Free Midnight Rambler by James Swain

said.
    Bash said something that sounded like Jesus. It was the only part of the conversation that didn't feel scripted. I felt Buster against my leg and released the counter edge.
    “Detective Carpenter burned your husband's genitals with a cigarette to make him confess to a crime that he didn't commit?” Bash asked.
    “He most certainly did,” Lorna Sue whispered.
    “Folks, we need to hear from one of our sponsors. We'll be back in sixty.”
    I felt like I'd been kicked. Lorna Sue was lying through her teeth. But until someone disputed her claims, they'd stick. And I didn't see Bobby Russo or the district attorney jumping in to defend me.
    Buster let out a whine. I slipped him a piece of chicken while thinking about the timing of Lorna Sue's appearance on Court TV and now Bash's show. She was trying to publicly assassinate me, and I wondered who was pushing her. Was it Leonard Snook, or was Skell manipulating her from behind bars?
    “I saw that!” Claire said.
    I snapped back to the present. Claire stood behind the counter, glaring at me. Her husband, a skinny guy with a mullet cut morphing into a ponytail, hovered behind her.
    “Saw what?” I asked innocently.
    “You fed your dog in my restaurant.”
    No clever retort came to mind. Guilty as charged.
    “Sorry, I wasn't thinking,” I said.
    “Leave,” Claire demanded.
    “Excuse me?”
    “And never come back.”
    “I didn't mean any harm.”
    “You heard me. We know who you are.”
    “You do?”
    Her husband piped up. “Yeah, you're that stinking cop with the sadistic temper. Everyone knows what you did, buddy.”
    I blew out my cheeks.
Busted.
    “Get out, or we'll call the police,” Claire threatened.
    I've never been thrown out of a place before. It made me feel lower than a snake's belly. I grabbed my order off the counter and left with my dog.

CHAPTER ELEVEN
    T he next hour passed in a blur. I left the Skell file at the Sheriff 's Department headquarters along with an IOU for three hundred bucks for Russo. Back at my office, I hung the copies of the victims' photographs and spread the copied files on the floor, just as they were before. Carmella's photo gave me pause, and I wondered if the body in her sister's backyard had been identified as hers. I supposed I'd find out like everyone else—from the TV.
    Then I drove to the Sunset. I needed to jump into the ocean and wash away the scene at Claire's. Of all the rotten things that had happened to me recently, getting eighty-sixed from a crummy sandwich shop had been the most humiliating.
    Parking in the Sunset's lot I remembered the transmitter attached to my gas tank. Whoever had put it there was probably still tailing me. I pulled the device free and walked down to the shoreline. Before I could throw it into the ocean, a black 4Runner pulled into the lot and parked beside my car. The FBI agent I'd roughed up earlier got out and came toward me.
    The agent stopped when he was fifteen feet away. The first thing I noticed about him were his eyes. They were sad-looking and matched the gunmetal of his close-cropped hair. I pointed at Buster, who stood protectively by my side.
    “He isn't friendly,” I said.
    “Neither's his owner,” the FBI agent said.
    He said this in a good-natured way. I told Buster to heel and showed the agent the transmitter.
    “Looking for this?” I asked.
    “What is it?”
    “An electronic transmitter. Someone stuck it beneath my car.”
    “Not me,” he said.
    I heaved the transmitter into the ocean. Then I peeled off my clothes until I was standing in my underwear. My regard for the law had changed since my departure from the force, and I wasn't going to let this guy stop me from taking my swim.
    “Jack, I need to talk to you,” the FBI agent said.
    “That's nice,” I replied.
    “Do you know who I am?”
    “No, should I?”
    He took out his wallet and showed me his credentials. Special Agent Ken Linderman, Quantico, Virginia. I'd heard of him. Linderman was the