No Sunscreen for the Dead

by Tim Dorsey

  “Terms of agreement?”

  “You’re the new face of crime fighting.”

  “I’ll get a cape.” He raised up a fuzzy photo. “What’s this?”

  “Surveillance camera. Virtually worthless.”

  Benmont held the file out in the palm of his hand and gauged its heft like a postal scale. “Seems kind of thin.”

  “That’s everything they’ve got. Witnesses reported a two- or four-door getaway car that’s green or blue or silver, and a crew of three to five with androgynous descriptions. Pretty much the only solid clues are the dates and locations of the robberies, which anyone who reads newspapers could have gotten.”

  “I’ll give it a shot,” said Benmont. “So is this really the Dukes of Hazzard bank robbery investigation?”

  “All over the news,” said Quint. “The Crime Stoppers TIPS line is flooded with calls, but the police aren’t hopeful.”

  “Why not?”

  “There’s no connection to The Dukes of Hazzard.”

  “Then why are they called that?”

  “One of our previous studies showed that robbers have a thirty-two percent higher chance of being captured if they’re given nicknames. And a secondary analysis found that The Dukes has a fifty-nine percent favorable rating among people who like to tell on others.”

  “Okay, I’ll get on it immediately,” said Benmont. “Just curious about one thing.”

  “Shoot.”

  Benmont gestured across the office floor. “Those kids are so much faster with computers. Why not give the urgent police cases to them?”

  “Because they’re locked into binary tech-thought,” said Quint. “But you’re old-school and go with creative hunches. You have a place to start?”

  Benmont stood and pointed. “The coffee machine.”

  “I’ll get out of your way . . .”

  . . . Just after five p.m., Quint was grabbing his coat when someone appeared in his office doorway. “Oh, hi, I was just about to see how you were doing.”

  Benmont stepped forward and handed a sheet of paper to his boss.

  Quint put on his glasses and stared down at the page. “What am I looking at?”

  “The names of the bank robbers.”

  “Wait, what?— . . . So fast? . . . Are you sure?”

  “Sure as I’m standing here. I also included their home addresses and where they work, if that helps.”

  Quint finally closed his open mouth. “Okay, let’s both take seats and you explain this to me. Don’t skip anything.”

  And Benmont laid out his step-by-step method.

  “Fantastic job,” said Quint. “Grab your jacket.”

  “I didn’t bring one. Why?”

  “We’re delivering this in person.” Quint slipped arms into his own coat. “It’s about customer maintenance, and we need to set a new price point for their next job.”

  The pair arrived at the police department with their news, and the stunned reaction was about the same as Quint’s had been. They immediately dispatched the SWAT teams and took down a trio of construction workers in Fort Pierce. Then they summoned Quint and Benmont into a meeting room.

  Quint slapped his employee on the back. “Time to dazzle them.”

  Benmont stood sheepishly and cleared his throat. “I only had the dates and locations of the robberies. So I checked all the cell-phone numbers that had pinged off towers in a ten-mile radius of each bank branch, limiting it to a three-hour window before and after the robberies.”

  “But that must have generated millions of calls,” said a lieutenant.

  “It did,” said Benmont. “I simply mashed the lists together—”

  Quint jumped in. “Of course, using our latest proprietary technology. Sorry for interrupting. Go ahead, Benmont.”

  “. . . And the millions of phone numbers became just three. Your bad guys.”

  A captain removed his hat. “How is that possible?”

  “Think about it,” said Benmont. “Who is going to be in extremely specific parts of Jacksonville, Orlando and Boynton Beach at equally specific times on August third, ninth and twenty-first?”

  Police brass glanced at each other around the table. “But I thought collecting this kind of data was illegal,” said the lieutenant. “There’s been a lot about it in the news.”

  “Compiling lists of what numbers they called would be illegal,” said Benmont. “We weren’t asking that. We just looked for what phones were turned on. The law hasn’t caught up with that yet. It’s all in the terms of agreement.”

  “And you got this information from where?”

  “We have arrangements with most major cell carriers,” said Benmont. “In exchange for lists to help them steal each other’s customers.”

  “Doesn’t that make them mad?”

  “None of them can afford to be left out,” said Benmont.

  More glances around the table, followed by a round of nodding.

  The chief stood. “We’ll hold a press conference in the morning. Hope you don’t mind if we take credit. It’s in our terms of agreement.”

  “Just as long as you keep bringing us business.” Quint got up from the table. “I’ll be sending over our updated fee schedule, and the new contingency clause.”

  “Clause?”

  “In addition to our regular payment, we get any rewards.”

  Chapter 3

  Sarasota

  A Ford Falcon sped away from Pinecraft Park. Coleman looked out the back window. “The Amish aren’t playing volleyball anymore, just watching our car.”

  “Watching in respect.”

  “I’m hungry.”

  “You’re in luck.” Serge hit his turn signal. “That’s another cool thing about the Florida Amish. They’ve assimilated into our society, unlike AM radio listeners, and there’s an unnatural concentration of fabulous country restaurants right around here like the Dutchman, Yoder’s, the Amish Kitchen, not to mention Big Olaf’s ice cream.”

  “Get me to the closest.”

  Moments later, the Falcon skidded into a parking lot, and the famished duo headed for the entrance. “It’s not only the food,” said Serge, “but these restaurants sell all their crafts as well, like candles and quilts. On the way out the door, instead of grabbing a toothpick, you can pick up a rocking chair.”

  “Why would you buy a rocking chair from a restaurant?”

  “Not just any rocking chair.” Serge opened the door and pointed at a piece of furniture. “An Amish rocking chair. That says state of the art. See? It’s in high def.”

  “But isn’t that because we’re looking at it in person?”

  “Exactly,” said Serge. “I’m right again.”

  A waitress approached and smiled. “Two for dinner?”

  “Unless the volleyball team followed us,” said Serge. “By the way, pleasure to make your acquaintance. We’re the weirdos.”

  “What?”

  “I mean, not the Weirdos, you know, like a traveling circus troupe from Budapest that rides motorcycles upside down in round cages. The vernacular ones. We forge understanding.” A big grin. “And we’re absolutely starved after a day of building trust! To the butter churns!”

  The woman grabbed a pair of menus. “Please follow me.”

  They sat in wooden slat chairs, by far the youngest customers in the entire restaurant. Coleman looked down. “What’s barn-raising stew?”

  “What an Amish neighborhood eats after everyone pitches in to help each other.”

  “Help each other? Who the hell does that?”

  “I’ve just heard rumors.” Serge flipped to the back page. “Let’s cut to the chase. The homemade pies are what they’re famous for.”

  The waitress arrived with glasses of water. “Need more time?”

  “Did you hear that bell?” asked Serge. “Ding! Ding! Ding! That means it’s pie time!” He handed his menu back. “I’ll have your scrump-dilly-icious shoofly!”

  “Me too,” said Coleman.

&
nbsp; She jotted on her pad. “Two slices of shoofly.”

  “No, the whole pie,” said Serge.

  She smiled. “Planning on taking the rest home for a late-night snack?”

  “Nope,” said Serge. “It’s all for here.”

  She looked up from her pad. “If you don’t mind me saying so, our pies are pretty big.”

  “That’s what we hear!” Serge tucked a napkin into the collar of his tropical shirt and unfastened his belt buckle. “Bring it on! And two of your biggest spoons!”

  Both Serge and Coleman were soon facedown over the table, scooping away.

  “Know what the oldest retirement community in Florida is?” Serge asked with a mouthful. “Advent Christian Village, opened 1913, tucked in a bend of the Suwannee River near Live Oak. Totally immersed in nature instead of outlet malls.” He pointed with the spoon. “Now that’s vision!”

  It wasn’t long before Coleman tossed a napkin on his plate. “That’s it, I’m about to pop. She wasn’t kidding about the size of their pies.”

  “I knew it would be too big.” Serge threw in his own napkin. “We’d never finish it on our own.”

  “Then why’d you order it?”

  “To make friends. I’ve had the room under surveillance the whole time we were chowing down like wombats.” Serge tilted his head. “See that booth in the corner?”

  “The ones eating dumplings? They’re like the oldest people in the whole place, and the others are freaking ancient to start with.”

  “That guy is wearing one of those military caps.” Serge stood up from the table. “I love the old dudes in the military caps!”

  “Why?”

  “Another of Florida’s natural treasures,” said Serge. “We arguably have the highest concentration of war heroes retired down here with all these fantastic stories to tell. Except they’re too humble to say anything, and you only know they’re embedded among us when a TV station airs the latest in an unending series of stories about some stupid committee that makes one of them take down an American flag outside his house because it’s too big.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “They haven’t ordered dessert yet.” Serge carried the rest of their pie across the room and grinned. “Could you scoot over?”

  “Uh, what—?” said the man in the cap. But Serge was already beginning to sit, and the man had to scoot by default.

  Coleman arrived and Serge pointed. “There’s room on that side with her.”

  “What—?” said the woman, hurriedly moving as Coleman began another inelegant plopping down.

  “So! Military cap!” said Serge, stretching his neck around to see the front of the hat. “Wow! The marines, no less.” He saluted. “Semper Fi!”

  “Uh, do we know you?” asked the man. “Were you in the corps?”

  “No and no,” said Serge. “But I’m one of your biggest fans! Mind if I get out my tape recorder? It won’t take up much room. I need to complete my oral history before you cats are all gone. I’m guessing by your age—what, Korea?”

  “He never talks about it,” said the woman across the table.

  Serge swung the microphone. “And you are . . . ?”

  “Mildred.” A smile. “He never wants to brag. He only wears that hat so he can meet the other veterans in public, and even then they just say hi and don’t talk about it. But he should be proud. He looked so handsome in his uniform. And they even gave him this nice star.”

  “Star?” asked Serge, checking the volume meter on his recorder.

  “Yes, it’s really pretty and silver.”

  Serge’s head jerked up with sudden seriousness. “It’s silver? . . . Wait, Korea? Where was he?”

  “I don’t know,” said Mildred, looking at her plate. “I think it was like a canal or something.”

  “A reservoir?” asked Serge.

  “That’s it.” She raised her face and nodded with another smile. “A reservoir.”

  Serge jumped to his feet and snatched the tape recorder off the table. “I’m very sorry for the intrusion . . . Come on, Coleman!”

  “What’s going on?”

  “Just get up!” Serge looked down at his pie, then at Mildred. “That one’s eaten out of. I’ll send the waitress to take it away, and you order any one you want on me. I’m so sorry again. Enjoy your day.” He grabbed Coleman by the arm.

  “Ow, that hurts!”

  They ended up back at their original table.

  Coleman rubbed a red mark near his elbow. “What’s gotten into you?”

  Serge’s hands covered his face. “There’s something seriously wrong with me. I don’t mean anything bad. I just get overexcited and spaz out. Too much enthusiasm is all. But I can’t always be blustering around without consideration for who I’m imposing on.”

  “I still don’t understand what’s going on,” said Coleman.

  Serge stretched out a rigid arm. “Do you know who that is over there?”

  “I don’t think we got a first name.”

  “I’m talking about what he did.”

  An empty expression stared back.

  “He was at the Chosin Reservoir,” said Serge.

  “What’s that?” asked Coleman.

  “Precisely.” Serge swept an arm in the air. “Almost nobody remembers. We take everything for granted in our comfy cruise-control lives where the wrong wine with fish is a pants-shitting crisis. Totally oblivious to the sacrifices of people like him who selflessly fought for the freedom of today’s Americans to be childish.”

  “But I still don’t know what the reservoir thing is.”

  “Snow, sub-freezing temperatures, brutal terrain when the Chinese came pouring down into the peninsula in late 1950. Thirty thousand of our troops completely encircled by a force that outnumbered them four to one with orders from Mao not to take prisoners. They were getting cut to pieces but never gave up, fighting seventeen straight days until they punched a hole in the enemy line and escaped. Some of the most brutal combat the world has ever seen.” Serge shook his head. “Everybody deserved a Silver Star, but if that guy got one in the middle of that bloodiness . . . well, I’ve read some of the commendations. He must have done something ridiculously brave to save his brothers, like single-handedly capturing a machine-gun nest with only a pistol and a grenade, then using it to wipe out an entire enemy platoon . . .”

  “Excuse me?”

  Serge looked up with a start. “Mildred?”

  She was holding the rest of his pie. “Mind if we join you?”

  “Sure! Sure!” Serge jumped up and pulled out the other two chairs at the table. He noticed the old guy had a cane, one of those deluxe models with a small tripod of rubber feet at the bottom that you buy off late-night infomercials.

  Serge returned to his seat more than a little surprised. “You really want to sit with us? After I bothered you?”

  The sweetest smile. “It was no bother,” said Mildred. “You were very nice and complimentary taking an interest in us. We’re never been interviewed before.”

  “You should have reporters lined up around the block,” said Serge.

  “We like visiting with people. But we’re some of the oldest out at the retirement park and have trouble getting around, and the others are busy with their activities. And we also love talking to younger people, but they have their lives, too. It can get a little lonely, you know.”

  “I’m not too busy,” said Serge. “Actually, I am, but everything’s on hold for heroes like you.” He looked down at the table. “I said I’d buy a whole new pie.”

  “It’s bad to waste,” said Mildred. “Is it okay to share dessert together?”

  “Are you kidding?” Serge turned around for the waitress, but she was already there with pleasantness.

  “I see you’ve made some new friends to help finish that pie.” She set down two more plates and utensils.

  Serge held out a hand. “We were never formally introduced. I’m Serge and that’s Coleman.”

&nb
sp; “Buster.” The old man shook the hand. “Buster Hornsby. Eureka, Kansas.”

  “Well, Buster Hornsby of Eureka, Kansas,” said Serge, “how did you end up in our fine state?”

  “I read in the papers where Doolittle’s Raiders sometimes held their annual reunions in Sarasota, and the pictures looked so nice. It always stuck with me.”

  “You’re kidding! I went to the Doolittle reunions,” said Serge. “Right on the bay front. If you were anywhere in Florida, how could you not go?”

  “Dr. Doolittle?” asked Coleman. “The guy with the weird animals?”

  “You’ll have to excuse my friend.” Serge wiped pie off Coleman’s nose. “He has the historical memory of a tsetse fly.”

  “One of his animals had two heads, right?”

  “Coleman, that’s it!” said Serge. “We’re watching Thirty Seconds Over Tokyo tonight.”

  “I loved that movie,” said Buster.

  “Me too,” said Mildred. “They were so brave.”

  Coleman shoveled pie. “What’s everyone talking about?”

  “Just one of the most dangerous missions of World War Two,” said Serge. “Barely four months after the sneak attack at Pearl Harbor, America was far from having her battle legs under her. That’s when President Roosevelt decided the country needed a morale boost and ordered something beyond audacious.”

  “We would bomb Tokyo,” said Buster. “It was an operation so preposterous that nobody ever saw it coming.”

  “That’s right,” said Serge. “It’s hard to fathom today, but prior to the war, the U.S. military was ranked something like seventeenth in the world, behind Belgium. Japan had an iron hold on the Pacific, and we had nothing but an inferiority complex. So the president sent a tiny force across the ocean that slipped unnoticed through the Japanese fleets. On April 18, 1942, an enemy patrol boat spotted the aircraft carrier Hornet, still hundreds of miles too far from its target for the planes to take off and return safely. And you know what? The pilots took off anyway! Sixteen B-25s with only enough fuel to reach the target. It became a suicide mission!”

  “They flew on and dropped their bombs,” said Buster. “But as miracles happen, they’d picked up a tailwind, giving them just enough to overfly Japan and bail out in the ocean or the coast of mainland China.”