by Carl Hiaasen
Angie had never seen a conch pearl. Spalding found the photos on his phone.
Christian leaned in and said, “Tell her who the customer was.”
Angie struck a comely pose, chin in hands. “Let me guess—Duchess of Cambridge? Diana Ross?”
“No, it’s that Secret Service dude I told you about,” whispered Spalding. “Mockingbird’s private joy stick.”
“Back up. Who’s Mockingbird?” Angie said.
“It’s the agents’ name for the First Lady.”
“The guy’s totally in love with her,” Christian cut in. “Can’t get enough.”
Spalding confirmed with a lewd hand gesture. “He was bummed the pearls didn’t get here in time for Valentine’s Day, so he made ’em an early birthday present. Word is some famous jeweler in Pensacola did a rush job on the earrings. Last night Mockingbird wore ’em to a pig roast for the Uzbekistan minister of antiquities. You don’t believe me, she’s all over the Shiny Sheet.”
The first time Angie had heard Spalding’s rumor about the First Lady’s fling, she hadn’t believed it—and hadn’t cared enough to press for verification. However, now that she was dating Ryskamp, the story made her curious. She asked Spalding for the agent’s name.
“Keith is all he’d tell me.”
“What’s he look like?”
“Middle Eastern. Tall. Ripped. Early forties.”
Angie laughed. “A Middle Eastern ‘Keith’?”
“Hey, I didn’t ask to see a bloody birth certificate.”
“Does the President know what’s going on?”
Christian sniggered. “How could he not?”
“Well, he doesn’t,” Spalding declared. “That’s the word in the kitchen, and the kitchen’s never wrong. So neither of you better say a damn word.”
Christian raised his hands like a teller in a bank robbery. “Don’t worry, bro. I need my job.”
Angie smiled innocently at Spalding. “Oh, come on. Who on earth would I tell—and why?”
But of course she’d already thought of someone.
SIXTEEN
Katherine Fitzsimmons was the only person whose approval had mattered to her sons, for it was she who’d controlled the money and, thus, their future lifestyles. Consequently, her unexpected death liberated Chase and Chance from the chore of maintaining a responsible-appearing adulthood; the probate of Kiki Pew’s estate was moving along smoothly and, as anticipated, the brothers alone stood to inherit the fortunes left by their mother and both husbands who predeceased her. The final sum promised to be obscene, and the young Cornbrights waited only a short time after the funeral before they started pissing it away.
Their first brainless purchase was a one-hundred-and-sixteen-foot yacht that came with a crew of seven and a pair of coal-black Jet Skis powered by supercharged inline four-strokes. Like most watercraft, Jet Skis have no brakes, though theoretically the Ultra 310s acquired by the brothers could safely be piloted at sixty miles per hour—if the surface was flat calm and free of obstacles. However, that was not the prevailing maritime condition when Chase and Chance decided to race each other, unencumbered by life vests, on the morning the President returned to Casa Bellicosa.
The Intracoastal Waterway was choppy and crowded, yet the two cackling yahoos drove at full throttle, jumping wakes and spraying rooster tails as they swerved recklessly among the other vessels. Chance took the lead from Chase, but then he picked the worst possible moment to turn around and raise his middle finger. He failed to see in his path the pallid, bloating form of Ajax “Hammerhead” Huppler, which his Jet Ski struck mid-torso before flipping with a roar, catapulting Chance like a sack of potting soil. A split second later, his brother went airborne in a similar arc when his water bike smacked the dead fisherman in the same place. Partiers on a nearby catamaran hooted and clapped, believing the young men were performing stunts for a Yamaha video.
The crew of a passing tug plucked the injured fuckwits from the current. They were lucky to be alive—Chase displayed only a fractured kneecap and a few chipped teeth; Chance had torn both rotator cuffs. Because the accident happened near the secure marine perimeter behind Casa Bellicosa, Coast Guard and ICE vessels were swiftly on-scene, circling slowly. The mewling Cornbrights were transported to a hospital, while the nude corpse of Ajax Huppler—entangled in the rope of a crabber’s buoy—was winched onto the stern of a police boat.
An autopsy confirmed that the damage to Huppler’s body had been caused post-mortem by the speeding Jet Skis. Drowning was the official cause of the angler’s death, with a contributing factor of alcohol intoxication. There was no indication he’d been bitten, constricted, or harmed in any way by the large python found aboard his skiff. Huppler’s lack of clothing raised a suspicion of foul play until his parents informed the medical examiner that he often fished naked at night. Police Chief Jerry Crosby was glad to close the file, and happier still that the media missed the story.
Since Kiki Pew’s sons were involved, news of the messy accident in the Intracoastal quickly reached Fay Alex Riptoad, who tried leveraging it to extend her time with William, the terse but handsome Secret Service agent. Fay Alex had been basking in the prestige of being escorted everywhere by a young, armed lawman, but the agency had recently decided to terminate the Potussy detail due to plummeting morale.
Fay Alex argued that a dead body floating toward Casa Bellicosa was cause for heightened vigilance, and she implored the President’s under-assistant chief of staff to intercede with the Secret Service. An hour later, the aide called back to report that the victim was a local resident named Huppler who’d drowned after diving off his boat while drunk.
“There’s no security issue, Mrs. Riptoad,” he said. “It wasn’t a homicide.”
“How do you know the DBC-88 didn’t murder that poor man and make it look like an accident?”
“What’s the DBC-88?”
“Seriously, are you not on Breitbart? It’s the Diego Border Cartel.”
“Yes, of course,” said the aide. “And remind me what the ‘88’ signifies.”
“How the hell I should I know? It’s probably gang code.”
“But why would they target an unemployed transmission mechanic?”
“For his political loyalties!” Fay Alex snapped. “Same reason they killed Kiki Pew Fitzsimmons—for standing loudly and proudly with POTUS.”
“According to our information, Mr. Huppler had no involvement in politics. In fact, he’d never registered to vote.”
Flustered, Fay Alex shot back that she intended to discuss the Potussies’ Secret Service needs with the President himself that evening at Casa Bellicosa.
“Well, enjoy your dinner,” the aide said.
“It’s just a damn shellfish buffet!”
“Goodbye, Mrs. Riptoad.”
* * *
—
Angie was home, lying in bed next to Special Agent Paul Ryskamp, waiting for the sun to come up. He’d been telling her how amazing she was, which is what gentlemen were conditioned to say after sex. Angie knew it hadn’t been her best effort—she couldn’t clear her thoughts of Diego Beltrán in the county jail. Additionally she’d been distracted by Ryskamp’s glossy Silk Rocket condoms; Angie had never heard of the brand, and verbalized some concerns about reliability. Ryskamp had assured her there was nothing to worry about; Silk Rockets were the world’s finest prophylactics, manufactured by quality-conscious, hyper-precise Swedes. Five stars on Amazon.
And they didn’t break during intercourse, so that was good.
The experience had been more than fine—not mind-bending, not Top Ten—but very encouraging for a first night together. Angie hadn’t let on that she wasn’t fully engrossed. After they were done, Ryskamp’s first breath was: “You were amazing.”
And naturally she said, “So were you, Paul. Wow.”
&n
bsp; The “wow” being a tender reflex, because she really did like the guy.
“Hey, I need to ask you something,” she said, bunching a pillow under her head.
“Uh-oh. What’d I do wrong?”
“Relax. New subject.”
“Then fire away.”
“Is there an agent named Keith guarding the First Lady?”
Ryskamp sat up and turned on the light. “Why do you ask?”
Angie groaned and buried her head. “You’re totally killing the afterglow. Can’t we talk in the dark?”
“No, this is important. What’ve you heard?”
“He’s screwing the First Lady. A.K.A. Mockingbird, right?”
“Don’t ever use that name for her,” Ryskamp said. “Please.”
“What about Agent Keith?”
“Let it go, Angie.”
“He bought her a pair of pink pearl earrings, which she wears in public. Did you know that?”
“Where’d you get all this?”
“And her husband, the most powerful human on the planet, doesn’t have a clue,” said Angie. “That’s the word in the kitchen.”
Ryskamp slumped and murmured, “Fuck me.”
She peeked one eye from beneath the pillow. “Paul, when is your official retirement date?”
“What’s that got to do with this?”
“Promise not to freak.”
But freak he did, when she told him her idea. He was dressed and gone from her apartment in three minutes and twenty seconds, tying the record set by a pharmaceuticals rep that Angie had Tazed on the thigh after he’d said she should consider a boob job and offered to line her up with a cosmetic surgeon who also happened to be his uncle.
The morning passed with no follow-up texts or phone calls from Ryskamp, so Angie assumed she’d run him off. She left an apologetic-sounding voicemail that drew no response. At noon she drove to a stable in Wellington to remove what the owner described as a “seriously fucked-up squirrel.” He claimed it was terrorizing the show horses.
Angie parked beside a long, flat-roofed barn where she was surprised to see Alexandria, her ex-husband’s girlfriend, who was in a state of florid agitation. Pursued by a rake-wielding groom, the squirrel had taken refuge inside one of Alexandria’s imported riding boots, which she’d left in a corner of the stall.
“How’s your pelvis?” Angie asked nicely. “Have you returned to the soul-soothing universe of yoga?”
“Please help. We didn’t know who else to call.”
They hadn’t spoken since a chance encounter at a craft store, months before Alexandria’s riding accident. It was awkward then, and awkward now.
The stable owner and groom hovered by the stall door, poised to dive aside if the deranged squirrel bolted for daylight. Alexandria’s horse, a bay warmblood, snorted and pawed at the hay.
“Which boot?” Angie said.
“The left one. Do you think he’s pooping in there?”
“Oh, absolutely. How’s Dustin?”
“Fine. Just fine.”
“Yeah?” Angie knew from Joel that her ex had hit bumpy times and been forced to unload his latest sports car, a trite yellow Lambo. The chicory-edible company that employed Dustin had gone bankrupt after several shipments were found to have cat litter as an additive.
As Alexandria sidled protectively between her horse and her eight-hundred-dollar footwear, Angie observed a limp and she momentarily felt shitty for having harbored such mean thoughts. Nor was she proud of noticing that the hobbled equestrian must have dined well during her recovery, for she had acquired a double chin.
Angie approached the squirrel’s hiding place and peeked inside. Then she turned to the young stable groom and said, “May I borrow your shirt?”
Unhurriedly he set down the rake, peeled off his sweaty tee, and handed it to her.
“What are you doing?” Alexandria asked Angie.
“Hush, princess.”
She balled up the groom’s shirt and crammed it into the shaft of the occupied boot, trapping the frightened rodent. With Alexandria trailing at a faint-hearted distance, Angie carried the chittering animal to her truck and transferred it into a small travel kennel. She snapped the door shut, tossed the shirt back to the groom and held out the vacated boot for Alexandria, who shook her head disgustedly saying, “I don’t want that thing now! Throw it away, please.”
Angie placed the boot upright in her pickup, next to the kennel, where the squirrel sat panting on its haunches, twitching its bottle-brush tail. The stable owner blurted a question that Angie heard on practically every wild-mammal call: “Is that damn thing rabid?”
“Naw, just lost,” she replied.
Alexandria thanked her for the swift, bloodless capture. “Hope it wasn’t too uncomfortable seeing me here. I’ll tell Dustin you asked about him.”
“My fee is three hundred dollars,” said Angie.
“Okay. Fair enough.”
“What size shoe do you wear?”
Alexandra smiled warily. “Eight. Why?”
“Close enough. I’ll take the other boot, too.”
A mile from the stable, Angie pulled the truck off the road and freed the squirrel near a stand of Florida pines. When she got back to her apartment, Joel was stocking the refrigerator. She told him about Alexandria summoning her to Wellington.
“A little creepy,” he said.
“Is that the same horse that threw her?”
“No idea. She owns a bunch.”
Angie said, “Well, I hope your ankle’s healing better than her pelvis.”
“Almost as good as new.”
“Want a sandwich? I see you loaded up on Boar’s Head.”
“I’m meeting Krista in Delray. Why don’t you come along?”
Krista was Joel’s latest girlfriend, and they were together nearly all the time. Angie didn’t see Joel as often as before, but she approved of the relationship. She simply wasn’t in the mood for a group lunch.
“Rain check,” she said. “I need to clean my new boots.”
It didn’t take long. After vacuuming the squirrel droppings from the left one, she applied Lysol liberally with a rag. The right boot was sanitized the same way, after which Angie spritzed perfume inside both. While waiting for them to dry, she watched an episode of Fleabag and ate a turkey sub with pickles and mustard. Then she put on a black tank top, denim cutoffs, and two pairs of thick socks, because Alexandria’s feet were a size-and-a-half larger.
The riding boots felt mighty fine when Angie did a runway walk down the hall of her apartment. She got in the truck and drove to the Lake Worth Pier, where she sat on a bench and watched shivering tourists fake-frolic for Instagram in the chilly surf. Now that Ryskamp had bailed, Angie needed someone else to help execute her plan for freeing Diego Beltrán. One person came to mind as both trustworthy and connected. She thought about it a while before she returned to her pickup and made the call. Jerry Crosby suggested they meet at the Brazilian Court.
He grinned when Angie walked in.
“What’s so amusing, Jerry?”
“It’s the first time I’ve seen you out of uniform.”
“This is my jaunty alter ego,” she said. “I do have a life, you know.”
They took a table in a warm panel of sunshine on the patio. Angie ordered a Bloody Mary and the police chief had a raspberry iced tea. He told her the body of the missing Alex Huppler had been recovered in the Intracoastal.
“He got plowed by a couple of morons on Jet Skis, which made extra work for the medical examiner,” he said. “Ironically, the morons happened to be Mrs. Fitzsimmons’s sons.”
“What a colorful little town you have here,” Angie said.
“There was no snake-related trauma on the dead fisherman.”
“Can’t we call
that good news?’
“On another subject: Your least favorite stalker dropped off the radar. Has he been in touch?”
Pruitt had remained in jail for only a few nights after Crosby had him arrested back in January. Angie hadn’t heard a peep since the asshole had made bond.
“No more phone calls,” she said, “but he’s poaching again. Deer and gators.”
“Who told you that?”
“One of the wildlife officers I used to work with. Evidently Pruitt has broadened his prosthetic talents to cocking a rifle.”
“Let me know if he makes contact. I’m serious, Angie.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Are you still seeing Paul Ryskamp?”
“Who?” she said.
“Right. None of my business.”
“Did you ever interview Tripp Teabull about my two murdered burglars?”
“Teabull’s gone. I thought you heard,” the chief said.
“Dead?”
“No, fired.”
It had happened shortly after No-More-Diegos.net, an anti-immigration website inspired by the President, posted a shocking, wholly invented “reconstruction” of Kiki Pew Fitzsimmons’s last night. The graphic animation depicted the doomed Potussy being snatched from the grounds of Lipid House by the homicidal border jumper, Beltrán, accompanied by his two burly white followers, Uric Burns and Keever Bracco. Viewed by more than two million people, the video featured a drone shot of the lush walled estate overlaid by the imagined path of the black-clad kidnappers through the festive topiary to the koi pond.
Within hours of the posting, more than a dozen major galas and balls scheduled at Lipid House had been canceled. The events were quickly re-booked at Casa Bellicosa, the President having big-heartedly offered their sponsors a five percent discount on the standard one-night rental fee. Reeling from the catastrophic loss of revenue, the board of the Lipid House Trust blamed Tripp Teabull’s complacence for the belated blast of negative publicity about Mrs. Fitzsimmons’s death. Teabull had been hustled out the gates by a replacement security team, and was now rumored to be working as the caretaker at a fly-in hunting lodge in Newfoundland.
