parking lot, I tried to put the trial out of my mind. I could not change the past or predict the future, so I'd learned to accept the present for what it is. My daughter taught me this trick, and so far, it seemed to be working.

My car was parked in the back of the lot. I drove a dinosaur called an Acura Legend. The salesman had said it would be a cla.s.sic one day, but he'd never mentioned that the line was being discontinued. I left it unlocked with the windows open, and no one had tried to steal it.

Buster was asleep on the pa.s.senger seat and didn't stir until I opened my door. Remembering my manners, I let him out. He hiked his leg on a Porsche with a vanity plate that read ISUE, then circled my car while sniffing the ground. Something was bothering him, and I came around the pa.s.senger side to have a look.

Then I cursed.

Someone had keyed the pa.s.senger door and left a message.

SICK COP.

I ran my fingers across the words. They were too deep to buff out. The door would have to be repainted. Only I don't have the money. I looked disdainfully at Buster.

"Some watchdog you are," I said.

I lived in nearby Dania, a sleepy beach town known for its musty consignment shops and antique stores that sold the world's best junk. Most days, time stood still here, which suited me just fine. As I drove down Dania Beach Boulevard toward home, the ocean's dank, funky smell filled my car.

Pulling into the Sunset Bar and Grille on the northern tip of Dania Beach, I parked in the building's shade. The Sunset was a rough-hewn two-story structure, with half sitting on the beach and the other half resting on wood stilts over the ocean. I lived in a rented studio directly above the bar. My room was small, but the ocean view made it feel big. My rent was four hundred and fifty bucks a month, plus sitting on a stool next to the cash register on busy nights with a mean look on my face. So far, no one had robbed the place, and the owner seemed happy with the arrangement.

My cell phone rang, and I glanced at the Caller ID. It was Jessie, checking up on me. My daughter did this every day. I knew I should be grateful, but all it did was remind me of how far I'd fallen.

"Hey, honey, how's it going?" I answered.

"Great," Jessie said. "How are you? How's Buster?"

"I'm okay. Buster is Buster."

"How was the trial? Did you make out okay?"

"I survived."

"I hope they strap that son of a b.i.t.c.h into Sparky and fry his brains out."

Sparky was the infamous malfunctioning electric chair at Starke prison. A few days after Ted Bundy got juiced, the favorite joke among cops was to call each other and say, "Did you hear the news? Ted Bundy just stopped smoking."

"I hate to be the bearer of bad news," I said, "but the state has switched to lethal injection."

"That sucks," Jessie said. "Do you have any tips for me? The game is tomorrow night, and I need to get the team ready. We've got practice in an hour."

I grabbed a legal pad covered with scribble off the backseat. I hadn't done much with my daughter until she started playing basketball. Then I attended every high school game she played, and traveled with her to state finals. When she went to Florida State University on a basketball scholarship, I started calling a local bookie I knew. Women's hoops are big in Florida and, as a result, had a betting line. My bookie would get the skinny on the teams Florida State was playing, and pa.s.s it on to me.

"Here you go," I said. "Mayweather, their leading scorer, is in a slump. She picks up her shooting in the second half, so double-team her late in the game. Cooper, one of their forwards, missed December with a mystery illness, and is only good for twenty minutes. Run her around and she'll fold. Fisher, Cooper's sub, can't shoot but is a good pa.s.ser. The team has a tendency to rush their shots when they get behind. That's it."

"That's brilliant," my daughter said. "Coach wants to take you out to dinner the next time you visit."

"Tell her she's on."

"I will. Have you talked to Mom? I did. She asked about you the other day, wanted to know how you were making out."

"I'm doing fine. Tell her that, okay?"

"Why don't you tell her?"

I stared through the windshield at the Sunset. Talking about my wife made me want to get drunk. I had screwed up our marriage and couldn't bear discussing it.

"Mom wants to know how you're doing financially," my daughter went on. "How are are you making out, Dad?" you making out, Dad?"

My financial situation was a disaster, courtesy of Simon Skell's sister, who had brought a civil suit against me for the beating I'd inflicted upon her brother. The cost of hiring a lawyer to defend me had wiped me out.

"I'm living like a king," I said.

"But where's the money coming from? You're not robbing banks, are you?"

"I'm doing jobs for people."