by Carl Hiaasen
“Hello, Pruitt,” she said.
“Why the hell do you answer if you know it’s me?”
“You’re late tonight. It’s six-thirty-seven.”
“Fuck you, bitch. Your time is up!”
“Is one of the dogs sick?” Angie asked. “Is that why you’re late—you just got back from the vet’s?”
“Stop talkin’ shit,” Pruitt snapped.
“I know the Bichon struggles with gout. It’s been a tough road, hasn’t it? Lots of emotional ups and downs.”
“Hey, cunt, I’m going to blow up your stupid pickup truck with you inside.”
“Pruitt, listen to me. A one-handed amateur should not be dicking with live explosives. That prosthesis is fine for routine household tasks—washing dishes, folding laundry and so forth—but not wiring a bomb. Just a thought.”
“Anyway, who the fuck told you about my dogs?”
“Gotta run,” said Angie. “Have a peaceful evening, sir.”
She couldn’t reach Paul Ryskamp by phone, so she drove to the hangout bar in West Palm. Along the way, she noticed the roadblocks were down; that meant the President was gone. Angie thought Ryskamp might be unwinding with some of his agent friends and, sure enough, he was.
Angie walked up and said, “You look positively lethal in that suit.”
“What are you drinking?” Ryskamp asked.
“Nothing.”
They moved to a table in the corner. Angie asked Ryskamp if he’d heard the news about Mrs. Fitzsimmons.
The agent nodded. “Your alleged python victim. It’s a bummer.”
“Not alleged. She definitely got eaten. Then whoever stole the snake from my warehouse put her body under two feet of concrete.”
“Like I told you before, it’s a local case. We don’t investigate that kind of crime…whatever you’d call it.”
Angie said, “They took her damn jewelry. I’d call that robbery.”
Ryskamp tapped his beer mug. “The way the statutes are written, I’m not sure you can ‘rob’ a dead person that you didn’t kill yourself. Stealing from a corpse is probably grand theft.”
“Suddenly you’re an attorney?”
“Not suddenly. Georgetown Law, class of ’98.”
Angie shrugged. “Okay. Decent school.”
“It is.”
“You want me to admit I’m impressed?”
Angie was well aware that the Secret Service didn’t normally investigate burglaries and body snatchings. All she wanted from Ryskamp was a little help. She knew that, because of the President’s frequent presence at Casa Bellicosa, the Palm Beach police regularly shared information with Ryskamp’s office.
“What else do the cops know?” she asked him.
“I’m not supposed to—”
“Talk about it? Let me point out that your agency would still have a large mangled reptile in its Sub-Zero, if not for me. Sir.”
“Call me Paul, okay? And it’s not a Sub-Zero, it’s a fucking Kenmore. But I agree—you were punctual and efficient.”
“Don’t forget ‘discreet.’ As advertised.”
“Very discreet,” Ryskamp said good-humoredly. “All right, here’s the latest from the locals, which you did not hear from me. They’re looking for one suspect and interviewing another guy as a possible second.”
“Who’s got him?”
“Immigration, technically. But they moved him over to the county lockup.”
“Do they have a solid ID?” Angie asked.
“We’re waiting to confirm.”
“What about the first dude?”
“His name I’ve got.”
“Outstanding. I’ll take it.” Angie reached in her bag for a pen.
“What the hell are you going to do?” the agent asked.
“Assist my law-enforcement brethren.”
“Don’t. I’m serious.”
“Oh, stop worrying,” said Angie. “It’s not your case, remember?”
* * *
—
Uric used a burner phone to dial the hotline, in case the cops were tracing the calls. Nobody ever picked up, so Uric left several recorded messages saying he was ready to claim the $100,000 reward, since it was his tip that had led authorities to Mrs. Fitzsimmons’s body. At the end of each call Uric carefully recited his confidential code—the numerals and letters were still visible in Sharpie ink on his wrist because he hadn’t bathed since disposing of Prince Paladin.
Surely the old woman’s relatives intended to pay in cash; sending a check or wire transfer would require that the tipster provide an ID, defeating the whole point of an anonymous hotline. Uric figured that, once he connected with an actual human, he’d be given directions to the family’s bank. There he would simply show his wrist to a teller and collect his hundred grand.
He’d spent the night in the back of his van, the odor so foul that it kept him awake. He looked forward to buying something newer after collecting the Fitzsimmons reward. For now he was suffering at a Walmart, parked among the vehicles of other budget-conscious overnighters—mostly in RVs and pop-up campers. Although Uric still had some of the pawn money from the dead lady’s jewels, he chose not to waste it on a hotel room. Staying in the Walmart lot was free.
To kill time he wandered the aisles of the store, luridly appraising listless housewives while loading his shopping cart with pet diapers, hoverboard batteries, orchid-scented sun block, fluorescent cross-trainers, candied pomegranates and other useless crap. He abandoned the cart at the deli counter after ordering a pepperoni-and-meatball hoagie. Outside, in the parking lot, he watched a young couple nearly come to blows trying to squeeze a giant flat-screen television into their two-door Honda.
Uric popped a Coors Light and unfolded a stolen lawn chair next to his van. He pulled out the burner phone, dialed the hotline again and was pleased to hear a living person named Judith Asher answer. She sounded friendly, sharp and helpful. After Uric provided his call-in code, she confirmed that his other messages had been received and passed along to the police, as well as to the family of the late Mrs. Fitzsimmons.
Uric said, “Cool. So how long till I get paid?”
“I don’t have that information right now. You’ll have to keep checking in.”
“Here’s a better idea. Just call me as soon as the money’s ready.”
“I’m sorry, but that’s not possible,” Judith Asher said. “To protect the privacy of our tipsters, we don’t file any phone numbers. You should try back on this line in a few days.”
Uric was irritated by her reply. “A few days? Why so long, Judith? Is there a problem?”
“I don’t have that information.”
“Are you fuckin’ serious? The cops wouldn’t never have found that old lady’s dead body weren’t for me. There wouldn’t be no big fancy funeral ’cause her kids wouldn’t have a damn thing to put in the coffin!”
“Sir, there’s no cause to use profanity. I wish I could help, but I’m just a volunteer. You really need to call back in a couple days—”
“Okay, okay. Whatever.” Uric took a deep breath. “I’m sorry, Judith. Really I am. By the way, you’ve got, like, a perfect voice for this line of work. Can I ask, are you single? Because you sound single. Hello? Judith?”
At the moment Uric’s hotline hottie hung up on him, Palm Beach Police Chief Jerry Crosby was standing in the oak-paneled billiard room of Kiki Pew Fitzsimmons’s house, waiting for her sons to finish a monotonously unskilled game of eight-ball. Fay Alex Riptoad was present in her self-appointed role of family adviser, and she was engaged full-throttle.
“What did the tipster sound like on the phone?” she asked the chief.
“Late twenties, early thirties.”
“No, Jerry, I’m talking about his color. White or black?”
�
�He’s got a mild Southern accent.”
Fay Alex nodded. “So we can rule out the Hispanics. That helps.”
Crosby said no, his detectives couldn’t rule out anyone based on telephone recordings.
“The issue right now is what to do about the reward money, Mrs. Riptoad. Whoever this person is, it was his information that led us to Mrs. Fitzsimmons. All the other tips we got were garbage. Now, is he telling the truth about hearing it from the killer at a bar, or was he involved in the crime himself? That’s our concern.”
“Duh,” said Fay Alex.
Either Chase or Chance finally scratched, ending their inept duel. They both slapped their cue sticks down on the pool table, gouging the burgundy felt.
“Do we really have to pay this guy?” Chance asked. “A hundred grand’s a lot of dough.”
His brother said, “Yeah, what’s he gonna do—sue us for it? Our mother just died, for God’s sake.”
The chief, who was experienced at interacting with overbred dolts, crafted a simple path for the Cornbrights:
“The media’s already asking if the reward’s been claimed. If you don’t pay up, they’ll want to know why—and, if there’s not a damn good reason, you can expect major PR blowback. Here’s what I recommend: Stall for a few days to give my detectives time to work up some assailant profiles, then you put out a press release, pay the reward and we’ll see if the evidence trail leads to anyone who matches up with the caller.”
Chance glanced at Chase, who shrugged one shoulder. “The whole hundred thousand?” he asked.
“It’s not my money,” said Crosby. “But it’s not my reputation, either.”
He was talking about the family’s status on the island. Being pegged as welshers would cost the sons of Kiki Pew some valuable social points.
Fay Alex, who wished not to be tainted by association, urged Chase and Chance to cough up the dough. “Otherwise you’ll be all over social media, and not in a good way. Think about your wives and children. Palm Beach is a hideously small town. This is a legacy issue.”
The brothers mulled the problem. Eventually Chance said, “Mother probably would want us to pay the reward.”
“Yes, but not necessarily all of it,” added Chase.
Fay Alex stewed, her taut cheeks turning color.
Jerry Crosby was looking out a window at the immaculate green yard, where a lawn worker’s leaf blower had caught fire. The worker calmly heaved it in the swimming pool and ambled away.
“Here’s another idea,” Crosby said, turning back to the group. “Give the phone tipster half the money now, and promise to pay the balance in a couple weeks. You can tell the media you’re acting on the advice of the police.”
The Cornbright brothers agreed in an instant. Relieved to be unburdened, they departed for an early lunch at the Alabaster Club, leaving the chief alone with Fay Alex in the billiard room. She continued fuming about Chase and Chance:
“They’re whining about a lousy hundred thousand bucks—my God, Kiki Pew spent more than that every year on stem cells! And did her boys even once ask about the progress of the murder investigation?”
The chief said, “Not that I heard.”
“Well, I’m asking, Jerry. Is there anything new? Anything at all?”
“My detectives are interviewing a young man who had a pink pearl in his possession. We believe it belonged to Mrs. Fitzsimmons. The kid claims he found it on the railroad tracks, which we’re not buying.”
“Obviously. Come on.”
“Right now we’re trying to connect him to Keever Bracco, the drug dealer identified by the anonymous caller as the one who killed your friend.”
Fay Alex paused to consider the momentous development. “This new suspect,” she said, “the man with Kiki Pew’s pearl, I assume he’s in jail?”
“Immigration busted him. He came by boat from the Bahamas the night she disappeared.”
“Oh, dear Lord.” Fay Alex wrung her well-moisturized hands. “What’s the bastard’s name, Jerry?”
“Diego Beltrán. However, we’re not ready to release that—”
“Diego?”
“Correct.”
“I knew it! I knew it had to be one of those horrible Hispanic caravan people.”
“No, I told you he arrived by sea,” the chief said uselessly. “The investigation is still in the early stages. We haven’t charged him with anything yet.”
“What on earth are you waiting for? I cannot believe the nonsense I’m hearing.” Fay Alex was practically levitating with distress. “Suppose this thug gets out of jail and flees back to…I don’t know, whatever shithole he came from.”
“Honduras, Mrs. Riptoad. But he’s not going anywhere, trust me.”
“I bet he’s MSNBC. They’ll try to bust him out. Happens all the time. Don’t you pay attention to the news?”
The chief didn’t need to ask which network she’d been watching. He said, “We’ve got no evidence Beltrán is a gang member. And it’s MS-13, not MSNBC.”
“Hell, you know what I mean,” Fay Alex growled. “And I don’t care if he’s chairman of the Cozumel Kiwanis Club, his lying brown ass belongs in maximum security. Make it happen, Jerry!”
She executed a fluttering, pinched-face departure. After so much time on the island, the chief was unfazed by melodrama but keenly tuned to political pressure. He decided it would be a good idea to sit down with Diego Beltrán, one-on-one.
NINE
When Germaine Bracco returned from a productive road trip to Beckley, West Virginia, he found stuck in his door the business cards of two police detectives. Germaine didn’t bother unpacking; it was time to move. He pulled a second suitcase from a closet and stuffed it with the remainder of his clothes and personal belongings, including an unlicensed .38 he’d stolen from the handbag of a patient who’d fallen asleep on the table, her ears bristling with needles. Germaine was a self-taught acupuncturist with no legitimate credentials but many faithful clients. He didn’t want to abandon them, yet there was no choice.
He flung open the door, picked up his suitcases, and found the way blocked by a small woman with an ash-blond ponytail. She was holding a pole tipped with a slender noose.
“Where you going, Germaine?” she said.
“Move out of my way.”
“I’m not the police.”
He said, “I’ve got a plane to catch.”
“Where’s your brother?” the woman asked.
Germaine swung the suitcases trying to knock her aside. When he regained consciousness, he found himself sprawled on the kitchen floor with the noose around his throat. It was loose enough to let him breathe, but not slack enough to let him fit his fingers under the coated wire.
The ponytailed chick sat on the countertop beside the microwave looking down at him. She had pinned him with the pole and was tapping the soles of her hiking shoes together, like Dorothy in her damn ruby slippers.
“Where’s your brother?” she repeated.
“Which one? I got three.”
“Prince Paladin.”
“Who?”
“Keever. The one the cops are looking for.”
Germaine said, “I dunno. I been outta town.”
His voice was scraping and distorted, like one of those undead fuckers in a zombie movie. “What the hell’s this all about—the car? Then go on, strangle me, ’cause I don’t know shit about that.”
“My name’s Angie Armstrong,” the woman said. “This pole is designed to humanely secure wild animals, and I’ve never hurt one. It’s all about controlling the tension on the noose wire, see? If I tug a little too hard from this end—”
“Stop! Holy Christ, just stop.”
“You mentioned a car.”
“They stole a Chevy Malibu. The dumbass texted me a picture. I wasn’t even here, I�
�s in West Virginia. And I can prove it, too.”
“I believe you, Germaine,” said the woman named Angie. “You were at a pill mill, restocking for your customers. This, while awaiting trial on similar charges in Tennessee. Or is it Arkansas? Anyhow, I’m guessing you need the money to pay your lawyers, but still, it was poor judgment. Who was riding with your brother when they jacked the Malibu?”
“I got no idea.”
The noose tightened. Germaine perceived a fuzzy gray curtain descending slowly behind his eyelids.
“Stop! Fuck!” he hacked. “Dude’s name is Uric. He and Keev, they work together sometimes.”
“So your brother calls him ‘Eric,’ ” the woman said.
“He says it more like your-ick. I only met the dude once, so don’t ask me his last name.”
“Did he speak with an accent?”
“Just normal ’Merican,” Germaine said. “How’d you know about the pills?”
“After you blacked out, I opened your suitcases. Found your stash and also the handgun, which, being a convicted felon myself, I was careful not to touch.”
“You’re a con? No way.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Bullshit. Look at you!”
“I fed a man’s hand to an alligator. He was a bad guy, but nonetheless it was an overreaction. I did fourteen months at Gadsden and today I’m a model citizen.”
Germaine didn’t know much about the prison at Gadsden, but the gator story didn’t seem like something a person could make up on the spur of the moment. “What is it you want from me?” he asked.
“Your douche brother and his partner broke into my apartment,” said the woman named Angie, “and then my storage unit. They stole something important.”
“So, you want it back.”
“Not anymore. I just need to know who they were working for.”
Germaine squirmed. “Maybe they workin’ for theyselves.”
The woman slid off the countertop, stood her full weight on Germaine’s chest, and stared down the pole, straight into his watering eyes. Since his arms were free, he considered punching her legs out from under her—but what if she didn’t let go of the noose when she fell? It might snap his goddamn neck.