Misgivings

by Donn Cortez

  “So you found microscopic scratches?”

  “No.”

  Tripp studied the grin on Wolfe’s face and sighed. “Okay, science boy,” he growled, “I give up. Was the lock picked or not?”

  “Not picked. Bumped.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “It’s also called rapping, and it’s existed long enough to stake an honest claim to the term,” Wolfe said. “Well, maybe honest isn’t the right word. . . . Anyway, the technique’s been around for at least five decades. Here, let me show you.”

  Wolfe had mounted three locks on three wooden frames, miniature doors held upright and clamped to the table. “These are the same model of lock as the one on Kingsley Patrick’s apartment. The way a regular lock works is with a set of pins and two cylinders. The keyway runs through the inner cylinder of the lock. As the key goes in, the grooves cut into it move stacks of two or more pins through holes drilled into both inner and outer cylinders. Tiny springs push the pins back into position as the key goes further inside and the height of the grooves changes along the length of the key. When it’s fully inserted, the end of the last groove—what’s called the shoulder—rests against the inner cylinder, and all the gaps between the pins inside the lock are aligned. At that point, the inner cylinder can turn and the lock will open.”

  “Right.” Tripp’s tone had shifted from impatience to resignation; Wolfe guessed he’d become used to hearing long-winded explanations from CSIs.

  “Anyway,” Wolfe continued, “most lockpicking tools let you manipulate individual pins. Since the pin stacks are never perfectly aligned, some pins get stuck between the two cylinders, meaning they’re lined up before any of the others. When the lock is turned slightly, the pins that jam first— the outer ones—stay on the outside of the inner cylinder. That lets you place the rest of the pins, and the lock should open sesame.

  “Or . . . you could use one of these.” Wolfe picked up a small, white tool from the table. It was made of a strip of lightweight, flexible metal around a foot long, with a squared-off, weighted end the size of a shot glass. “It’s called a Tomahawk,” Wolfe said. “Made by a guy named Kurt Zühlke. It was created specifically for the bumping technique, but you don’t need a tool this specialized—I’ve been told a butter knife, held by the blade, would work the same way.”

  “How’s it work?”

  “Well, you also need one of these.” Wolfe held up a key. “This is a bump key, sometimes called a 999. It’s an ordinary key that’s been recut so all the grooves are at their maximum depth. There are two different techniques for using it, but both rely on one simple principle: Newton’s third law of motion.”

  “For every action there’s an equal and opposite reaction?”

  Wolfe looked surprised. “Right. Guess you paid attention in physics class.”

  “Yeah, I can chew gum and walk at the same time, too. Get on with it.”

  “Okay, okay. Tools like lockpick guns or vibrating picks transfer energy to the pins via Newton’s third law, moving them into the correct position for a split second—in order to open it, you have to turn the lock before the internal springs push the pins back into place.

  “Both bumping methods utilize the same principle. The pull-back technique consists of inserting the bump key, then pulling back one pin’s worth. After that, you rap the key with the tool, and turn it an instant later. It’s tricky to do—took me a dozen tries before I could get the lock to open.”

  “And the second?”

  “It’s called the minimal-movement method. When you insert a normal key into a lock, the pins make contact with the key’s deepest groove at the point where the shoulder touches the inner cylinder. A bump key has a very small amount of metal shaved off both the tip and the shoulder—about a quarter of a millimeter. This lets the bump key go deeper into the lock and push against the internal springs, which will then push it back out just enough to have the pins rest on its deepest groove.”

  Wolfe demonstrated, inserting the key into one of the locks. He hit the projecting end sharply with the Tomahawk tool, then grabbed and turned the key quickly. The lock popped open.

  “Terrific,” Tripp rumbled. “But I’m not here to be impressed by your break-and-enter skills, am I?”

  “No. What I wanted to show you was this.” Wolfe pointed to the spot above the keyhole on the lock he’d just opened. “See that dimple in the metal? It was caused by the shoulder of the key hitting the lock plate. It’s almost exactly like the one on the lock plate from Patrick’s apartment.”

  “Almost?”

  “You stamp two pieces of metal together like that, you get a tool mark, and the more distinctive the tool the more distinctive the mark. Bump keys are highly individual because they’re made by personally filing them down to the right tolerance; if we can find the bump key used to break into Patrick’s apartment, I can match it to the mark on the lock.”

  “Good work, kid,” Tripp said, clapping Wolfe on the shoulder. “Now all we have to do is figure out why they broke in and what they took.”

  “Hopefully Patrick’s computer will give us something. Jenson’s working on it. In the meantime, I’ve also been taking a closer look at the Santa suit we found inside the mini-golf windmill. The fibers from it were a match for some of the fibers I found on the vic, but I also found an interesting stain on the cuff of the jacket.”

  “Biological?”

  “No, chemical—an electrolyte, to be exact. Lead, lead peroxide, and sulfuric acid. Or, in other words, battery acid.”

  Tripp frowned. “Think it came from the windmill?”

  “No, I checked—the thing does have a motor, but it runs on AC.”

  “Car battery?”

  “Maybe. That’s the most common use for a lead-acid battery, but it’s not the only one. Electrical backup systems use them, as well as other kinds of vehicles like golf carts. Their low energy-to-weight ratio means they’re mainly used in situations where it doesn’t matter how heavy they are—like in forklifts, where they’re actually used as a counterweight.”

  “So this Santa could have been in a warehouse,” Tripp said. “Well, I’ve got some news of my own. I think I know another spot where our female Santa might have made an appearance: Rosemary’s Deli on Fourth.”

  “The vic did have deli food in his stomach, but—how do you know that’s where it came from?”

  “That’s where they stopped to eat. Valerie Blitzen mentioned a deli, so I checked on the list of places Santa was scheduled to hit. Not only is the deli listed, but the approximate time Santa was supposed to show up.”

  “We only found one of the antidepressants in the flask,” Wolfe said. “She had to have slipped him the other one somewhere. Maybe she did it at the deli?”

  “Could be. This chemical that certain foods are full of—tyrosine?”

  “Tyramine.”

  “It works even better if it’s side by side with one of those chemicals Patrick was dosed with, right?”

  “Right. Alcohol amplifies the effects, too.”

  “So to get the best effect, you’d try to give your target both at once.”

  “Like booze and phenelzine,” Wolfe admitted. “So, imipramine and—what? Aged cheddar?”

  “Won’t know until we see for ourselves, will we?” Tripp said. “C’mon, Wolfe—time to get out of the lab. I’m in the mood for a little pastrami on rye . . .”

  Calleigh Duquesne had a BA in physics from Tulane University, and she had worked as a beat cop in New Orleans. She lacked neither street smarts or higher education, and a childhood spent with two alcoholic parents had given her a personal radar finely tuned to the moods of others. She had chosen a field where keen perception was as important as intellect, and she had excelled in it.

  She’d figured out why Horatio had taken her off the Pathan case before the words were out of his mouth.

  She didn’t resent it, though—if anything, she was touched. Horatio was fiercely protective of his team, and Calleigh kne
w he would try to place himself between her and any possible repercussions from an error. Not that she’d let him, of course; she took responsibility for her own actions, and that included any mistakes she might make.

  But she could see the wisdom in taking a step back, too—and even if she didn’t, she trusted Horatio’s instincts. If he thought she should work on another case, she would, and she’d give that case as much of her attention as any other—which is to say, all of it.

  After talking to Solana, Calleigh set out to find Hector’s friend Marco Boraba. He wasn’t listed in the Miami phone book, but she punched up his driver’s license and got an address in Coconut Grove. When she called the number listed, she got a recording, a Spanish-accented voice giving her another number to try if her call was urgent. When she tried that, a man answered with “Hello, Wildside Menagerie, this is Roberto. How can I help you?”

  “Hi, my name is Calleigh Duquesne. I’m trying to get hold of Marco Boraba?”

  “Mister Boraba is out for lunch right now,” Roberto said. “He’ll be back in an hour, maybe an hour and a half. Do you want to leave a message?”

  “Does he have a cell phone number? I really need to speak with him.”

  “I’m sorry, but Mister Boraba doesn’t like me giving that out. I can take your number and get him to call you, though.”

  Calleigh frowned. “You know what? I’ll just come down and talk to him personally. Thank you.”

  She hung up. She knew she should probably have left her number, but sometimes it was better to not give a suspect any warning. Of course, she had no idea if Marco Boraba actually was a suspect—but then, ideas seemed to be in short supply in this case.

  Besides, this way she could go down early and check out Mister Boraba’s workplace. Wildside Menagerie, from the noises she had heard in the background, was some sort of pet store—either that, or the employees like to watch the Discovery Channel with the sound turned up way too loud.

  Before she left, though, she had a little research to do. Forewarned was forearmed—and Calleigh always felt more comfortable when she was armed.

  Rosemary’s Mediterranean Delicatessen was the kind of place that made your mouth water as soon as you stepped inside. Glass cases full of fresh ravioli, fettuccine, tortellini; thick coils of smoked sausage hanging from the ceiling; shelves stocked with canned dolmades, olives, clams, and shrimp; big glass jars stuffed with pickled artichokes, peppers, mushrooms, and eggplant. The dairy case held plastic vats full of feta cheese in brine, bags of creamy Alfredo sauce, and wheels of Edam, Gorgonzola, Parmesan, and mozzarella.

  The place was large, too, more like a small supermarket than a deli, with a seating area that abutted a sidewalk patio. Despite that, it didn’t really look as if it could accommodate 150 Santas, though Wolfe supposed that the overflow could always hang around outside.

  “Something’s been bugging me,” Tripp said as they looked around. “What are the odds that the place the Santas picked to chow down just happens to specialize in the kind of food our killer needed?”

  “I was wondering about that, too,” Wolfe said. “It suggests she was involved with planning the route itself. Who did you say you got the map from?”

  “Woman named Monica Steinwitz. I think maybe we should go have a little talk with her next.”

  Tripp strode up to the front counter. “’Scuse me.”

  The man behind it looked up from the large meat slicer he was operating. He was fairly large himself, with the kind of bulging features that seemed to cry out, I’m not fat—I’m just supposed to be three feet taller. His hair was short, black, and curly, and that included his fleshy forearms and the inch or so of pudgy chest visible above the top of his full-length apron.

  “Yeah?” The man continued to shave paper-thin slices from a large ham. “What can I get for you?”

  Tripp showed him his badge. “Got a few questions about the Santas that were in here. Only take a minute.”

  The meatcutter shut off his machine and walked over. “I heard one of ’em dropped dead, over by the rink. But, yeah, they were in here. Before that, I guess.”

  “Any idea why they picked this place?” Tripp asked. “No offense, but it doesn’t seem all that Christmassy.”

  The meatcutter shrugged. “Beats me. All I know is, I gotta phone call ’bout a week ago, some woman sayin’ she’s organizin’ this big party. I ask if she wants it catered, and she says, no, they’ll come to me. Then she tells me everybody’s gonna be dressed as Santa, and they’re gonna be hungry. I says I don’t care if they’re dressed like the Easter Bunny, long as they don’t expect table service or anything deep-fried. We ain’t licensed for that.”

  “Run into any problems?” Tripp asked.

  “Nah, they were okay. They were pretty wasted and kinda loud, but nothin’ we couldn’t handle. You want outta control, you should see what we get during spring break—I had a couple frat boys throwin’ pickled squid at each other, one time. Wouldn’a minded so much, but they hadn’t paid for it yet.”

  “What was the name of the woman you talked to?” Wolfe asked.

  The man frowned, his meaty forehead corrugating like an accordian. “I think it was . . . Claudia. Yeah, that was it. Didn’t get a last name, though.”

  “How about the food?” Wolfe asked. “Any problems with that?”

  “Just the fact that we ran outta beer. I woulda known they were such boozers, I woulda stocked up. And they were a little confused about the bill, too.”

  “How’s that?” Tripp asked.

  “Well, they all paid separate, right? But just before they all left, this woman comes up to me and asks about the charity donation. ‘What charity donation?’ I say. ‘You know, ten percent of what we spend goes to the burn unit or the Red Cross or something’—I don’t remember, exactly. I tell her I’m sorry, but my money goes in my pocket—you wanna give to charity, great, but don’t go donatin’ my cash. Turns out there was some kinda mix-up with this Claudia woman, the one who set it up.”

  “Did you ever meet with this Claudia?” Wolfe asked.

  “Nah, we just talked onna phone.”

  Wolfe eyed an immense jar of pickled artichokes. “Has the garbage been picked up since they were here?”

  “Nah, they pick up tomorrow. Why?”

  “Because,” Wolfe said, “I’m going to have to confiscate it. And all the open containers here that the Santas might have eaten out of.”

  “You’re kiddin’ me,” the man said incredulously. “What, you think my food had somethin’ to do with that Santa who kicked off? You’re crazy! The health inspector was just in here, gave me the thumbs-up—I run a clean place!”

  “I’m sure you do, sir,” Tripp said, “but some folks—even ones in Santa suits—play dirty.”

  Wildside Menagerie was in Coconut Grove, not far from the famed CocoWalk open-air mall. Like many neighborhoods in Miami, Coconut Grove had its own unique character and history. The Grove was the oldest settlement in the state, its first residents two families of lighthouse keepers that arrived at Cape Florida on the edge of Biscayne Bay in 1834. By 1873, its residents included black sailors from the Bahamas, Conchs from Key West, and a cluster of sophisticates from New England—artists and intellectuals who came to the Grove when winters in the North proved to be too much. The Bay View House was the region’s first hotel, and when it opened, it attracted both members of refined society and black Bahamians looking for employment. Both groups stayed, establishing an eclectic community that by the twenties boasted a school, library, chapel, and yacht club—and in 1925, was annexed by Miami. Even more artists made the place their home after the Second World War, and throughout the fifties and sixties its reputation grew. Real estate prices drove many of the galleries out of business in the eighties and nineties, and today it was better known for its shopping than its art.

  Calleigh liked driving through the Grove; everything seemed all mixed together, middle-class houses next to modern architectural experiments, pric
ey mansions side by side with tiny bungalows. The starving artists might not be able to afford gallery space in the Grove anymore, but they were still around, and they’d definitely left their mark.

  As she’d thought, Wildside Menagerie was a pet store—but not just any pet store. It specialized in the exotic, in the hard-to-find and expensive. Its website had claimed it carried or had access to over fifty breeds of dogs, sixty kinds of exotic birds, and a large variety of lizards, rodents, spiders, snakes, scorpions, insects, and frogs. About the only thing they didn’t seem to carry was ants, for which Calleigh was grateful. Just looking at ants made her itch.

  She double-parked on the street—one of the perks of driving a Miami-Dade CSI Hummer was being able to stop wherever you needed to—got out, and walked up to the front door. There were two large display windows on either side of it, one featuring a three-foot iguana sprawled on a piece of driftwood, the other a dozen puppies in a plastic-bottomed enclosure. The iguana regarded her with one disinterested eye; the puppies did puppyish things, wrestling and chewing and sleeping and generally just being cute as all get-out. Calleigh took a moment to smile at them and tap on the glass; she was a firm believer that every moment spent with a puppy or kitten was subtracted from your own aging process. She realized that this belief meant that anyone who worked in a pet store was effectively immortal, but she also believed certain ideas should never be examined too closely. Being a scientist didn’t mean you couldn’t embrace the occasional irrational thought; after all, it wasn’t irrational beliefs that got you in trouble. It was irrational behavior.

  Inside, the noise of the place was considerable— puppies barking, birds screeching or whistling or singing, even the chatter of a monkey. It wasn’t deafening, but it did give Calleigh the sudden feeling she wasn’t in the middle of a city anymore. The smell of the place was considerably less than wild, though; more than anything, it smelled of disinfectant. I suppose that’s better than animal feces, she thought.

  A young man in a short-sleeved, yellow shirt with a WILDSIDE MENAGERIE logo stitched on the breast approached her. He had bushy sideburns, thick, black-framed glasses, and a nametag that read ALLEN. “Hi,” he said. “Need any help?”