by Tim Dorsey
“But who would be watching?”
Serge shrugged and headed east toward the waterfront.
A city truck pulled up. Workers threw a shark in the back like they were picking up a discarded sofa on the side of the highway.
The truck drove off, revealing a black SUV with tinted windows parked on the other side of Flagler. The back window rolled down and a telephoto lens poked out.
Miami Morgue
A door flew open.
“You said you had something on the carjacker?” asked the lieutenant.
“And how,” said the examiner. “I’d love to meet the killer.”
“I’d love to kill him. So how’d he do it?”
The examiner clapped his hands a single time. “Okay, this is really cool. The mind that thought this up . . .” A whistle in admiration.
“Will you just spill it?” The lieutenant glanced at the foot of the autopsy table and tilted his head like a cocker spaniel. “Wait, what’s that metal canister with the evidence tag?”
“After I checked slides in the microscope, I went back to the police report. Your guys got lucky. During their neighborhood canvass, one of the uniforms found the canister in a trash bin behind a convenience store. He thought it was unrelated, but because of what it is, and the location, he logged it into evidence anyway as probable stolen property. More on that later. Take a look in the microscope.”
The lieutenant bent over and adjusted focus on twin eyepieces. “What am I seeing?”
“Chemical burn. Liquid nitrogen.”
The officer stood back up. “That’s all Greek.”
“It is to most people, so I set up a demonstration . . . This makes my whole month!”
“Can you get on with it?”
“Right . . .” The M.E. slipped on his thickest gloves and went to cold storage, retrieving a round thermal container the width of a punch bowl. Then he grabbed a disarticulated cadaver hand. “Don’t worry, we were going to throw this out anyhow. Now watch closely . . .”
The lieutenant didn’t need to be told. He leaned with rapt attention as the examiner unscrewed the container’s lid. Wisps of vapor wafted out the top.
The examiner held up the lifeless, severed hand, then giggled and dipped it wrist-deep in the jug. He listened to a wall clock tick. Then pulled it out.
The lieutenant scratched his head. “Looks the same, just a different color.”
Another giggle. He grabbed a tiny surgical hammer off the instrument tray and smacked the hand just below the knuckles.
“Jesus!” The officer jumped back as frozen slivers scattered on the floor. “It shattered like an ice sculpture.” A closer look. “There’s . . . nothing left.”
“And that’s liquid nitrogen, minus three hundred Fahrenheit.” The M.E. grabbed a dustpan and swept up the pieces. “But here’s the critical step.” He dumped the pan’s contents in a sink and turned on the hot water.
The lieutenant watched the remains melt and circle the drain until they were gone. “I still don’t get how he did it.”
“Easier than you’d think—if you’re as sharp as this guy. He probably poured the nitrogen down the dead man’s throat with a long funnel. But had to roll him around so it wouldn’t settle and freeze through a cavity wall. And for even distribution, he needed to repeat the process over and over, each time pouring in hot water to melt what he had just iced over, suctioning it out.”
“Suction?”
“You could do it with items as simple as a gas-can tube and turkey baster.”
“But where the heck does somebody get liquid nitrogen?”
“Anyone can get it,” said the M.E. “Just call the agricultural agent in any county and ask who maintains cryogenic chambers for animal husbandry, usually prize bulls.” He pointed at the metal tank near the foot of the autopsy table. “They even deliver, refills as low as thirty bucks.”
“Mother of God! I thought this might calm those reporters, but it’s even worse.” The detective grabbed the M.E. by the arm. “I don’t know who’s leaking to the press, but we cannot under any circumstances let this get out. Can you imagine the headlines?” He released the examiner and rubbed his own forehead. “How on earth am I going to identify the killer?”
“Might be able to help you there.” The examiner walked over and patted the top of the tank. “The sample chamber wasn’t empty. We can do a genetic test.”
“What? You mean you can identify the bull semen and maybe track down where he bought it?”
The examiner shook his head. “Not bull semen. Human.”
The lieutenant felt sick. “This definitely can’t get out.”
“Mum’s the word.” The examiner turned his back. “I’ll send it for DNA immediately after I write up the official cause of death.”
“Please tell me it’s something that won’t make a good headline.”
The examiner saved his biggest giggle for last.
“He froze to death in Miami.”
Palmetto Expressway
“Damn, it’s hot.”
The driver of a white van switched on a small, battery-powered fan glued to the dashboard.
The front passenger looked up from the Herald’s sports section. “Take the next exit.”
They got off the highway, and two others trucks followed.
Opa-locka is one of the rough older areas, just north of Hialeah. Often tops national crime charts. Like driving through Baghdad. But not the violence part. Back in the 1920s, local founders kind of got hung up on Arabian Nights, and it now boasts the country’s highest concentration of Moorish architecture. City hall looks like a flying carpet might sail out a window. One of the streets is named Ali Baba Avenue.
There’s also a small airport that used to be big. The Graf Zeppelin paid a visit. Amelia Earhart took off on her fateful flight from here, and there’s now a public park in her name where people honor the pilot by playing Frisbee golf and visiting the insect museum.
Three white vans skirted the north side of the park and passed through galvanized airport gates. They raced toward the civil aviation side of the runways, across from the Coast Guard air-sea-rescue helicopters.
A twin-engine Beechcraft waited with its side door flopped down. Vans parked. A bucket brigade passed wooden crates up the airplane’s steps.
Behind the tail, a stretch Mercedes. Four solemn men in a row. Banker suits and haircuts. Arrogance. Victor Evangelista strolled across the tarmac with a loud smile. “Is that for me?”
The suits looked down. A briefcase handcuffed to a wrist. A key went in the lock. Airplane engines sparked to life.
Victor’s hair whipped from the propellers. He grabbed the briefcase in a deafening drone and tossed it to one of the jumpsuits. Victor never counted. And the men never looked in the crates. That level of business. Not trust. Certainty of consequence.
They stopped to watch the Beechcraft take off into the setting sun. The plane banked hard south until it disappeared behind rain clouds, casting long angular shadows over the glades.
The suits stared across the runway at the Coast Guard detail, staring back. “After all this time, how do they not suspect?”
“Because they know for sure,” said Vic. The smile broadened. “And under specific orders to stand down. But don’t worry: You’re paying a lot for those connections.”
The tallest suit: “Dinner? Versailles?”
Vic shook his head and pointed up. “Got another shipment.”
“Do you ever stop?”
“I’m the best.”
Four men laughed and climbed in the Mercedes. It headed for the exit as another Beechcraft cleared the limo’s roof and touched down in waning light.
A cell phone rang.
Evangelista excavated it from a pocket under his flowing Tommy Bahama shirt. He checked the number on the display and flipped it open. “I thought you didn’t like to make phone calls. Hear it’s snowing in D.C.”
“Vic, Jesus, what the fuck blew up at our warehouse?”
“My car.”
“But how’d it happen?”
“How do you think?”
“Scooter again?”
“My cross to bear.”
“You let that moron near the shipments?”
“You’re the one who forced me to bring him along,” said Vic.
“Because of politics,” barked the voice on the other end. “Doesn’t mean let him play with the rocket launchers.”
Vic turned and shielded himself from the wind as another plane landed. “Thanks for caring about my car.”
“This ain’t a joke! We got budget hearings Monday. And this is just the sort of thing that could expose everything.”
“You worry too much.”
“That’s my job! A few more shipments and we’re in the clear.”
Twin propellers jerked to a stop. “Another just landed.”
“No more screwups,” said the phone. “Have one of the boys take Scooter to get a milk shake or something.”
“Speaking of which, what happened to that reporter who was poking around our offshore accounts.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“The one who went missing after getting drunk in Costa Gorda.”
“Accidents happen.”
“You’re the one who’s so worried about drawing heat,” said Vic. “Holy God, taking out a reporter—”
“Not on the phone! How many times do I have to tell you? No more phone calls!”
“You’re the one who called me.”
Click.
The Next Day
Downtown Miami.
Two pedestrians reached the corner of Flagler and turned left toward the basketball arena. “There’s Bayside Market,” said Serge. “They have a picture of Shaq next to a powerboat that takes tourists on runs past the Scarface mansion.”
“What’s that UFO-shaped building by the marina?”
“The Hard Rock Cafe.”
“Didn’t it have a giant guitar on the roof?”
“Hurricane blew it off and sank a yacht.”
Across the boulevard: bright sun and a gusting breeze off Biscayne Bay. Colorful flags snapped atop rows of just-planted aluminum poles. An army of landscapers manicured hedges, drove lawn mowers, and rode skyward in hydraulic cherry-picker baskets to snip away any palm frond with the least tinge of brown. Behind them, others in yellow hard hats erected scaffolds around the amphitheater for lighting, sound, and news cameras.
In the middle, an eternal flame.
TV correspondents loved it as a backdrop.
“Good afternoon. This is Gloria Rojas reporting live from downtown Miami, where workers are putting the final touches on the landmark Bayfront Park in preparation for this weekend’s Summit of the Americas, which promises to be a cultural high point . . .”
A passerby jumped up and down behind her. “Wooo! Dolphins number one! . . .”
Serge and Coleman walked in front of the television crew. They climbed in an orange-and-green ’68 Plymouth Road Runner and drove down Biscayne Boulevard. All around them, factory-fresh BMWs and Lincolns with the a/c full blast, heading for high-rise hotels. On the other side of the median, more luxury sedans sped toward Miami International, guided by commercial jets flying down from the north and private Lears soaring up from South America.
At the airport’s international arrivals wing, the customs line was unusually stacked up and snaked back through the concourse with random curves as people saw fit. No waiting in a separate VIP line, where visiting dignitaries went unchecked thanks to diplomatic status. They flowed through the terminal circled by entourage knots radiating out in strict pecking order: immediate family, cabinet members, campaign donors, political strategists, personal assistants, distant family—passing newsstands, shoe shines, and airport bars with TVs set to local news.
“. . . On a lighter note, Tuesday’s mystery has been solved and no charges will be pressed against three Honduran fishermen who caught a wayward shark in the Miami River and carried it through downtown in a futile attempt to sell it at local restaurants. Witnesses reported the trio taking the shark aboard the Metro Mover for a loop around the city before finally getting off the monorail near the Museum of Art and throwing the fish in the street . . .”
Outside, along the pickup curb, a waiting row of limos with small flags on the hoods.
Another Latin entourage reached the curb near sunset. Security agents went first, making a visual sweep in mirror sunglasses, then urgently waving the rest forward.
The president-for-life of a country the size of Connecticut approached one of the limos. A bodyguard opened the back door.
An explosion.
The security detail threw the president to the sidewalk and piled on top. They peeked up from pavement level. Everyone else nonchalantly tending luggage and hailing cabs.
Agents stood up.
“What just happened?” asked the president.
A skycap looked in the distance at a black column of smoke. “Probably shooting Burn Notice.”
The president’s suit was brushed off. He climbed in the limo and headed for the Dolphin Expressway.
At the rear of the pickup line, an orange-and-green Road Runner sat at the curb, next to a row of newspaper boxes with large headlines:
CARJACKER FREEZES TO DEATH IN MIAMI
COLORFUL CAPES NEW RAGE ON SOUTH BEACH
HUMAN SPERM FOUND IN BULL SEMEN TANK
ETHICAL DEBATE: SHOULD HERO-VIGILANTE BE CLONED?
In the street, five lines of exiting airline traffic merged with designed chaos. Brake lights. Hand gestures. Horns honked and echoed off the terminal. A police whistle blew. Serge pulled away from the curb . . .
Night came quickly. Long rows of headlights at the tollbooths near the former site of the Orange Bowl. A limo hit a blinker for the cash lane.
It was one of those twin skies. Light blue behind, where the sun had just gone down over the Gulf of Mexico. Ahead: impenetrably black toward the Atlantic.
Serge handed change to one of the collectors and spun rubber.
Coleman bent down and fired a fattie. He blew a cloud out the window. “What are we doing again now?”
“Fighting crime.”
“I thought you were spying.”
“Coleman, there are many things that naturally go together and you can do at the same time, like receiving oral sex and organizing postcards.”
Coleman stared out the window. “We’re just driving in circles around the airport again.”
“You are correct, fact-boy.”
“But we did it the other night. Remember nabbing the carjacker and saving that old couple? Problem solved.”
“Coleman, there isn’t just one guy behind it all. Think of the ground he’d have to cover in one night.”
“Like Bad Santa.”
“We’re fighting a pandemic,” said Serge. “Out-of-towners don’t realize the dicey area surrounding the airport.”
Coleman took another hit. “I didn’t think the neighborhood was that bad.”
“Not the neighborhood specifically. But there’s a massive predatory element that lurks in the shadows, looking for any car that’s not local, especially rentals.”
“Why?”
“The reasons are like the sand on the beach. But to name a few: Criminals know most tourists can’t afford the hassle and cost of returning to testify, especially since it’s an international city and many are from overseas. Two: Visitors get lost faster than our Silver Alert seniors wandering from retirement homes. Three: They don’t have the Miami Survival Skill Set.”
“Skills?”
“They pull up at a stoplight and don’t know to leave a space for evasive maneuver from a box-in robbery. And if they get rear-ended, they definitely don’t know not to get out of the car to exchange insurance information like everything’s lollipops in Candy Land.”
Serge’s eyes made another scan of traffic. They locked onto a vehicle ten cars ahead: limo with smal
l flags flapping on each side of the hood. He changed lanes.
“I didn’t know it was that bad,” said Coleman.
“Used to be worse,” said Serge. “One summer it hit the tipping point, and an embarrassing number of Europeans had their return flights upgraded to coffins in the cargo hold. So the state legislature passed a law sanitizing license plates.”
“What’s that mean?”
“Tourist robberies around the airport became so commonplace it spawned a widespread slang called ‘Z-ing.’ ”
“Z . . . ?”
“Rentals used to be designated with a Z or Y on their license plates. Or ‘Manatee County.’ Criminals must have a newsletter or something.”
The limo drifted into the far right lane. Serge matched it. They crested an overpass, and the skyline grew near, giving the night air a phosphorus glow.
“Serge?”
“Yes, Beavis?”
“I get the part about circling the airport, but why did we park at that curb, just to pull away two minutes later?”
“I wanted to look at flags on the limo hood. Needed to make sure we’re following the right car.”
“What’s the right car?”
“The one from the country whose consulate just hired me. Spies are expected to take initiative.” Serge checked all mirrors. “Plus the Summit of the Americas is coming this week, and my beloved state is reaping the prestige she so richly deserves. The last thing I want is for her to get a black eye.”
“You’re worried something might show us in an inaccurate light?”
“No, the accurate light.” Traffic backed to a standstill. Serge craned his neck to find the limo. “If that stretch stays on the expressway, they should be okay. Just as long as they don’t get off the wrong exit.”
“Serge, their blinker . . .”
The limo got off the wrong exit.
The Road Runner sped up, then screeched to a halt.
Red taillights came on in sequence.
“We’re stuck in a traffic jam,” said Coleman. “What are we going to do?”
“This is what.” Serge swerved into the breakdown lane and raced toward the exit with two wheels in the dirt. They hit the bottom of the ramp and looked around.
