Shoofly Pie & Chop Shop: 2 Bugman Novels in 1

by Tim Downs

  “Go ahead and spray? You look like a smart guy—what are you, a nurse? Let me explain something to you. A termite queen can lay thirty thousand eggs a day. Down along the Gulf Coast, Formosan termites can consume an entire house in just eighteen months. You have an infestation, my friend. You can only spray the ones you can see. The only way to kill them all is to fumigate.”

  “Fumigate? How does that work?”

  “We tent the house. We wrap it up top to bottom with big yellow tarps—you should see it, Nate, it’s really something—then we tape all the seams and lay sand snakes around the bottom to seal it up tight. Then we fill the whole thing up with Vikane—sulfuryl fluoride gas.”

  Lassiter groaned. “How long does all this take?”

  “Not as long as you’d think. We can wrap a little place like this in, say, half a day. We blow in the gas—that doesn’t take long—and then the whole thing sits for maybe a day. We pull off the tarps, open all the windows to air it out—that’s it, you’re done. A day and a half total. And there’s hardly any prep work for you to do. Just be sure to remove the plants and the pets—’cause that Vikane will kill every living thing under the tent. A couple years ago in Tampa, a woman committed suicide that way. Do you have a cat? You look like a cat person to me.”

  “I can’t do this now,” Lassiter said. “Maybe in a month or two.”

  “It’s your call,” Nick said. “I can fit you in late December.”

  “That’s six months away!”

  “The whole thing works on a big computer schedule. You know how it is. When we set up the service contract, we schedule the inspections and the repairs together. If you want to reschedule, you got to take what’s available. I’ll put you down for the weekend after Christmas.”

  Lassiter hesitated.

  “Or I can do it tomorrow,” Nick said. “A day and a half, the whole thing’s out of your hair by the end of the week. Whaddya say? You head off to work tomorrow morning, but you get a hotel room tomorrow night. Or you could just find an empty bed at the hospital—hey, who’s gonna know?”

  “I’m a pathologist, you idiot!”

  “It’s OK,” Nick said softly. “Hey, my wife’s on Zoloft.”

  Lassiter turned and stormed off toward the driveway. “Do it tomorrow,” he shouted back, “but I don’t want to see any sign of your crew by the following afternoon!”

  “Trust me,” Nick called after him, “you’ll never know we were here.”

  Nick and Riley sat at a corner table at the Common Plea, just a short walk from the coroner’s office at Fourth and Ross. The eatery was first-rate, one of Pittsburgh’s finest, an authentically Italian establishment without a trace of checkered vinyl tablecloths or wax-rimed Chianti bottles. The pecan-stained walls were trimmed in ornate moldings and lined with elegant candelabra sconces and glossy oil paintings framed in gold. Riley looked at Nick, dressed just as casually as ever, looking as out of place as a fly on a china platter. He busied himself with a plate of veal Veneziana while Riley looked on.

  “You like Italian?” she said, picking at her own plate.

  “I like food.”

  “Funny. Somehow I figured a bug man would be a vegetarian.”

  “Why? Insects are some of the biggest carnivores on the planet. Did you know that in Chile they have a spider that eats mice?”

  She pushed her plate away. “Nick, I’m trying to eat here. Do you want to hear about my last autopsy?”

  “OK by me.”

  “Look,” she said, “I need you to explain this whole thing again. We go to Lassiter’s house tomorrow, and the whole thing will be covered with tarpaulins. Then we just walk in dressed like exterminators and take our time looking around. Is that it?”

  “Not too much time,” Nick said. “We should be out by dark. It wouldn’t do to have lights visible beneath the tarps.”

  “What about the sulfuryl fluoride? The gas is toxic.”

  “What gas?”

  “I get it—you wrap the house, but you never fill it with gas. But then, how do you get rid of his termites?”

  “What termites?”

  Riley shook her head in disbelief. “How did you arrange all this?”

  “I know a guy—an old classmate of mine at Penn State. He’s doing pretty well for himself—he’s actually making a living with an undergraduate entomology degree. He owns a pest control company in Oakmont. We worked out a deal.”

  “What’s in it for him?”

  “They don’t tent and fumigate much around here—it’s more of a Southern thing. When my friend wraps up a house with those big yellow tarps of his, it’s practically a media event. He hands out cards all over the neighborhood. He tells them, ‘See? This is what can happen if you don’t do regular treatments.’ It works out for both of us.”

  “Nick, has it occurred to you that this is slightly illegal? It’s called breaking and entering.”

  “Why? Lassiter signed a release form that allows the exterminators access to his home.”

  “We’re not exterminators! We’re masquerading as exterminators in order to do an illegal search of his home.”

  “Details.”

  “Nick—have you ever been in trouble with the law before?”

  He paused. “Define ‘trouble.’ ”

  “Do you know what a risk this is for both of us?”

  “For both of us? Or for you?”

  “OK,” she grumbled. “For me. If I got caught, this would be the end of my career. It would end my fellowship—and even if they let me finish, who would hire a forensic pathologist who’s a part-time burglar?”

  “Not me.”

  “You seem to be taking this all pretty lightly.”

  “Look,” Nick said. “I respect the law. We have the same goal in mind—I just find it necessary to take a different path to the goal sometimes. I like to think I keep the spirit of the law.”

  Riley rolled her eyes. “I’ll bet the prisons are filled with people who kept the ‘spirit of the law.’ ”

  “I’m open to legal alternatives. Got any ideas?”

  “No,” Riley said sullenly. “I told you what happened when I tried to search his office. I guess this is not my specialty.”

  “Well, it’s my specialty. I’ve taken risks with the law before, and let me tell you, this is a pretty good one. When you tent a house, people know that toxic chemicals are involved and they steer clear of it. The next-door neighbors generally clear out for the day, and you won’t see a kid outside for a block in any direction. There’s virtually no chance that Lassiter will return unexpectedly like he did at his office—and even if he did, what would he see? A house wrapped in plastic and a company truck in the driveway. And once we’re inside—well, that’s the best part. Lassiter knows that the exterminators need access to the house, and he’ll expect a certain amount of disturbance—doors left open, objects rearranged, that sort of thing. As long as we don’t do anything stupid, our tracks will be covered. It’s a terrific setup. Personally, I’m hoping he has an indoor hot tub.”

  Riley’s eyes widened.

  “Hey, lighten up.”

  “Lighten up,” she groaned.

  “Look, if you feel this way, maybe you shouldn’t come along.”

  “You mean let you do it alone?”

  “Like you said, it’s not your specialty. You almost got caught once; if something goes wrong this time, you’ll be in the clear.”

  Riley watched him wipe a slice of bruschetta around the edge of his dish.

  “Nick, why would you do this? You barely know me. I’m not even paying you. You’re not just offering to take a risk with me, now you’re offering to take a risk for me. Why?”

  Nick looked at her. “I’m not ready to answer that question,” he said.

  She shook her head. “Thanks, but I can’t let you do this alone.”

  “I know you can’t—I just wanted to see how loyal you are. I suspect that’s what’s driving this whole investigation of yours: some sense of bet
rayal on your part. As I suspected, you’re a fiercely loyal person. You could never let me go alone.”

  “So your offer was just a test?”

  “I think of it more as an experiment,” he said. “Would you care to comment on my observations?”

  “No,” she said. “It just has to be the two of us.”

  “The three of us.”

  “What?”

  Nick nodded toward the door.

  Riley turned to see a short, barrel-chested man in a lambskin blazer and a white, ribbed crewneck. His narrow forehead supported a thick crop of shining, coal-black hair. His face bore a smile—no, his face was a smile, casting warm light wherever he turned like the glow of a miner’s lantern. His eyes were dark and shining, squeezed tight by his constant smile until they glowed like black amethysts. He drifted from table to table, halting momentarily to squeeze a hand, rub a shoulder, or revivify a boring conversation.

  “Does he own the place?” Riley asked.

  “He owns every place—at least, you’d think he does. Brace yourself, here he comes.”

  He stopped beside their booth with both arms spread wide, smiling and nodding like a salesman presenting a new line of cars.

  “Buona sera, my friends! Ah, what an evening, what a city, what a life!”

  “Riley McKay, meet Leonardo Lazzoli, known to his friends as Leo. Leo, this is Riley McKay.”

  Leo turned to Riley and did a dramatic double take. He looked stunned, astonished, and for a moment he said nothing at all; then the smile once again relit the lamp of his face, and he gestured toward her with outstretched arms.

  “Now this,” he said. “This is a wonder. This is a thing of beauty. This is … perfection.” He turned to Nick with a look of contempt. “And what did you tell me? ‘We’re meeting with a woman.’ A woman,” he spat. “You’re a dead man, Nick. You have the soul of a goat. You spend too many hours poking around in dark corners. You need to look up once in a while, you need to see the beauty around you. Have you told this angelic being that she has the face of the Delphian sibyl and the grace of Michaelangelo’s Pieta?”

  “I was just about to,” Nick said. “Grab us some dessert menus and sit down.”

  He took a chair next to Nick, still beaming and nodding at Riley with a look of profound satisfaction. “What a pleasure,” he kept repeating, “what a very great pleasure.” Riley smiled back, but could think of nothing at all to say.

  “What the heck is mascarpone?” Nick said, flipping over the menu.

  “Give me that, you peasant,” Leo said in disgust. He beckoned to the waitress.

  “Leo’s coming along tomorrow,” Nick said to Riley.

  “Thanks for letting me know,” Riley glared back. “Leo, are you an exterminator?”

  “An exterminator,” Leo said with delight. “I’ve never thought of it quite that way before. Yes, you might say I’m an exterminator—I help people eliminate bugs. Nick tells me that you have one or two of your own.”

  “Leo has a doctorate in electrical engineering,” Nick said. “He’s a software engineer and a network specialist. Basically, he’s your all-around tech head.”

  “All lies,” Leo said with a wave of his hand. “I am an artist, a connoisseur of beauty, a lover of the finer things in life. But, like all artists, I must suffer—so I teach Information Technology at Pitt.”

  “Leo’s a handy guy to have around when you’re looking for information.”

  Riley looked at Nick again.

  “He knows,” Nick said. “I could hardly ask him to become an accessory to the crime without telling him why.”

  “It seems like everyone is taking chances for me tonight,” Riley said. “Leo, has Nick told you the risks involved in this?”

  “I doubt it. When Nick tells you there’s no danger, he’s lying. When Nick says there will be no problems, expect problems. This much I know about Nick Polchak.”

  “How’s your sister?” Nick asked. “Does she still mention me?”

  “Yes—when she has a high fever, or when she shuts the door on her hand.”

  “I should call her.”

  “I offer to help you, and you threaten me?”

  “How do you two know each other?” Riley cut in.

  “We grew up together, in Tarentum,” Nick said.

  “In different neighborhoods, of course,” Leo added. “He grew up in the degenerate Polish section, while I was raised in the more fashionable Italian section. His family attended Holy Martyrs, whereas mine attended the more sublime Saint Peter’s—where the pope himself would attend, given the choice.”

  “Not this pope,” Nick said. “He can’t wait to get back to Krakow.”

  “Your singular claim to glory—but in general, my people were launching the Renaissance while yours were still painting bison on cave walls.”

  “We met as teenagers,” Nick said.

  “After several encounters, we discovered that we shared the same penchant for … adventure.”

  “In other words: same high school, same detention hall.”

  “Hold it,” Riley said. “This is not high school—and if anything goes wrong, they won’t be sending us to detention hall. Leo, I have to ask you again: do you know what you’re getting yourself into?”

  “Do you?” he said. “If you’re working with Nick, you probably don’t.”

  “Then why do you want to come along?”

  “Why, for the adventure, of course. Nick promised me a dragon to slay.”

  The waitress arrived at the table now, and Leo turned his attention to her. “Your tiramisu,” he said to the waitress. “It’s not the kind with custard, is it? It has the layers of mascarpone? And then we’ll need something chocolate—something with ganache and a sprinkling of cocoa powder. You have cheesecake, of course; bring us a slice with some white chocolate slivers, or perhaps fresh strawberries. We’ll need a nice dessert wine—perhaps a Vin Santo or a black Muscat? That would be wonderful. And now,” he said with a wink, “tell us your secrets. What are you holding out on us? You have something special back there, don’t you, something you haven’t told us about yet?”

  The waitress smiled and winked back. “We do have a nice panna cotta with fresh raspberries,” she said.

  Leo groaned. “Please hurry—life is brief. We don’t want to die before we taste your panna cotta.”

  “I usually skip dessert,” Riley said.

  “Skip dessert?” Leo looked around as though the voice had come out of nowhere. “Did someone say ‘skip dessert’?”

  “I don’t eat very much.”

  “We don’t eat dessert,” Leo said. “What are we, gluttons? We taste dessert. The entrée feeds the body, but dessert feeds the soul. Dessert is for pleasure, and pleasures are meant to be tasted, not consumed. When you skip dessert, you leave with a full belly but an empty heart. Animals eat meat and vegetables, my dear Riley. Dessert is what makes us human.”

  “Life is dessert,” Nick said. “You should hear his sermon on pasta.”

  “The goat-man speaks,” Leo said with a toss of his head. “You know, I have watched him swallow an entire meal without even tasting it.”

  The waitress returned with four small plates, each a swirling patchwork of colors and textures and sheens. She arranged them in a square in the center of the table, and set out four gleaming forks.

  “Where is the fourth?” the waitress said.

  Leo picked up a fork and handed it back to her. “Should we take pleasure from you and give none in return? The first taste is yours.”

  The waitress smiled a sheepish grin, glanced over her shoulder, and took a quick mouthful of panna cotta before hurrying back to the kitchen.

  Leo opened the black Muscat and poured the rich, dark liquid into three small glasses. “And now, I’d like to offer a traditional Italian blessing.”

  “Here we go,” Nick said.

  “Do you mind?” Leo cleared his throat and stood up.

  “May those that love us, love us.r />
  And those that don’t love us,

  May God turn their hearts.

  And if He doesn’t turn their hearts,

  May He turn their ankles,

  So we will know them by their limping.”

  He held his glass out to each of them.

  “That’s a traditional Italian blessing?”

  “Sicilian, actually. When Nick is around, it comes in handy.”

  Leo sat on the passenger side of the BugOff van, staring up at the two-story house wrapped completely in bright yellow plastic.

  “Like an enormous baby Gouda,” he said. “Marvelous. Truly.”

  “Put these on before you get out of the van,” Nick said, handing gas masks and hard hats to Leo and Riley.

  “I thought there was no gas,” Riley said.

  “It just completes the disguise. This way, your own mother wouldn’t know you.”

  Nick took a large toolbox and a plastic garden sprayer from the van, and they all went around to the back of the house. Nick searched the tarps, locating all the seams; at one point, just to the right of the patio, the duct tape stopped six feet above the ground and a vertical seam flapped loosely in the breeze.

  “That should be the door,” Nick said. “Good boy, Freddie.”

  They slipped inside and removed their masks and helmets. Nick opened the toolbox, took out a black garbage bag, and handed it to Riley.

  “Start with the trash,” he said. “Go room by room and round up everything, especially from the bathrooms and the study, if he has one. We’ll spread it all out on the floor in the garage. Leo, you know your domain.”

  “I’m on it. I hope he wasn’t too cheap to buy a decent computer.”

  “I’ll look for files and other records,” Nick said. “If anybody finds anything good, shout it out.”

  Nick wandered through the downstairs rooms, drawing general observations from the overall layout. It was clearly the house of a divorcé, and definitely a divorced male. The furniture, though contemporary in style and of a very high quality, had been selectively removed from each of the rooms, leaving gaping holes and awkward asymmetries everywhere. The family room was the most desolate; it contained nothing but an old recliner that faced off with a thirty-six-inch Toshiba resting on the carpet in the center of the room. On the wall, a rectangle of contrasting paint marked the spot where an armoire or bookshelf once stood. The mantel above the fireplace was barren, and every print and photograph had been removed except for one framed medical diploma that stood out on the empty wall like a beetle on a windshield. The dining room contained a table, but no chairs; there was a breakfront, but every cup and dish had been removed. It was still a functional house, but no longer a home. Every trace of warmth or humanness had been negotiated away in the final settlement.