Misgivings

by Donn Cortez

  Detective Frank Tripp was not a happy man.

  Certain situations just got under his skin . . . and when that happened, he was about as much fun to be around as a polar bear in a sauna. At the moment, he was surrounded by a hundred such situations—and all of them were named Santa.

  “Hey, Frank,” Wolfe said. “I didn’t know the North Pole was your jurisdiction.”

  “Okay, get it out of your system now,” Frank growled. “You wanna know how many Santa jokes I’ve heard already?”

  “Hmm.” Wolfe looked past Frank, at the milling crowd of Santas behind the yellow crime-scene tape. “A sleighful, I’d say . . .”

  “Yeah, well,” Frank said, “in anticipation of your next question, no, nobody’s grandma got run over by a reindeer. The vic’s back here.”

  An Original Publication of POCKET BOOKS

  A Pocket Star Book published by

  POCKET BOOKS, a division of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

  1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020

  www.SimonandSchuster.com

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2006 by CBS Broadcasting Inc. and Alliance Atlantis Productions, Inc. CSI: Miami in USA is a trademark of CBS Broadcasting Inc. and outside USA is a trademark of Alliance Atlantis Communications, Inc. All Rights Reserved.

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  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information address Pocket Books, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020

  ISBN: 1-4165-3128-9

  eISBN-13: 978-1-41653-128-9

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  Csi Miami Harm for The Holidays 1

  * * *

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  For my agent, Lucienne Diver, for all her

  hard work, dedication and belief.

  1

  CHRISTMAS IN MIAMI, HORATIO THOUGHT, was almost redundant.

  He glanced out the window of the Hummer as he cruised down the Rickenbacker Causeway. On the other side of the guardrail, out in Biscayne Bay, the sailboats had their masts decorated with strings of Christmas lights, and he could see at least one cruise ship with a big inflatable pine tree on its deck. Those sorts of details, he had to admit, only showed up once a year . . . but conceptually, the city was Christmas all year round. Miami Beach was a great big Santa’s workshop for grown-ups, dispensing booze and food and sex and music; sure, the trees were palm instead of evergreen, the lights neon instead of twinkling, the crowds lined up outside clubs instead of inside malls—but everybody still had a list of what they wanted. Bouncers kept track of who was naughty or nice, and nobody complained when their present showed up in a mojito glass or wrapped in a thong instead of paper. Miami even got snow . . . but it usually arrived in kilo-size packages of tightly bound plastic, stashed in the hold of a Cigarette boat.

  And of course, Horatio thought, there was the occasional Grinch.

  The crime scene was a convenience store in Liberty City, not one of Miami’s better neighborhoods. He parked in front, beside the two black-and-whites, and got out. By the time he ducked under the yellow police tape barring the front door, he had already gloved up; Horatio went through more latex than a sex-trade worker moonlighting as a paramedic.

  Calleigh Duquesne was already there, kneeling beside a pool of blood on the floor. Horatio took a quick look around, noted the security camera, the closed till, and a toppled rack of potato chips.

  “Hey, H,” Calleigh said. She used the camera in her hands to snap a quick couple of pictures. “What brings you out on this cheery holiday night?”

  “An attempted robbery, apparently,” Horatio replied. “I understand the vic is still alive?”

  “And his attacker—problem is, we don’t know which is which. A customer found two men, both unconscious, both sprawled out on the floor. It looks like one clocked the other one with this.” She held up a large glass bottle of malt liquor; the bottom edge was matted with blood and hair. “Both men were in their thirties, of Middle Eastern or Hispanic descent. One had ID, the other didn’t. Ambulance took them to Dade Memorial.”

  “So how did they both wind up unconscious?”

  “Check this out.” Calleigh pointed at the floor, where a short red smear jutted from the edge of the pool of blood. “Believe it or not, it looks like the second one slipped in the first one’s blood—or maybe vice versa. Cracked his skull on the floor.”

  “So we have a clumsy criminal or an unlucky clerk,” Horatio mused. “And if the security camera is working, we should be able to tell which is which . . .”

  Horatio walked behind the front counter, Calleigh right behind him. There was a small video monitor mounted on the underside of the counter, out of sight of the customers. It cycled between two views: the front of the till and the back door.

  “I’ve got blood spatter on the counter,” Calleigh said. She snapped off a few pictures. “Looks like this is where the fight started.”

  Horatio found the recording unit and fiddled with the controls. “Okay, here we go,” he murmured.

  The monitor showed them the back of the clerk’s head. A tall, dark-skinned man wearing a long black coat entered the frame, holding a magazine in one hand and gesturing wildly with the other. A scarf obscured the lower part of his face.

  “Too bad there’s no sound,” Calleigh said. “Wonder why he’s so agitated.”

  “As near as I can tell, it has something to do with that magazine,” Horatio said.

  The attacker tossed the magazine away and struck the clerk in the face with his fist. Blood poured from the clerk’s nose. The man’s hand suddenly shot out and grabbed the clerk by the throat. Using only one arm, he dragged the clerk across the counter and in front of the till.

  “Strong,” Calleigh said.

  “And violent . . .” The fight was no longer in range of the camera, but they could see the rack of potato chips fall into the frame. There was no movement after that.

  “So the blood pool was from the punch in the nose,” Calleigh said.

  “And presumably right afterward is when our poor besieged clerk grabbed the bottle and got in a lucky shot.” Horatio reached down and stopped the recording.

  “Lucky is right,” Calleigh said. “Did you see how fast that guy moved? And hauling the clerk across the counter like that, one-handed—what do you figure, H? Martial arts, military training, or drugs?”

  “I guess we’ll have to wait until one of them wakes up to hear the whole story,” Horatio answered. “But at least we know who did what.”

  “Yeah.” Calleigh walked over to one corner of the store. She bent over and picked up the magazine in question from the floor, flipped it open, and examined it critically. “I can see why he was so upset. Those boo
ts she’s wearing really don’t go with her hat.”

  Horatio stepped over and took a look. “At least they don’t clash with anything else,” he pointed out.

  “H, she’s not wearing anything else. Nothing but a smile, anyway.”

  “Quite the contrast to the rage in our perp’s eyes,” Horatio said. “If looks could kill, we’d be investigating a murder instead of an assault . . .”

  She heard them before she saw them.

  Luisita worked at Excolo Hotel, a four-star Miami Beach hotel with an art deco exterior that always reminded her of a cross between Flash Gordon and Fred Flintstone—something about the combination of terra-cotta color scheme and streamlined design elements, she supposed. Luisita was studying to be an architect, and she paid her tuition by manning the front desk at the Excolo on weekends. She was used to dealing with tourists, drunken college kids, and eccentric locals . . . but she’d never experienced anything like this.

  “Ho, ho, ho! Ho, ho, ho! Ho, ho, ho!”

  The sound was coming from the street. It was getting closer, and louder—a lot louder.

  Luisita glanced at the other desk clerk, a gangly guy in his twenties who always looked vaguely surprised. “Stuart, what is that?”

  “Um,” Stuart said. “Him?” He pointed at the front door.

  There, framed in the doorway, was Santa Claus.

  Sort of.

  He wore the traditional red suit and had a big white beard—but he held a megaphone in one hand, and what appeared to be a bottle of window cleaner in the other. He gave the hotel staff a cheery wink, raised the megaphone to his lips, and shouted, “Santa! Into the lobby!”

  And suddenly, Santa wasn’t alone.

  They poured through the door like a crimson flood, Santas of every size and description. There were tall Santas and short Santas, fat Santas and skinny Santas, male Santas and female Santas.

  And then there were the mutant Santas: Santas in fishnets and high heels, Santas in sequin-covered suits, Santas with horns, Santas in clown makeup and gorilla masks and Groucho glasses. For every identical Kris Kringle there was another, warped version, dressed in a fur bikini or leading a leather-clad elf on a leash. There were reindeer as well as elves, and at least one Easter Bunny. Every single one of them was chanting, “Ho, ho, ho!” at the top of their North Pole lungs.

  Luisita glanced at Stuart. Stuart appeared to be in shock; the customary amazed expression on his face had frozen there like the screen of a crashed computer.

  And they just kept coming. The security guard, talking to the bell captain, was caught completely by surprise; by the time he reacted, at least a dozen Santas had strolled through the door.

  And they kept coming.

  They filled the lobby, laughing and ho-ing and hoisting flasks aloft. The security guard held up his hands, but they ignored him, streaming past in a merry, white-furred swarm.

  Luisita stared, and realized she was grinning. It was impossible not to.

  A bunch of Santas formed a ring around the Christmas tree in the center of the lobby, joined hands, and started singing. At first Luisita thought the song was “Deck the Halls,” but realized after the first verse she’d never heard this particular version before—especially the part about “Don we now our rubber panties.”

  One of the Santas bounded up, reached into his red sack, and pulled out a brightly wrapped present. He handed it to Luisita with a big smile and a cry of “Merry Christmas!”

  She took it hesitantly, and he bounded away again. Luisita stared around the lobby; how many Santas were there, anyway? She was sure there were over a hundred already, with more pushing their way inside every minute.

  “Are you going to open it?” Stuart asked.

  Luisita laughed. “Sure, why not?” She tore off the paper, revealing an old shoebox. She pulled off the lid—

  “SANTA LOVES YOU!” one of the Santas screamed.

  Inside the box was a toy—a very odd toy. It had the torso of a Barbie doll, the head and arms of a cartoon tiger, transparent fairy wings, and one cybernetic leg. Little kernels of unpopped popcorn were glued on as nipples.

  “I think Santa made this one after a few too many eggnogs,” Luisita said, smiling. She propped it up behind the counter, where the staff could see it but guests couldn’t.

  And just as quickly as they’d swirled into the hotel lobby, they were gone, marching out into the warm Miami night. They left a trail of candy canes and stickers that read “Naughty!” or “Nice!” behind them, and several bewildered staff members. On closer examination the Christmas tree was discovered to have had several ornaments added to it, ranging from the ludicrous to the pornographic, and someone had spray-painted a large HO! on every elevator door in artificial snow. Luisita couldn’t stop grinning for the rest of the night.

  Until she got home after her shift and saw the news.

  Detective Frank Tripp was not a happy man.

  Not that he was unhappy in general—underneath his gruff exterior, he was actually a pretty friendly and easygoing guy. But certain situations just got under his skin . . . and when that happened, he was about as much fun to be around as a polar bear in a sauna.

  At the moment, he was surrounded by a hundred such situations—and all of them were named Santa.

  Ryan Wolfe strolled up, CSI kit in one hand. The kid was dressing well these days, Tripp noted—a sharp tan blazer, pin-striped shirt underneath it open at the collar. Tripp himself had a grand total of five suits, which he rotated on the basis of which one had accumulated the least number of coffee stains. Kid keeps dressing like that, Tripp thought, people are gonna start callin’ him little H.

  “Hey, Frank,” Wolfe said. “I didn’t know the North Pole was your jurisdiction.”

  “Okay, get it out of your system now,” Frank growled. “You wanna know how many Santa jokes I’ve heard already?”

  “Hmm,” Wolfe said thoughtfully. He looked past Frank, at the milling crowd of Santas behind the yellow crime-scene tape. “A sleighful, I’d say . . .”

  “Yeah, well,” Frank said, “in anticipation of your next question, no, nobody’s grandma got run over by a reindeer. The vic’s back here.”

  Tripp led Wolfe around the side of the building to a parking lot. In one corner there was a white pile, around three feet high, with a body-shaped outline cut into it. At the base of the figure, a pair of black boots jutted out.

  “Is that snow?” Wolfe asked, setting down his kit and opening it.

  “Not exactly,” Tripp said. “It’s shaved ice from the rink inside; apparently Santa likes to cut a few figure eights during his downtime. Zamboni driver found him when he came out here to dump a load.”

  Wolfe snapped on a pair of gloves, then approached the artificial drift. The boots sticking out of it belonged to a mostly naked man—besides the boots, he wore a pair of red pants pulled down around his knees, a fake white beard, and a Santa hat.

  “Looks like he melted right into the drift,” Wolfe said. “Our Santa was giving off a lot of heat.”

  “Think Santa was tryin’ to make a snow angel?” Tripp asked.

  “If he was making an angel,” Wolfe said, “she was on top.” He pointed to two depressions in the snow on either side of the Santa’s hips. “And it looks like she left a bootprint, too—it’s way too small to belong to the vic.”

  “Better get a picture of it quick. The way this stuff is melting, it’ll be gone in no time.”

  “I can do better than that.” Wolfe rummaged in his kit and brought out a spray can. He shook it up, uncapped it, then carefully misted a layer over the bootprint. “Aerosol wax. Perfect for making casts in snow.”

  “Something specially designed for casting footprints in snow—and you just happen to have it in your kit?”

  “I like to be prepared,” Wolfe said defensively. “Besides, it’s also good for sand or mud—and regular casting materials heat up as they set. The exothermic reaction can cause details to get lost.”

  “What d
o you figure killed him?”

  Wolfe began to examine the body carefully. “I don’t know. No visible trauma to the body; skin is flushed and still warm. I can see traces of vomit in his beard. We might be looking at a heart attack or stroke.”

  “Maybe frolicking in the snow with a playmate was a little too jolly for him?”

  “Maybe,” Wolfe said. “Or maybe this is just what happens when you only come once a year . . .”

  Tripp frowned. “ME’s on her way. Maybe she can firm the COD up—and do it without making any bad jokes.”

  “Oh, come on, Frank. I can’t believe you can look at this with a straight face. I mean, it’s a naked Santa.” Wolfe peeled the wax impression off the snow carefully.

  “It’s not the vic that’s got me in a bad mood. It’s all the suspects we’ve got to interview. Over a hundred, and not one of them sober. It’s going to be a long night—and not a silent one, either.”

  “You’ve got a point.” Wolfe inspected the body’s fingernails, then took out a pair of tweezers and an evidence envelope. “Well, you better get started— I’ve still got a ton of trace to collect. I’ve got fibers under his nails, the vomit, what look like beard hairs on his groin, and possibly even DNA from sexual activity. . . . I’m going to be here a while.” “Wonderful.”

  Chester Cypress liked to hunt. He didn’t use a gun or a bow or a dog, and his hunting trips all took place when the sun was down. He would go deep into the ’Glades on a flat-bottomed skiff, just him, a bucket, and a six-foot-long pole that ended in four razor-sharp, barbed tines.

  Chester Cypress was a Miccosukee Indian, one of maybe five hundred left. He worked at the Miccosukee Village, a settlement that had been there long before the Tamiami Trail. Chester was a cook in the restaurant there, which featured genuine Miccosukee dishes like fry bread, pumpkin bread, catfish—and frog’s legs.

  Chester had been taught how to gig frogs by his father, and he planned on teaching his own son one day. His father had used a carbide lantern to spotlight the big bullfrogs and freeze them in place, but technology had improved since then; Chester used a tiny, extremely bright halogen light strapped to his forehead. If you used this method on deer, it was called jacklighting—and was highly illegal—but when used on frogs it was considerably more sporting. All you had to do to bag the deer was aim and shoot, but to get your frog you had to get close to him without making a sound, then spear him with one quick thrust. You also had to keep an eye out for gators and water moccasins at the same time, and one frog didn’t make much of a meal; you couldn’t call it a good night’s hunting until you had a bucketful, and sometimes that meant you didn’t get to bed until dawn.