“Go right, then right again, left at Route 1, then left over the Flagler Memorial Bridge and you’ll find Palm Beach.”
“I know where Palm Beach is, smart guy.”
“So I wonder to myself how a Palm Beach detective finds himself in Riviera Beach? We have a police department here you know.”
“I’ve had a complaint.” He smiled.
“If you insist on wearing fish ties, that’s gonna happen.”
He glanced at the largemouth on his belly. “I happen to have won this tie.”
“What was second prize, two ties?”
He took a second to mull that comment over, and then gave me an ironic grin.
“Hilarious. We’ve received a complaint against you.”
“Well, you better come in then, before the neighbors start talking.” I turned and wandered back into the kitchen. Ronzoni pulled the door closed and followed.
“You want some water, Zamboni?”
“Ronzoni. And yes.”
I poured Ronzoni some water from the door of the fridge, dropped in some ice cubes and handed him a glass. Word around the traps was that Ronzoni didn’t have sweat glands or saliva glands or some such thing, so he had to regularly drink water. Either way I didn’t offer coffee despite the fresh pot.
“Let me get a shirt on,” I said.
“Please,” said Ronzoni, sipping his water.
I grabbed a tee from my bedroom and with considerable effort pulled on a pair of chinos, and then returned to the kitchen to pour myself a coffee.
“So tell me about this complaint,” I said, sipping the black brew and feeling it course into my bloodstream.
“We received a complaint regarding malicious vehicular damage.”
“And this was so important you couldn’t use the phone?”
“This was an important resident.”
“Aren’t they all important in Palm Beach?”
“They are.”
“So who was this resident?”
“I’m not at liberty to say at this stage.”
I sipped my coffee. “So what’s the beef, in English.”
“You smashed the taillight of the complainant’s Mercedes.”
“And how did I do that?”
“You threw a rock, or some similar projectile.”
“And there is a witness to that?”
“Yes.”
I sipped my coffee. “All right, Detective, what’s the deal? I haven’t smashed any taillights with a…” I stared into Ronzoni’s dark eyes as I realized that I had smashed a Mercedes taillight with a rock, shortly after Montgomery’s men had smashed me and my Mustang into pulp.
“Montgomery? You’re following up a complaint from Alexander Montgomery?”
“I don’t know who you are talking about.”
“Doesn’t he live in Miami? What’s that got to do with the Palm Beach PD?”
“Who are you talking about, Jones?”
I slammed my coffee mug onto the counter. “So he got his goons to file a complaint. But they sure as hell don’t live in Palm Beach.”
“Jones, how many people have you annoyed this week?”
I frowned at Ronzoni. “What the hell is going on?”
Ronzoni hoisted himself onto one of my barstools. “Who is Alexander Montgomery and what have you done to him?”
I looked at my coffee and then back at Ronzoni. He wasn’t always the brightest bulb, and sarcasm went by him like a small town two miles from the interstate, but he was a good cop, determined and mostly honest. I had no intention of sharing everything with him, but I figured it couldn’t hurt to bring him a little into the loop, especially while the promise of further injury to property and person lingered over me. I gave him the overview of my retention by the university, the overdose death of Jake Turner and my uncovering of the drug chain led by Alexander Montgomery, aka Pistachio.
“But that’s a nut,” said Ronzoni.
“Tell me something I don’t know.”
“Why would you call yourself after a nut?”
“I’m told it’s all about branding.”
“If you say so. How’d you find the guy? You’re not exactly Mr. Collegiate.”
“I found a source on campus. A student. She got me in.”
“Her name?”
“Nope.”
“She deal?”
“Nope.”
“Okay.” He leaned back in his stool and smiled.
“You really are a trouble magnet, aren’t you,” he said.
“It comes with the territory. Not everyone appreciates being investigated.”
“Don’t I know it. But you’ve got a talent. You’ve annoyed someone not even related to your case.”
“How so?”
Ronzoni finished his water and gestured for another. I took his glass to the fridge and poured some more. When I brought it back to him he wore a look on his face like he was enjoying knowing something I didn’t and he wasn’t sure if he wanted to break the magic by sharing. I watched him sip the water, and then look at me.
“So?” I said.
“Does the name Rinti mean anything to you?”
“Senior or Junior?”
“So it does.”
“I’ve met Bruno once or twice, years ago. But not the son.”
“Gino. Well, it turns out it was his Mercedes you damaged.”
“Allegedly. But he doesn’t live in Palm Beach, does he?”
“No, he’s based in Miami. But Senior now lives on the island.”
“That’s just great. First he ruins the Miami skyline, then he bugs out to Palm Beach.” I went to sip my coffee but I’d lost interest in it.
“So how did you become the messenger boy for the Rintis?”
“I would question the direction you are taking this conversation, Jones. I am here as a courtesy, both to a resident of Palm Beach and to you. So don’t push it.”
“Okay. But I wouldn’t have thought Rinti was Palm Beach material.”
“Anyone with money is Palm Beach material. But there is welcomed and there is tolerated.”
“I’m hearing that a lot.”
“I’m sure Rinti is the latter.”
“So what happens now?”
Ronzoni slipped off his stool and polished off his water in one long gulp, like a camel filling its hump.
“Now, I go back to my desk and write up my report. I assume you can verify that you were not in Palm Beach during the incident?”
“Paramedics can confirm I was unconscious on my front lawn, and Riviera Beach PD can confirm my car was smashed to pieces. By Rinti’s men, it turns out.”
“If you want to file a complaint, talk to the local boys. That’s not my concern.”
“Not worth the trouble.”
“Fine. Then case closed. Rinti will have to take civil action, which I doubt he will.” Ronzoni walked back to the sliding door. “I think he was sending a message. You sure you don’t know why he’s got a beef with you?”
“Nothing comes to mind.”
Ronzoni shrugged and slipped through the door and wandered away across the patio and around my house. I stood with the door open, the soft breeze sending briny air to me, and pondered the idea that it had been Rinti’s men who had beaten me and my Mustang, and consequently I had beaten Pistachio’s bushes somewhat unnecessarily. And instead of having one lunatic criminal after my hide, I had two. And Rinti clearly had more to gain from the university development than I anticipated. Or more to lose. Either way, a vacation to the Australian outback was starting to look like a good option.
I closed and locked the door and returned to the kitchen. I poured the rest of my coffee down the sink and mulled over whether another visit to the campus was the dumbest thing I could do. Clearly El Presidente Millet had passed on my news to Rinti. That made me like the good doctor even less, and he wasn’t exactly on my Christmas card list to begin with. I was considering a shower and a leisurely drive down to Lauderdale when I was startled by another bang
on my sliding door. I looked up to see Detective Ronzoni again standing on my back patio. His grin was gone.
“Let me guess, Colombo, one last question.”
“What was the name of the student, your source at the university?”
“I’m not giving you a name, Detective.”
“Let me put it this way then. Does the name Angela Cassidy mean anything to you?”
I felt all the blood in me sink to my feet. I must have lost color because Ronzoni lurched forward as if I were about to faint.
“Get your shoes on,” he said. “I’ll drive.”
Chapter Thirty-Nine
RONZONI DIDN’T DRIVE fast. That was a bad sign. Cops like to drive fast, just because they can. Except when they really don’t want to get to where they’re going. He told me he had heard a call across the radio from the PBSO regarding a college student and it had caught his attention because we’d just been talking about the college. He then told me he’d requested a name and the name that came back was Angela Cassidy. That’s all he told me. We got in the car, and Ronzoni called in that Palm Beach PD was en route to the scene with relevant intel. Roger that, was the reply.
We didn’t speak for the next ninety minutes. Ronzoni headed down I-95 to Broward County, and then cut west along I-595 and turned in a big U back north along Route 25. He pulled off the main road on to a service road, where we could see a fleet of Palm Beach County Sheriff’s vehicles about a mile down. The area was as flat as a griddle pan and sticky hot. There wasn’t a building our side of the horizon, at least not one big enough to see. A channel of water ran parallel to the service road. The whole area was essentially a managed swamp, part of the Everglades that had been tamed to provide irrigation. Ronzoni parked at a haphazard angle on the side of the road and we stepped from the car. The sky was cloudless, and I wished I’d brought sunglasses. Ronzoni flashed his badge and asked for the detective in charge. A deputy I didn’t recognize pointed us down the bank. We ducked under the yellow tape marking the scene and edged our way toward the water. Half a dozen people were standing around. Three uniformed deputies, a woman in a skirt and rubber boots, a guy with a camera and another guy in a suit. We headed for the suit. He saw Ronzoni and nodded.
“Burke,” said Ronzoni.
“Ronzoni.” Burke looked at me. His suit was blue but came from the same collection as Ronzoni’s, and his hair was balding and close-cropped.
“Miami,” he said.
I just nodded. I wasn’t feeling very chatty. I’d met Burke before, at PBSO functions and barbecues that Danielle had dragged me along to. I found him to be an earnest but competent guy. Burke looked back to Ronzoni.
“You got something for me?” said Burke. There was often flow across jurisdictions and departments, between the police who focused on the incorporated towns that paid for them and the sheriff’s office who patrolled the unincorporated parts of the county. Crime was rarely so easily pigeonholed.
“Not sure. Jones here might have something. What’s the story?”
“Homicide. Caucasian female. Age twenty. Single shot to the side of the head. This is a stormwater treatment area. One of their guys found the body this morning.”
“You got a name already?”
“She had ID in her jeans. Student card. Name’s Angela Cassidy. Ring any bells?”
Both detectives looked at me. I nodded.
“I know an Angela Cassidy.”
“Friend or client?” said Burke.
“Source.”
The woman in the rubber boots marched up to us and spoke to Burke.
“Can we get her out of here now before she heats up like a hot pocket?”
“One sec,” said Burke. “You want to see, or no?” he said to me.
I nodded.
We trudged across damp grass to the black canvas sheet that covered the body.
“We haven’t met,” said the woman, extending her hand. I took it and she gripped hard. Not at all feminine. A woman in a man’s domain, walking the fine line that Danielle trod every day.
“Lorraine Catchitt, like what you do with a baseball, not what a cat does in the litter tray.” She smiled. She had soft features hardened by too much time in the Florida sun.
“Miami Jones.”
She flopped her head to one side, and I noticed her short ponytail was tied by a rubber band.
“Ah, I thought I recognized you. You’re Danielle Castle’s squeeze.”
I nodded without enthusiasm. I didn’t hang around dead bodies enough to appreciate gallows humor.
“I’m a forensic investigator with the ME’s office.” She bent over and pulled the sheet back with a flourish, like a magician. I fought the compulsion to throw up. Angela Cassidy lay on her back, staring at the sky. One side of her head was matted black, thick strands of hair braided together by congealed blood. Her face was unmarked. But it was not peaceful. It was twisted into a frozen, angry pose, like a photo snapped in the midst of an argument.
“That’s Angel,” I said.
I sat on my haunches, looking at her. She was an intelligent, beautiful, young kid. And had she never met me, she still would be. I pushed up on my knees and stood.
“One shot to the head on the left side,” said Catchitt. “From above and slightly behind, so the shooter was possibly left-handed.”
“Did it happen here?” I asked.
She nodded. “We got the bullet from the grass. ME will make the call, but it looks like it all happened here.”
“What do you mean, it all happened here?”
Catchitt looked at Burke, then Ronzoni, then me.
“There is considerable evidence of trauma.”
I sucked in a deep breath and looked at the green water in the canal. I heard Angel’s laugh in my mind, from the house party, and I pictured her scowl, from the last time I saw her. “What sort of trauma?”
“I don’t know,” said Catchitt.
“What do you mean, you don’t know?” I stared at her, trying my best not to kill the messenger.
“The ME will make the call.”
“This isn’t your first day. Best guess.”
Catchitt shuffled her boots in the damp grass. “Best guess? Something like a baseball bat.”
Acid rose in my throat, and I turned and charged up the bank. I put my hands on the side of the ME’s van, bent over and sucked in big gobs of steaming air. Ronzoni and Burke stepped up but kept their distance. I pulled myself together and joined them.
“Now what?” I said.
“Tell me what you know,” said Burke. This time I held nothing back. Ronzoni didn’t flinch or make a fuss when I mentioned things I hadn’t told him earlier, like my run-in with Montgomery at The Breakers function. He was a pro and he knew how the game was played. When I was done Burke pulled a stick of gum out and popped it in his mouth.
“So this Montgomery, he’s in Miami then.”
“Brickell Avenue.”
I looked around the flat expanse, grids of canals feeding the agricultural area that sat between Lake Okeechobee and Big Cypress National Park.
“How come this is your deal, anyway?” I said. “Shouldn’t this be Broward County’s file?”
Burke shook his head. “Couple miles south, it would be, but we’re just across the county line.”
We watched as two ME officers hauled the gurney now holding Angela Cassidy up into the van. Catchitt plodded along behind in her boots.
“Any idea how long she’s been out here?” I asked.
“Sometime early this morning,” said Catchitt.
“You sure? Not earlier?”
Catchitt shook her head. “This morning. Any earlier, the gators would’ve got her.” She gave a muted smile and wandered over to her sedan to change out of her boots. The van pulled out, and we watched it head back to the main road.
“I’ll let you know what comes up,” said Burke. “Just don’t do anything without my knowing. Got it?”
I nodded.
“I’m serio
us. You fly off the handle, Danielle’s the one who’s going to be left holding the bag.”
“I got it,” I said.
Burke looked at Ronzoni. “You want in the loop?”
Ronzoni shook his head. “All yours. Just let me know if I can help.”
Burke nodded and ambled back to his car. Ronzoni and I followed suit. Ronzoni drove fast on the way home. We didn’t speak. I watched the landscape change from the flats of the glades to the heights of the towers on the coast. I was standing on a tight rope, high above everything. On one side, power and anger and strength, and the determination to put Pistachio into a deep, deep hole. And on the other side, wasteland, the blood sucked from my veins, listless and staring full on at the knowledge that by taunting Montgomery at The Breakers the previous night, I had put the first, the last and every other nail into Angela Cassidy’s coffin.
Chapter Forty
BURKE MUST HAVE put in the call because when Ronzoni dropped me at home Danielle was waiting. She opened the door and I walked in, and she closed it and then wrapped her arms around me. She smelled of soap and cucumber shampoo. I put my arms around her and she pulled me in. This was the toughest person I knew, a woman who worked the mean streets every day, who could beat me in almost every physical endeavor short of an arm wrestle. And all I could think of at that moment was how fragile she felt, brittle like a small cardinal I once held in my hand as a boy in Connecticut. I wasn’t sure what to do. So I buried my head into Danielle’s shoulder and cried. Not great gasps of anger, but quiet tears of pure sorrow. For a young girl trying to find herself but who now never would. For myself, for my lunkheaded actions that condemned an innocent. For God knows what else.
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