by Stuart Woods
Her phone rang. She grabbed a towel and, still dripping wet, grabbed the phone by the john. “Hello?”
“Good morning, it’s Hurd.”
“Morning, Hurd. What’s up?”
“Somebody phoned in a floater in the Indian River about half an hour ago. Patrol car checked it out, and it was real. The ME is on the way. I thought you’d like to take a look.”
“Where?”
“About three hundred yards south of the North Bridge. Sounds like somebody tossed him off the bridge, and the tide took him down. He came to rest against somebody’s dock.”
“I’ll be there in half an hour,” she said. “Don’t let anybody take the body away before I’ve seen it.”
“Right.”
She hung up, dressed, fed Daisy, and let her out while she had a quick bowl of cereal. The floater wasn’t going anywhere, so there was no great need to rush. Daisy came back and scratched at the screen door, wanting her cookie for a job well done. Holly gave it to her, then they both got into her car and drove north.
The floater was in a body bag when she got there, stretched out on an ambulance gurney. The medical examiner arrived a minute after she did.
“Let’s have a look,” she said to the EMT.
The EMT unzipped the entire length of the bag and peeled it back, revealing a white male, thirty to forty years of age, longish black hair, swarthy complexion. She reckoned he was six feet and weighed in at about one-eighty.
The ME walked over and stood beside her. “Look at the mouth,” he said.
Holly pulled on a pair of rubber gloves and peeled back the lips, which were tattered. “Missing his front teeth,” she said.
“Broken off,” the ME replied.
“Let’s roll him over.” The two of them rolled the body over, facedown. “There’s why,” Holly said, pointing to the back of the head.
The ME parted the hair on the back of the head to reveal a wound. “One shot to the back of the head, came out the mouth, took some teeth with it.”
“Was he kneeling?”
“The angle is right for it.”
They rolled the corpse onto its back again, and Holly examined the wrists. “No ligature marks,” she said. “He wasn’t tied up at the time.”
“A gun pointed at the head is enough to get a man on his knees,” the ME said. “He didn’t need to be tied.”
“Anybody go through his pockets?”
“No,” the officer replied. “We were waiting for the ME.”
“I’ll do it at the morgue,” the ME said. “Three to one he won’t have any ready ID.”
“I agree,” Holly said. “Do what you can with his clothes.”
“We always do,” the ME replied. “Okay, fellas, I’ll meet you at the morgue.”
The EMTs loaded the corpse into their wagon and drove away, with the ME right behind. Holly looked around. Nice spot, she thought. Nice house, nice dock, nice boat tied up to it. She heard a screen door slam and turned to see a man coming out of the house.
“Good morning,” she said. “Sorry to disturb you.”
“Thanks for hauling that thing away,” the man said.
“All part of the service. Did you hear anything last night? Anything like a gunshot?”
The man shook his head. “Nah. I reckon it happened upriver, probably at the bridge, and the tide brought him down here.”
“You should be a cop,” Holly said, trying not to sound sarcastic, since it was what she thought, too. “Did you get a good look at him?”
“Yep.”
“Ever seen him before?”
“Nope. Looks Cuban to me.”
“Maybe.”
“He just floated down here and came to rest against one of the piers of my dock. I guess the barnacles snagged some of his clothing. I was going fishing.” He pointed at his tackle beside the boat. “You going to be able to identify him?”
“Maybe. The body will be searched for ID, and we’ll take his fingerprints and check them with the state and the Feds. We’ll check the missing persons reports for somebody resembling him, too.”
“How did he die?”
“The medical examiner will have to determine that, officially.”
“Unofficially, my guess would be a bullet,” the man said.
“Could be. Or he could have been fishing off the bridge last night, fell off and drowned, maybe hit his head on something. We won’t jump to conclusions.” Even if she had already jumped.
“I guess you know your job,” the man said.
“Thanks, yes, I do.”
“What are your chances of finding out who he is and what happened to him?”
“Better than fifty-fifty,” she said, though she didn’t really feel that confident.
“It’s organized crime,” the man said.
Holly held back a laugh. “We don’t have all that much organized crime around here.”
“You got a murder on your hands, Chief,” the man said.
When a citizen was right, he was right, Holly thought.
“I’d like to know how it comes out.”
“Watch the papers,” Holly said. She shook his hand, went back to her car, and headed for the morgue. Something had struck her about this corpse, and she wanted her curiosity satisfied.
19
Holly gave the medical examiner a couple of hours’ head start, then went to his office. She had seen more than one autopsy, and more than one was enough. When she walked into his lab, the ME was just finishing.
“Hey,” he said.
“What’s the story?” she asked, nodding at the corpse on the table under the sheet.
The ME consulted his notes on a clipboard. “Well-developed male, closer to thirty than forty, Hispanic, very probably Cuban. Death was from a single gunshot to the back of the head, probably while kneeling, hard-nosed bullet, forty-caliber, went through intact, took out the front teeth.”
“Anything I don’t already know?”
“Did you know he was Cuban?”
“The man who owned the dock where he was found thought so. Why do you?”
“Amalgam fillings,” the ME replied. “They still do them in Cuba, but not here so much. He had a mouth full of socialist-era dentistry.”
“Would that indicate that he was somebody special, having access to dental care?”
“Nah. The Cubans pride themselves on their medical system.”
“Did you find any other marks on the body?” She didn’t want to lead him.
“Bruised knuckles on the right hand; he might have taken a swing at whoever shot him.”
“Anything else?”
The ME peered at her. “Sounds like you have something in mind.”
“I do, but I’d rather you told me.”
“Come on, Chief, tell me.”
She walked over to the table and hoisted the cloth covering the body above the knees. “Take a look at that,” she said, pointing at the left knee.
The doctor looked at it. “Oh,” he said. “All right.” He began writing on his clipboard. “Severe bruising of the left knee.” He made a note of it.
“How old?” Holly asked.
“Hard to say: a few days, I guess.”
Holly parted the hair on her left temple. “Take a look at this.”
The ME looked at her head. “You’ve got severe bruising, too; are you and the deceased related?”
“It’s the age of the bruise I’m talking about,” she said.
“You think you and the deceased heal at the same rate, and in different parts of the body?”
“Come on, Doctor, could the two bruises have occurred at the same time?”
“You mean, you think the deceased might have bruised his knee while applying it to your temple?”
“No, that’s not what I mean. Answer my question, please.”
“Well, yes, his bruise and yours could have occurred on the same day. I wouldn’t want to put my professional weight behind that in court, if it came to that.”
> “Thank you,” she said. Like pulling teeth. “How long has he been dead?”
“Since the wee hours of this morning,” the ME replied. “That’s my best guess; his being in the water most of the night screwed up body temperature as a way of determining time of death more precisely. He would have cooled off faster.”
“What else can you tell me about him?”
“He’s very well built, probably works out on a regular basis. His clothes were expensive—Italian labels—and he had a good manicure. If you blow-dried his hair, he’d probably have a good haircut, too, but river water doesn’t improve the look.”
“Any jewelry?”
“He’s got a whiter band on his left wrist, indicating that he or somebody else removed a wristwatch. And there’s this.” The doctor walked to a counter, picked up a plastic container, and emptied it into Holly’s hand. The contents consisted of a small gold locket on a light, matching chain, and a diamond stud earring of about half a carat.
“Looks like something a girl would wear,” she said, examining the stud.
“A lot of men wear earrings these days,” the doctor replied. “I can’t imagine why.”
Holly picked up the locket and opened it. A little Indian River water drained out. Inside was a photograph of a pretty Latino girl, perhaps in her early twenties. Holly dug out the photograph with a fingernail and looked on the back. Nothing. “Looks like a Polaroid, trimmed to fit the locket.”
“Well, somebody loved him, then,” the doctor sighed.
“Where are his clothes?” she asked.
The doctor pointed to another counter.
Holly walked over to the pile and went through them. Everything was black, the shirt silk and the trousers cotton. He had worn briefs, bikini cut, also black. The socks were cotton, the shoes Italian, Bruno Magli. They were moccasin-like, soft with rubber studs on the soles. “Driving shoes,” Holly said aloud. Also good cat-burglar shoes; they wouldn’t make much noise against a floor. “No wallet?”
“Nope, though there was some money and some car keys. In the container there.” He pointed to the counter.
Holly found a thick wad of bills, a set of keys to a Chrysler product, and some change. “Twelve hundred and eight dollars,” she said, counting the damp currency.
“Maybe it was payday,” the ME said.
“Maybe it was, at that,” Holly agreed. “Or maybe recently. Did you pull his prints and get a dental impression?”
The doctor handed over a fingerprint card. “Here are the prints. I didn’t take a dental impression because we’re never going to find his dentist, this side of Havana, anyway, and the Cubans are not going to give us his dental records.”
“Do you have any other ideas about the body?”
“It was a mob execution, but these days, who knows which mob? Cuban? Colombian? Italian? Mexican? Oh, he could be Mexican; they still do amalgam fillings, too, but this feels Cuban to me.”
“Better take the dental impression then, in case he turns out to be Mexican.”
“If you say so,” the doctor said wearily.
“Tell you what, forget the dental impression, but if we have to exhume him later to get it, you do the digging. Deal?”
“I’ll take the impression.”
“Thank you, Doctor,” Holly said. “I’ll get back and run the prints.”
“Let me know what you come up with,” the ME said. “I always like to match what you find against what I guess.”
“What kind of a record do you have, guessing?” she asked.
“Pretty damned good,” he said, grinning.
Later, at her desk, Holly shook the locket out of the evidence bag and looked at the photograph inside again. “Well, sweetheart, you won’t be seeing him again, and you’ll always wonder why.” Then she looked at the car keys among the effects. She pressed a button on the phone. “Hurd?”
“Yes, Chief?”
“Got a minute?”
“Sure, be right there.” He stood in her doorway a moment later.
She tossed him the car keys. “Track down somebody at Daimler-Chrysler and see if the number on the ignition key will tell us what kind of car it was and give us the VIN number.”
“Sure thing,” Hurd said.
“And don’t forget to log your possession of the keys on the chain-of-evidence form.”
“Right. Something I’d like to talk to you about later, if you have the time.”
“Talk about it now, if you like.”
“This is more important,” Hurd said. “Want me to run any prints?”
She handed him the card. “Almost forgot.”
Hurd went back to his own office, and Holly wondered what she’d do without him.
20
Holly was about to go to lunch when Ed Shine called. “How are you, young lady?”
“Very well, Ed, and you?”
“I could hardly be better; sold another house, and my ad in the law enforcement journal you recommended has produced a prospect.”
“I’d be happy to talk to him for you,” she said, remembering her promise.
“That’s why I called. He’ll be in touch.”
“All right, what’s his—”
“Gotta run, honey. Let me know what you think, and remember, if for any reason you feel I shouldn’t hire him, you just say the word.”
“Okay, but . . .”
“Bye.” Ed hung up.
Holly stood up and stretched, feeling hungry. She was about to leave when Hurd Wallace appeared again. “That was quick,” she said. “You got something?”
“Not yet,” Hurd replied. “I’m here for the interview.”
“What interview?”
“Didn’t Ed Shine call you?”
That let the air out of Holly. “You’re Ed’s candidate?”
“I answered his ad.”
“Have a seat, Hurd,” she said, trying to collect herself.
Hurd pulled up a chair and sat down. “I saw the ad yesterday, and I faxed Shine my résumé.”
“Oh,” she replied. She hardly knew what to say next.
“He seemed to think I had a pretty good background,” Hurd said drolly.
“Well, of course you do, Hurd. I mean . . . this is something of a shock; I thought you were on board until retirement.”
“That’s pretty much what I thought,” Hurd said, “but next year I’ll have twenty-five on the job, and I was thinking of going fishing, anyway.”
“You fish?”
“Figuratively speaking. I thought I’d start a little business or do something part-time that would bring me enough income that, combined with my pension, would make life easy. Shine’s job looked a lot more attractive than that.”
“What’d he offer you?”
“Half again what I’m making, plus a really good benefits package.”
“God, I might be able to get you a ten percent raise if I went to the council and made a special request, but I couldn’t come close to that.”
“I know, Holly, and it’s all right. I don’t think I’m underpaid here, and I’m certainly not unhappy working for you, but Shine’s job looks awful attractive from where I’m sitting.”
“Has he told you what your duties would be?”
“Security; that’s about it. Between you and me, I believe I’d have to work hard at staying awake. It’s certainly not going to be as interesting as working in the department. I mean, we’re probably not going to have floaters turning up, like this morning.”
“I hope to God not,” Holly said. “Palmetto Gardens has made us enough work for a lifetime already.”
“Blood Orchid,” Hurd said solemnly.
“Oh, yeah, I keep forgetting, and Ed keeps reminding me.”
“He especially wanted you to know that he didn’t come to me,” Hurd said. “I just read the ad like everybody else. I got the impression that he’s really interested in my taking the job.”
“With my approval, of course,” Holly said, chuckling.
“Oh, Hurd, I’ll give you the kind of recommendation that would keep him from even thinking about hiring somebody else.”
“I appreciate that, Chief.”
“How could I do anything else? You’ve been all I could have asked for in a deputy chief.”
“Thank you.”
“When would you want to go?”
“As soon as you’re comfortable.”
“Hurd, I’m never going to be as comfortable with somebody else as I have been with you.”
“Thank you, again.”
“Tell me, who do you think would be good to replace you?”
Hurd looked at his feet. “Well . . . I thought about that, and—I hope this doesn’t sound egotistical—I don’t think there’s anybody in the department who’s ready for the job.”
“I’m afraid you’re right,” Holly said.
“They’re all too young and new at it. I admired your wanting to bring in young people, and I understood how that helped with your budgeting, since their salaries start lower, but I guess it’s kept us from having an obvious successor.”
“You’re right about that,” Holly said.
“Tell you the truth, it might be best not to hire one. You could parcel out my duties to three or four other people and get along without a deputy. Maybe before long one of them would start to look like somebody who could handle the whole thing.”
“That’s not a bad idea,” Holly said. “At least, it would take the pressure off about searching for somebody to hire. I might get some flak from the city council, though, not having another experienced person around.”
“I could make a couple of phone calls that might help with that,” Hurd said. “I’d be happy to back you up. My advice would be to hang on to the part of the budget that pays me, though. The council will want to reduce your budget if you don’t replace me immediately. You could tell them that you’re just taking your time finding the right person.”
“You were always a better politician than I, Hurd,” Holly said, laughing. “That’s a very good idea.”
“Well,” Hurd said, standing, “I’d better get back to work. We ought to have something later today or early tomorrow on IDing your floater.”
“Okay, that’s soon enough.” She stood up and offered Hurd her hand. “You deserve this.”
