by Tim Dorsey
“I’m not saying take him out,” added the corporal. “Just that it warrants discussion.”
“I’m with Wes on this,” said another officer. “Coke is gushing through Florida, and all the lawyers and doctors creating the demand are making more each year than we’ll ever see. So what if we took some bribes? So I’m a dirty cop. But I’m not a killer cop.”
“What about the quarry?”
“That was different. But there’s no way I’m killing some poor innocent clown who was at the wrong place at the wrong time. I’m Catholic.”
“I’m not killing him for another reason,” said a detective. “This Kenny fellow was Darby’s friend. It’s the least we can do for his memory.”
Several nods from the couch and kitchen table.
“Darby was definitely okay . . .”
“It’s always the best among us that we lose . . .”
“Did I mention when my kid was in the hospital? . . .”
The sergeant sighed with departing patience, tapping fingers on the arm of the sofa. “Before we get all misty, I’d like to point something out. Is that copacetic? Because if you still need to get in touch with your feelings . . .”
“No, we’re okay. The floor is yours.”
“Killing him will only increase the risk of a follow-up investigation determining he was a murdered patsy and exposing us,” said Duvall. “The best result is he remains at large, keeping all the attention focused on the search.”
“Why not just off him and take care of the body so it will never be found?”
“From earlier comments in this conversion, I’m not overly confident about the solidarity in this room if we do that,” said the sarge. “We’ve always worked on consensus. And if taking the added risk out of deference to Darby is what’s required for us to stick together, then so be it.”
“This is bad no matter what,” said a patrolman.
“Look at the upside,” said Duvall. “In case you haven’t noticed, our witness still has all that money.”
“For God’s sake!” explained the corporal. “Look where greed has gotten us! And you want more?”
A grin. “Do I need to state the obvious? This so-called loose end will take care of itself out of self-preservation. He may have started as an innocent bystander, but somehow he ended up with those bearer bonds. He saw the crime and knows they saw him. If he isn’t afraid of the cops, he’s probably shitting himself about now over Hector’s crew.”
“And?”
“Another perfect bow,” said Duvall. “He couldn’t have more incentive to flee to parts unknown, and he has plenty of money to do it with. We just need to step back and sit on our hands. The only way anything can go wrong is if he’s actually stupid enough to stick around town.”
“The sarge is right,” said a corporal. “I’m sure this witness is three time zones away by now.”
“Not exactly,” said the rookie. “He’s hiding out at Darby’s place near Blue Heron.”
“What! . . .”
“Why? . . .”
“How do you know? . . .”
“Seemed logical,” he continued. “Or at least a logical place we needed to rule out from due diligence. So I went over this morning and was peeking in the blinds. The light through the slits lit up the dust in weird stripes—”
“Fast-forward! What was he doing?”
“Sitting there.”
“Just sitting?”
“No, this was abnormal sitting. Lying back in a La-Z-Boy with a Remington bolt across his chest, dozing off every few minutes, then jumping awake and pointing the gun at ghosts.”
“That’s pretty much what I’d be doing about now,” said a corporal. “Except I’d be a million miles away from Darby’s place. It would almost be funny, if it weren’t.”
Someone raised a hand in the back.
“This ain’t third grade. Just say it!”
“Several units are bound to visit Darby’s house today, if they haven’t already. It’s routine to check the victim’s domicile for a secondary crime scene.”
“If they already had, we’d have heard about it,” said Duvall, his procedural brain spinning. “This is not good. Him sitting there freaking out with that rifle; cops busting in all hot and trigger-happy from just losing their brothers. It can’t end anywhere positive.”
“What do we do?”
“Head it off at the pass,” said the sarge. “Someone call headquarters to let them know we’re cruising to the victim’s house.”
“What if the other units are already on the way?”
“We say, ‘Cancel that. We’re pulling up in the driveway now.’”
“But he’s got that rifle.”
“So what?” said the sarge. “We’re only doing a Hollywood response.”
“What’s that?” asked the rookie.
“We make a theatrical show of checking out the place, but we’re actually doing nothing. Just fill the driveway with cars, walk around the house conspicuously in view of the neighbors. We report that we went inside and it was empty and undisturbed.”
“But we don’t go inside?”
“Exactly. After that, we keep tabs at the office to make sure we’re assigned any follow-up visits. Nobody else ever goes back out there.” The sergeant stood. “Let’s get rolling.”
An officer whistled. “I’d hate to be in Kenny’s shoes with Hector’s gang after him.”
“There’s nothing we can do about that,” said Duvall.
“What if one of these nervous, honest cops accidentally stumbles over him and blows him away?”
“Can’t control that, either.”
“Damn, Hector’s gang and the whole police department. That’s some jam.”
“And we’re wasting way too much time talking about it.” Duvall noticed the warm beers still in all their hands. “Drink up. We’re on duty.”
One of the officers raised his can in a toast. “To Kenny, take care of yourself.”
Chapter 25
The Present
A seafoam-green Chevy Nova left the Everglades behind and reached the outer limits of Miami just after midnight. Serge drained the jumbo coffee he had bought back at the Dade Corners truck and airboat stop.
“I better call in that anonymous environmental tip before the Glades suffer any more battery damage.” He dialed his cell phone. “Hello? Is this the secret tip line that people call when they swear they didn’t do anything wrong but want to tattle on others? Normally I hate tattletales, like Jenny McAllister, who I accidentally hit in the twat with a yo-yo. I didn’t even know what a twat was yet, but they made me go sit in the corner anyway, and that’s one recess I’ll never get back. Nobody takes sexual inappropriateness more seriously than me, but honest mistakes can be made without having your yo-yo confiscated, if you know what I mean, and I think you do. So listen, I need to report these batteries and medical waste and hypothetically maybe one little burned-up body in a charred pickup truck that you can’t trace back to me . . . What? This is Domino’s Pizza? Shit.” Click. He dialed again. “Hello? Is this the secret tip line that people call when they don’t want a pizza but need to tell on someone? . . . It is? Great! Do you have a pen handy? . . . Okay, it was really stormy out, and the wind caught my yo-yo, I swear! . . .”
. . . Five minutes later. “Yes, four-point-seven miles, then turn south and the dump site is on the left, a bunch of crap still sticking out of the water. You can’t miss it. And I really appreciate you understanding about me getting a little off track there . . . No, I do need to mention it. I do need to apologize. So in your official report if you could please leave out that one embarrassing part about my early years, because children are naturally curious about their bodies . . .” Click.
Serge stared at his phone.
“What happened?” asked Coleman.
“The tip line hung up on me. And I thought they wanted people to talk to them. Oh well . . .”
The Nova pulled up to a red light. A thumping beat arrived
in the next lane.
Serge looked over at four gangsta thugs in a pimped-out Camaro. Lime-green neon lights glowed under the chassis, and more colored lights in fiber-optic tubes framed each window. The thugs turned to Serge with prison-yard glares.
Serge glared back, pointing at the blinking dildo in his windshield. Both sides nodded in mutual respect. The traffic light changed and they drove off.
The next afternoon a desk phone rang in a warehouse full of ringing phones.
“Salenca here . . . Which government agency? . . . I see. How may I help you? . . . Illegal dumping of hazardous waste in the Everglades?” Salenca slowly closed his eyes: I’m going to kill that idiot. He opened them. “I don’t know anything about any illegal dumping . . . Excuse me? . . . Oh, you’re not saying we did it? . . . You’re looking to hire my company to clean it up?” His eyes briefly closed again: Thank you, God. “Yes, definitely, that’s our specialty. We have all the resources to handle it. We’ll head out there immediately . . . Excuse me? We’ll have to wait because it’s still a crime scene? Oh right, because of the illegal dumping? . . . What? A body in a burning truck? . . .”
Salenca hung up, thinking, So that’s why that idiot hasn’t been answering his phone all day. He urgently summoned the dumping crew into his office. They formed a respectful line as he paced in front of them. “We have a serious problem. Diego’s dead. Murdered last night in the Everglades. And if my hunch is correct, this was no random crime. Someone’s sending a message. They’re trying to move in on our turf.”
A hand went up. “What can we do to help?”
Pacing continued. “We caught a break. The authorities haven’t been able to identify his body, or else they already would have connected him back to us, plus they never would have requested our help with the cleanup.” He reached a wall and turned to pace the other way. “And if they can’t ID him, it means that whoever did this probably took his wallet. I watch forensics shows, and they can pull ID from melted billfolds in the most involved car fires. So if the killers got his wallet, they also have the company-issued credit card I gave each of you for expenses.”
Another hand. “Then we should report the card stolen?”
“Absolutely not,” said Salenca. “If someone is trying to muscle in, I doubt they’d be dumb enough to use it, but who knows? We’ll leave the account open and hope for a hit. In the meantime, you’ll do all dumps in pairs. And keep your ears open on the street for any talk . . . Now back to work!”
A half hour away, a Chevy Nova rolled up U.S. 1 as the sun went down in Boynton Beach.
Other traffic slowed around it. Drivers checking to make sure their eyes were working properly. Yep, a blinking dildo. They sped up.
“I’m so excited!” said Serge. “The literary tour of Florida will reach my hometown tomorrow! But which motel should we pick for our staging area? I always love picking the motel because it determines the entertainment value! Forget how many channels they have on cable; it’s the episodes in the lives of other guests that are priceless. Let’s see . . . No, that one’s too nice . . . That one’s too nice . . . That one’s way too nice—all the lights in the sign are working . . . Here we go. This baby looks comfy and lax on registration . . .” He loosened the suction cup on the windshield. Winos parted on the sidewalk as the Chevy rolled into the parking lot.
Serge approached the front desk. “One room, please, two beds, two adults, no pets even though we have cat toys, but they’re for personal use, so don’t get suspicious.”
The desk clerk yawned and painted her nails. “How will you be paying?”
“Credit card! . . . Hold on.” He stepped back from the desk and huddled with Coleman. “Which card should I use? The ones from Sterling Hanover are probably flagged by now, so we should only try them at gas stations and fast-food drive-throughs where we’ll be on the move in case they try to annoy us . . . This one looks lucky. Diego Carbone.”
“The guy from the pickup truck?” asked Coleman. “I don’t know about that. They’re probably tracking his cards, too.”
“And normally you’d be right,” said Serge. “You never want to use a purloined credit card for a motel you’re staying at because you’ll be sitting ducks. Except Diego was up to no good, which means he was concealing his movements, and the time it will take to connect the dots gives us extra hours of high jinks.”
He went back to the desk. “Here you go!”
The clerk never looked up. “Swipe it through the machine when the light turns blue . . .”
The Chevy Nova drove over to room 108. Serge went inside, slapped the key card on the dresser and threw the receipt in the trash.
Coleman looked back out the door. “What about our luggage?”
“I thought you’d learn by now.” Serge bent down next to the bed. “Because of the brutal Florida heat, the very first thing you always do upon arriving at a motel room is check the air conditioner. It could have a weak motor, freeze up from crud in the coils, be low on coolant, or simply have the wrong BTUs for the cubic feet, and then you’ve just checked into a sweat lodge and your whole stay is fucked . . . Wow, glad I checked. Take a look at the digital display.”
“It says seventy-two degrees.” Coleman stood back up. “I feel fine.”
“For now,” said Serge. “But the temperature is stuck on seventy-two and won’t go any lower. In this state, that’s a recipe for disaster.”
They returned to the front desk.
A monotone from the employee side: “Is everything okay with one-oh-eight?”
“How did you know it was us?” asked Serge. “You’ve never looked up from your nails. Which gave me the advantage of not being properly vetted during registration, but now we’re into customer service, that requires looking up.”
She looked up. “What’s the matter?”
“The air-conditioning doesn’t work.”
“It’s not turning on?”
“No, it’s turning on. It just doesn’t go below seventy-two.”
“So it’s working?” said the clerk. “We can’t fix what’s not broken.”
“Seventy-two is bad.” Serge took out a sex toy and slapped his other hand. “Seventy-two is a crisis!” Slap. “I have night sweats!” Slap.
The clerk rolled her eyes and looked back at her nails. “I can put you in another room if you haven’t messed up the first.”
“Just like we found it. Nothing weird yet because I always check the A/C as soon as I arrive.”
She ran two more card keys through her machine. “One-twenty-three, just around the corner.”
Serge ran back to the new room and bent down. “Son of a bitch! Seventy-two again! It’s a pandemic! I must isolate the variable.” He ran out of the room.
Next door, a family was just returning from a restaurant with children and Happy Meals.
“Excuse me,” said Serge. “Can you tell me how low you can set your air conditioner?”
“What?”
“I know the little tykes need to eat and find the surprise treasure at the bottom, but I have night sweats. Please check.”
The father stared and thought, If I just tell him, he’ll leave us alone. “Wait here.” He went in and out. “Seventy-two.”
Serge ran away.
The desk clerk looked up. What now? “How can I help you?”
“It’s not the room! It’s the A/C units!” Slap. “They’re all set wrong!” Slap. “I need a maintenance man!” Slap.
Her eyes: If it gets you out of my life . . . She reached for the phone. “He’ll meet you back there.”
Serge sat perched on the edge of the bed, rocking anxiously and staring at the open door.
The maintenance man arrived. Grungy, two-day stubble, leathery skin from a de-moisturized lifestyle.
Serge sprang up. “Thank God you’re here!”
The man preemptively placed his hand over the unit. “It’s working fine. What’s the problem?”
“It doesn’t go below seventy-two.”
“What are you talking about?” Serge pointed frantically at the temperature gauge. “I travel full-time and intimately know all the most popular brands of air conditioners. And at every other location in your chain, this type goes down to sixty-five.”
“Yeah, they’re all doing it wrong.”
Serge paused. “What?”
“Seventy-two degrees is the optimum temperature for this unit to run at peak efficiency,” he said in an increasing tone of authority. “It’s set where you’ll be the most comfortable.”
Uh-oh, thought Serge, another guy who wears a uniform to work and thinks he’s king. But an oily maintenance shirt with Chuck stitched over the pocket is the big tip-off that you don’t go home to a castle. He knows this is not the kind of motel where I can call the home office and appeal, so I’m completely at his mercy. How best to handle him? If I mention the night sweats, he’ll sense weakness. And the dildo could produce the first air-conditioning disagreement escalating into a hate crime. I’ll start by playing to his ego . . . “You speak the wisdom that befits your king uniform, and I would be a fool to question it. So seventy-two will be my first choice. But what if it unexpectedly gets hotter later? I would just like to have the option of lowering it.”
“King uniform? Are you being a smart-ass?”
“Not as smart as you.”
The man grew indignant. “Okay! I’m not supposed to do this . . .” He removed the unit’s cover and pressed unseen buttons that were blocked by his body. “I’ll give you control of the unit. But you really should keep it on seventy-two. Otherwise you’ll burn out my compressor, and it’ll cost me three thousand dollars.”
“You got it!” said Serge. “Thank you!”
The maintenance man replaced the cover, stood up and gestured. “There. It’s on seventy. Satisfied?”
“Uh, no,” said Serge. “What would satisfy me is the temperature at the other places.”
This time a sigh of terminal irritation. The maintenance man yanked the cover off the unit again, pressed buttons, and snapped the lid back on. “It’s on sixty-nine now.” The man sliced a hand through the air. “But that’s as low as I go!” He briskly left the room.
