by Tim Dorsey
“You’re not going to help me?”
“Didn’t say that,” replied Brook. “Despite what you may see in movies and on TV about the Blue Wall of Silence, the one thing good cops really hate is bad cops.”
“Then you’ll call this family I know?”
“Except for a single detail,” said Brook. “What’s drug-smuggling forfeiture have to do with migrant workers?”
“Think about it,” said Danny. “Besides drug dealers, who else will never come forward to appeal a seizure?”
“Illegal immigrants,” said Brook, beginning to nod. “I can connect the rest of the dots. Since these workers don’t have bank accounts, every time they move on to the next town, their life savings are in the car. All a crooked department has to do is look for a vehicle full of poor Latinos packed to the roof with all their possessions . . . Uh, but . . .”
“There a problem?” asked Danny.
“The case has a drug angle that the city’s attorneys are sure to exploit, and that’s way outside my field.” Brook picked up the phone. “I need some expert advice on case law, and luckily I know just the attorney—”
More yelling outside. Sirens. A swirl of colored lights shone up into the law office.
Brook stared at the ceiling. “Is this a disco?”
“It doesn’t look like all those colors are from emergency vehicles,” said Danny.
Then the screaming became so loud it could no longer be ignored.
Brook hung up the phone and went to the window. “What on earth is going on out there?”
The others joined her, looking at a fire truck and several police cars. Curiosity got the best of them, and they trotted down the stairs into the parking lot.
“Excuse me, Officer,” said Brook. “I work late hours upstairs. Is there anything I need to be concerned about?”
The officer watched as two Korean women were loaded onto stretchers. A half-dozen others sat on the curb in handcuffs. “Apparently they figured out how to use depilatory lasers as handheld weapons.”
Chapter 11
Negotiations
The TV trucks began arriving on an otherwise quiet neighborhood street in southern Sarasota County. Reporters clamored for information as officers kept them back behind the ropes.
A female correspondent held a microphone out to a sergeant. “You’ve got to give us something.”
“All I can say at this time is that there’s a standoff, but we have our best negotiating team inside.”
Inside: Rog sat tensely in a straight-backed chair, staring down the barrel of a gun. “W-w-why won’t you let me leave?”
“Because we haven’t gotten our free pizza yet,” said Serge. “Everyone knows if you take a hostage, you get free pizza. I didn’t make the rules.”
Coleman toked a roach. “And free drugs, too.”
“That’s right,” said Serge. “One of the reasons they give you free pizza is to lace it with phenobarbital so you’ll go to sleep.”
“The key is to know your tolerance,” said Coleman. “And mix it with uppers.”
Serge pulled out a notepad. “Rog, what’s your pleasure?”
“Huh?”
“On your pizza?”
“I really don’t care.”
“Okay, you can pick off the stuff you don’t like . . . Coleman?”
“The usual.”
Serge grabbed the phone. “We’re ready for our free pizza . . . Two large pies, the works on one, extra phenobarbital on the other . . . Crust? Let’s go with garlic-butter this time . . . No, we don’t want to add wings or a two-liter bottle of Pepsi to make it a combo . . . Okay.” He hung up. “They said up to an hour because of traffic.”
More whimpering. “I just want to leave.”
Serge aimed the remote control at the TV. “You don’t like Route 66? But it can be enjoyed on so many different levels. Frankly, I can just watch it with the sound off and appreciate the magnificent period black-and-white footage of our tragically lost landmarks. Let’s fast-forward!” Serge hit a button on the remote. “Here’s Guy Lombardo’s famous Port O’ Call Resort in Tierra Verde, where Tod hooks up with a female powerboat racer while showing model homes in a new development . . . and that’s the old Tampa Fronton in 1963. Look at what a tiny street Dale Mabry Highway was back then, and check out their rooming house on Bayshore Boulevard, where the guys befriend a jai alai player who’s actually a Cuban dissident. The show really hit its intellectual stride when they got to Florida . . . And here’s the Nautilus Motel in Cape Coral from the episode where Linc is taken hostage. Isn’t that ironic?”
“Please let me go.”
“You’re dwelling.” Serge walked to the window and picked up the phone again. “I see you all have Dunkin’ Donuts coffee out there. Bring two to the door immediately. I don’t care if they already have spit on the rim. Either ask for volunteers to give theirs up or pick a couple guys who aren’t carrying their weight. Later.” He hung up again and snapped his fingers. “Earth to Rog? You’re fading out.”
“I really want to surrender now.”
“Okay, okay,” said Serge. “Then negotiate it.”
“How?”
“Well, one of history’s best negotiators for my money was former U.S. senator George Mitchell, who hammered out the breakthrough Good Friday Belfast peace accords in 1998. You know his most brilliant tactic? He’d gather everyone together, and his only ground rule for the first day was that nobody could discuss what they were there to discuss.”
“I’m confused,” said Rog.
“Pure genius!” said Serge. “Imagine mortal enemies meeting for the first time, and there are hundreds of dead relatives on both sides. In stand-up comedy, they call that ‘a tough room.’ So Mitchell said bullshit on how it’s been done before: We’re going to talk about our kids and sports and movies and how we suspect that all weather forecasters, regardless of race or creed, are just making the shit up. I think they also got free pizza. Then, on the second day, they’re now pals: ‘You know all this killing-each-other stupidness that’s been going around?’ ‘Yeah, what’s the deal with that?’ . . .”
“Can I kick it off?” asked Coleman.
“Rock the negotiation!”
“Rog, you know any weed guys?”
“Coleman!” said Serge. “What’s it always with you and the weed guys?”
“I’m putting out feelers. Mine’s become unreliable.”
“Of course he’s unreliable,” said Serge. “He’s a weed guy. That’s his job.”
“To a point,” said Coleman. “But there are certain pot etiquettes, like don’t show up, toke and split; or if it’s offered to you free, don’t bad-mouth the stash no matter how stale; or if you’ve made your weed guy a bundle of money, he shouldn’t refuse your phone calls just because you dropped his favorite ceramic dragon bong through his glass coffee table—”
“Enough!” said Serge. “It’s obvious that I need to pick the category again. Pet peeves for a hundred, Alex. I hate it when I’m watching another action movie, and for the thousandth time during the climax they cut to the gun slipping out of the hero’s hand and skittering away on a catwalk. I hate that the heroes in the same movies are avenging the murder of a partner two days before his retirement. I hate the driver in front of me who thinks a right turn on red is optional. I hate complaints about first-world problems: ‘The Cheesecake Factory isn’t open late enough.’ I hate that there’s now such a thing as a ‘social media butler.’ I hate the perversion of the English language: incentive-ize, pre-planning, optics, face time, at the end of the day, using up all the oxygen in the room, saying literally when you mean figuratively . . .”
Coleman raised his hand. “So I shouldn’t say, ‘I literally shit myself’?”
“You’re the exception that proves the rule,” said Serge. “But you know what I really hate? The public’s insulting definition of ‘serial killer’! . . . Rog, chime in at any time.”
A wild stare.
“Tha
t’s why I can’t just walk out of here. Who knows what they’ve figured out? This is my whole point. It’s so unfair that there’s no distinction between ‘serial killer’ and what I’d like to coin ‘sequential killer.’ . . . Rog, again, feel free to buzz in.”
“W-w-what’s the difference?”
“Serial killers are sick, obsessive losers who will never stop until they die or get arrested. Sequential killers, on the other hand, just happen to be the only person around when action is required. You know how some people avoid getting involved at all costs? Not me! It’s about character, Rog. A sequential killer never intends to kill again—it’s just that the cosmic hand of responsibility sometimes keeps picking the same person. If I don’t act, I’m selfishly leaving work for the next person. That’s not how I was raised. You agree? . . . A simple nod will do.”
Rog’s head trembled as it rose up and down.
“That’s a complex nod,” said Serge. “But what really muddies the water is the term ‘psychopath.’ People think it’s synonymous with the Zodiac, the Night Stalker, Jack the Ripper, but that’s more cruel injustice . . . Rog, take slow, deep breaths . . .”
. . . Meanwhile, secure phone calls began crisscrossing South Florida.
“Cargill, this is Special Agent Braun.”
“What can the CIA do for you today?”
“Police have cornered an international terror suspect in Sarasota County, but his name’s not on any of our watch lists.”
“Give it to me.”
“Rogelio Martinez.”
“I’ll run it through. Who’s on scene besides local?”
“A pair of hostage negotiators.”
“Hope you don’t mind me asking, but if he’s not on your watch list, how’d you know to send your negotiators instead of leaving it to the county?”
“That’s the thing,” said Braun. “Uh, you didn’t happen to send any negotiators?”
“You mean you don’t have any idea who’s in the house?”
“Oh, no, no, no!” said Braun. “It’s just that the situation is very fluid at the moment, and a lot of jurisdictions are involved. In case the negotiators are part of a joint task force, I wanted to give a heads-up so you didn’t think we were stepping on your toes.”
“Appreciate the professional courtesy,” said Agent Cargill. “You’ll be the first person I call as soon as I find out anything.” He hung up.
An aide was standing next to him. “You’re really going to call the FBI back?”
“Hell no! If that asshole Braun doesn’t have a clue who’s negotiating the surrender, I’ll be damned if he’s going to grab the headlines all for himself . . . Get Homeland Security on the line. I’ll find out who’s really inside that house . . .”
Inside that house: “. . . A psychopath could be sitting right next to you, Rog, or the person at the top of a company where you can never get a live person on the phone. Need a prime example? This one’s from the file marked ‘Just when you already thought corporate America couldn’t stoop any lower.’ Sometimes family members will suffer a sudden loss and need to fly to a funeral in a big hurry. But booking a flight at the last minute can get expensive, so in the airline industry there’s something known as a ‘compassion’ or ‘bereavement’ rate designed especially for relatives of the recently deceased. But one particular airline calculated that most people wouldn’t be thinking straight in their grief, and when they call to get the special fare, they’re quoted a price much higher than everyone else is receiving at that very minute. A psychopath thought of that.” Serge gritted his teeth. “I’m not naming names, but I could literally kill someone at that airline! . . . Rog, where are you wandering off to? I meant figuratively.” Serge got up and guided the sobbing man away from the front door and back to his chair. “You need to sit down. You’re getting light-headed waiting for that pizza . . .”
Back to the phones:
“. . . What can Homeland Security do for you today, Agent Cargill?”
“. . . We’ve uncovered a sleeper cell near the Sarasota-Charlotte county line, and I just wanted to keep you in the loop because our joint task force has two men inside, and I’m expecting a lot of positive press out of this. The kingpin is Rogelio ‘The Scorpion’ Martinez. It’s such a sensitive operation that he’s not on our regular watch lists.”
“And how can I help?”
“Did we have some negotiators on loan to you? We’re working up the press releases and wanted to make sure you receive proper credit.”
“I’ll check it out and get back to you, but thanks for the call.”
Another aide. “But you’re not calling him back?”
“Hell no!” He dialed the NSA. “Agent Cooper? This is Maxwell at Homeland . . .”
Minutes later, Agent Cooper hung up.
“What is it?” asked his aide.
Cooper grabbed his coat off a rack. “Looks like a plot against the airlines, the ports and Amtrak. They have the head of the entire network cornered in Sarasota. Rogelio ‘The Fighting Desert Scorpion’ Martinez . . . Get the chopper ready . . .”
. . . A member of the Sarasota SWAT team walked up the front steps and knocked on the door.
Serge answered and raised eyebrows in joy. “Pizza’s here! . . . Which one’s laced with drugs? Don’t want to dose myself.”
“I marked it for you,” said the black-helmeted officer.
“Thanks.” Serge closed the door. “Soup’s on!” He opened two cardboard boxes at the counter. One of the pizzas had a toothpick with a little flag: Phenobarbital. Serge and Coleman dug in. “Get over here, Rog! You must be famished!”
Florida Cable News
A black SUV sat on the shoulder of Highway A1A in Dania Beach. Surf crashed in the night as a stiff onshore breeze ruffled palm fronds and blew an Almond Joy wrapper through the grass. Reevis compulsively chased down the litter and stuck it in his pocket.
Günter Klieglyte strapped on his battery belt as Nigel leaned against the fender. “There it is.”
“Where?” asked Reevis.
Nigel nodded toward a place across the dark street.
Reevis looked at one of the mom-and-pop motels along the beach still proudly run by the original owner. It showed. Landscaping well tended, and all the azaleas, crotons and hibiscus remained trimmed to uniform height. Even the paint job was fresh; not a flake or peeling chip anywhere in the latest coat of Creamsicle orange. All the neon letters still worked in a sign that spelled Octopus Arms.
Günter hoisted the camera to his shoulder. “All set.”
Nigel faced Reevis and tightly interlaced his fingers like he was pulling for a sports team to come through on the final play. “Here’s the big shot of the show! This is the quaint little motel that the victim and her husband managed at the time she went missing. The husband still operates the place, so here’s what we need: Günter will walk beside you filming a tracking shot as you approach the office, saying, ‘The entire cold case revolves around this unassuming tropical inn. She might have even been murdered on these very grounds. And the heartbroken husband is still keeping his wife’s memory alive by keeping the place open. Or is he actually hiding something? I’m going inside to see if he’ll talk and shed some light on this macabre riddle.’ . . . Got it?”
“All but the part about ‘hiding something,’” replied Reevis. “I’m not going to say that.”
“Why not?”
Reevis counted off on his fingers. “Because it’s not true. Because the poor guy lost a wife. Because the short-order cook probably did it.”
“No time to discuss this right now.” Nigel looked nervously at his Rolex. “We’re on a super-tight schedule!”
“Tight?” said Reevis. “It’s a four-year-old cold case.”
Nigel shook his head. “There’s a rival reality show on the west coast about to break a case almost identical to this one on Anna Maria Island.”
“Rival?” asked Reevis.
“Total frauds. Their whole gimmick is accuracy.
We’ve crossed paths too many times to count. And not far behind them are the Australians.”
“Australians?”
“That’s why speed is of the essence,” said Nigel.
“I still won’t do it,” said Reevis.
“Okay, fine, you don’t have to mention him hiding anything.” Nigel turned to Günter with a pragmatic expression. “We’ll B-roll it with over-dub.”
“B-roll?” asked the reporter.
“That’s when we shoot atmospheric footage without the talent present and voice in things they haven’t said.”
Günter focused the camera. “B-rolls cure a multitude of sins.”
“Reevis, you ready?”
“Give me a moment.” Reevis unfolded a sheet of paper with a series of questions.
“You can put that away,” said Nigel.
“Why?”
“Because as soon as you enter the office, we’ll come flying in behind you with the camera, demanding to know why he won’t answer your questions until he throws us out.”
“Maybe we could try a softer entrance?” said Reevis. “We can’t be sure he won’t answer my questions.”
“Actually we can,” said Nigel. “I called earlier to tell him we were coming over to find out what incriminating evidence he was trying to hide. He acted like a jerk.”
Reevis’s head fell. “Please refrain from contacting my interview subjects. I do this for a living, and first impressions are critical, especially with the reluctant ones. It takes a certain touch . . .”
“And that’s why you’re perfect for this show!” said Nigel. “We saw your touch the other day in the Sawgrass Lounge. We called ahead there as well, but then you went inside and worked your magic. It was quite an amazing thing to watch.”
“So why not let me try again with the husband?” asked Reevis.
