by Tim Dorsey
“This really is on the level?”
“He blindsided us. And on our own turf,” said Vernon. “Don’t underestimate him.”
“Okay.” Steve stood. “I’m going to have some people look into it further, and if all this bears out, it might get a little messy around here. Can I count on your police not to be vigilant?”
“It’s the slow season. I need to schedule a lot of vacation time,” said Vernon. “Sorry about your loss.”
Steve and the goons departed without pleasantry.
The guys at the table watched until the door closed.
“Now Phase Two,” said Vernon. “Follow me.”
They went outside and piled into the mayor’s car. Vernon broke open a package containing a prepaid, untraceable cell phone. Then he dialed a familiar number and wrapped the phone in a handkerchief.
“Sheriff Highsmith here.”
“Sheriff, I understand you’re investigating a homicide out at the Pugliese residence.”
“Who is this?”
“That’s not important. You need to take a look at what business the victim was in. His cousin recently bought a home here, and they’ve both been making frequent trips to Miami.”
“I’m listening,” said the sheriff, getting out a notepad and clicking a pen.
“A little bird also told me some airplanes without flight plans have been landing at night in certain fields around here.”
“Wait, this voice sounds familiar,” said the sheriff. “Do I know you?”
Vernon smashed the phone apart on the dashboard.
“What just happened?” asked Jabow.
“You’ve heard of vicious circles?” said Vern. “This is a vicious triangle.”
“Huh?”
“Peter knows too much. We don’t need him remaining the prime suspect and risk getting interrogated by the sheriff. So we just diverted the sheriff’s suspicion to Steve. And we didn’t want Steve suspecting us, so back in the rib joint we diverted his suspicion to Peter.”
“And Peter’s now walking around free so Steve can make sure he never talks?”
“And after Peter’s out of the way, the sheriff takes Steve down.”
“You mean you actually had this whole thing all planned from when you first arrested Peter?”
“Love to take credit, but it was Senator Pratchett’s idea.”
“So all we have to do is sit back and enjoy the show?”
“Almost,” said Vernon. “There’s one more loose end.”
“What is it?”
“We want that money.”
“But it’s thirty feet down a sinkhole at a crime scene . . .”
“It’s also a public hazard, and we wouldn’t be responsible if we didn’t keep this town safe.”
“I see the light.” Jabow smiled. “Now who around here could possibly be qualified to deal with sinkholes?”
Chapter TWENTY-SIX
DISPUTED BORDER COUNTRY
The rural road was normally a relaxing drive, but not today with all the news trucks. A row of reporters jockeyed for space on the grassy shoulder.
“This is Live Eye Five coming to you live at five from Wobbly, Florida, and the site of the latest fatal sinkhole that swallowed an entire bedroom . . .”
“ . . . Authorities are still attempting to recover the body, but cite difficulties due to unstable ground conditions . . .”
“ . . . The victim’s name is being withheld pending notification of next of kin; however, property records shows the home belongs to a Peter Pugliese of Saratoga Springs . . .”
A gray Buick Skylark came up the road. The driver reached an arm across the front seat. “Get your head down.”
“Why?” asked Peter, looking up from under the dash.
“Vultures.” The Buick rolled to the police checkpoint. The cops had recognized the vehicle from a distance and already removed the cones.
The mayor gave a half salute as he passed. “Thanks, Reemus.” And continued up the drive.
The outside of the house was ringed with activity. Deputies and county investigators eating sandwiches, drinking coffee, laughing.
“Sheriff,” said Vernon, approaching the crime tape. “You still here?”
“I’m not leaving until we retrieve the body.” He glanced back at the coroner’s van.
“I know, I know, jurisdiction,” said Vernon. “Then why are all your boys just standing around chatting so festively, or is that the latest crime-fighting technique in the big fancy departments?”
“You’re the one who’s delaying everything,” Highsmith checked his watch. “The sinkhole could widen. We have to wait for your certified expert to arrive and declare the site safe.”
“He just got here . . . Peter, come on over and say hi to the sheriff.”
“Him?”
“One of the best. Done some excellent work for us in the past, so we contracted his company with a personal request. And as you know from the statutes, decisions over structural safety fall to municipalities.”
“But . . . he’s your suspect.”
“Not anymore,” said Vernon. “New shit has come to light.”
The sheriff was about to say something, but stopped when he heard that last comment. He was hot on the trail of an anonymous tip . . . Had the same person also called Vernon? He’d sat at this card table before with the mayor, time after time, and didn’t want to push his chips forward until he had a better idea what kind of hand his nemesis was holding. “So, uh, what is this new information?”
“Confidential because of our ongoing investigation,” said Vernon. “But since I like you, a little professional courtesy wouldn’t hurt. Peter agreed to take a polygraph and passed with flying colors.”
“I did?”
Vern elbowed him.
The sheriff smiled. Gotcha. Vernon had just given him a straight flush. He knew Peter wasn’t guilty. And also knew he could provide valuable information. “Well, since he’s no longer under arrest, I’d like to bring him in for questioning.”
“Peter doesn’t want to.”
Highsmith smiled again, ready to collect Vernon’s chips. He reached behind his back for a pair of cuffs. “Then I’m afraid you leave me no choice but to arrest him. He’s still the only suspect . . . Peter, turn around.”
“That’s your call,” said Vernon. “But if, at this very moment, you’re already looking at another suspect, and arrest Peter anyway, you open the county to a massive lawsuit. And if that other suspect ever goes on trial, Peter’s arrest today will torpedo that case with reasonable doubt because the second you snap those cuffs, you’ve created an alternate theory of the crime. But what do I know? I’m just a country poke.”
Damn, thought the sheriff, Vernon definitely must have gotten the same call. His straight flush had just turned into a hand of nothing. He stowed the cuffs. “Changed my mind. It’s a higher priority for him to help us get at the body before the whole place falls in.”
The radio in the Skylark squawked. “Vernon? . . .”
The mayor reached through the window for the mike. “Go ahead.”
“There’s someone down here who says he knows you . . .”
Vernon looked toward the foot of the driveway, where a late-model Mercedes was detained behind the cones. “Yeah, he’s good. Send him through.”
The sedan rolled up the hill and parked next to the Skylark. Steve got out. He froze at the sight of Peter. The sheriff froze at the sight of Steve. Vernon grinned inside at the sight of his triangle.
“Steve,” said the mayor, putting an arm around his shoulders. “Can we talk for a second?” He walked him out of earshot.
Steve could barely contain his rage. “What’s he doing here?”
“Take it easy,” said Vernon. “The sheriff’s watching.”
“So
meone called me with an anonymous tip that I’d find something of great interest out here.”
Good, thought Vernon, he didn’t recognize the voice of the puppet master, which is me. “We’re walking him through the crime scene.”
“Why?”
“To build our case against him. He thinks we hired him for geology work with the sinkhole, but we’re actually hoping he’ll let something inadvertently slip.”
“I thought you were going to let me handle this my way,” said Steve. “For family honor.”
“We are,” said Vernon. “But if I don’t stall by pretending to build a case, the sheriff will immediately grab him and you’ll never get the chance.”
A large industrial truck from Peter’s company arrived. Men raised the roll-up back panel and unloaded scientific instruments and robot probes.
“Okay, then, just act normal,” Vernon told Steve. The pair walked back around the cars. “Sheriff Highsmith, I’d like you to meet Steve DeVinsenzi, one of our other fine new citizens. Auto brokerage, I believe? Well, I’ll let you two talk . . . Peter, we need to get started inside.”
The mayor and the geologist ducked under crime tape.
Back in the yard, it was like the first dance in junior high.
“Sheriff? . . .”
“Uh, it was Steve, right? . . .”
Vernon led the way into the living room and turned to Peter. “You’re in charge.”
“Nobody step any farther.” Peter raised his chin, checking the usual spots for plaster cracks, then held up earlier police photos for comparison to see if additional settling had occurred.
“How’s it look?” asked the mayor.
“So far, so good.” Peter headed back to the door. “Now I need to get the equipment under the house. Radar should tell whether it was a confined breach in the limestone bedrock or if it’s wider, and the tertiary layer of clay is only temporarily supporting the overburden.”
“Whatever you just said.” Vernon followed him outside, and Peter waved his crew toward the crawl space on the side of the house.
A ’55 Ford pickup arrived and three young men got out. They saw a pair of loafers disappear under the building.
“Vernon,” said Elroy. “What’s going on?”
“He’s not wearing the right shoes . . .”
Two hours later, Peter wiggled out from under the house.
“What’s the verdict?” asked Vernon.
“I’m somewhat surprised, but we’re good to go.” Peter looked down at his shirt and thought of the new drip-free caps on laundry detergent.
“That means we do what?”
“My guys will erect a scaffolding with floodlights, which will be anchored through doorways in other rooms, because we want to distribute the weight away from the hole, and they’ll be standing on wide base plates with large, load-bearing footprints, like snowshoes.”
“That doesn’t sound like we’re good.”
“Nothing’s a hundred percent, but I’m confident.” Peter walked to the back of the company truck. “Then I’ll strap on a harness and they’ll lower me with a safety pulley. And we always use the buddy system, so one of the other guys will go down with me.”
And maybe spot the money, thought Vernon. That’s one too many pair of eyes. “No! . . . I mean, I didn’t mean to shout, but I want one of our people to be your backup.”
“Don’t worry.” Peter grabbed a handful of thick orange straps with mountain-climber D-rings. “They’re experienced.”
“That’s not it,” said Vernon. “It’s for your own protection. This is still a crime scene, and you’ve only just been cleared. Relations aren’t the best with the sheriff right now, and if a representative of the city is present down there, it’ll protect you from any future accusations of tampering with evidence.”
“Fine with me.” Peter pulled straps up between his legs and snapped them in place. “You know this area better than I do. But he’ll have to sign a company release.”
“We can do that.”
“I’ll grab a second harness. Who’s the lucky volunteer?”
Vernon approached the young trio and grabbed Slower by the arm. “Do not fuck this up.”
“What?”
“You’re going down in that hole with him.”
“I don’t know anything about sinkholes.”
“You don’t need to know squat,” said Vernon. “Just keep an eye out for the money. And keep an eye on Peter, in case he happens to spot it while retrieving the body.”
“Money?”
“What you buried, you moron.”
“But we buried it shallow.”
“Shut up and put on the harness.”
A fire engine arrived, complete with firemen who got out and leaned against it. EMTs readied the precautionary first-aid station.
The pair of adventurers went inside, where other people from Peter’s firm attached them to the pulleys hanging from an iron I-beam. No way that was going anywhere. Someone else fitted them with tool belts.
“Ready,” said Peter.
“Hard hats.”
“Right.”
And down they went.
Chapter TWENTY-SEVEN
THE HOLE
They reached the bottom twenty feet below.
The support crew waiting above in the house didn’t venture near the edge for fear of causing a secondary cave-in. It was all over-the-horizon communication.
“How’s it going?”
“We’re fine,” said Peter. He had a six-foot-long metal pole, thin but heavy, like a rebar. The topsoil of the hole’s floor was soft, like plowed dirt. The only compacted areas were under their feet.
“Stand perfectly still and don’t take a step,” Peter told Slower. Then he began poking the pole down into the dirt in a precise matrix of half-foot intervals—only moving forward once he had cleared the area ahead. He turned around at the hole’s southern wall and headed northwest. The pole thrust down again but didn’t penetrate as far. Two more nearby thrusts with the same result. He extended the testing radius and the pole descended to its usual depth.
A shout echoed upward. “Think I’ve got something.”
“What is it?” asked an unseen voice.
“Tell you in a minute.” Peter unclipped an entrenching tool from his belt, got down and began digging. Soon the tiny shovel was back on his belt and Peter used his gloved hands to carefully whisk away the last bits of dirt like an umpire at home plate. He was used to the anxiety of sinkholes. Not dead bodies. He jackknifed and dry-heaved. A moment to compose.
Another upward shout. “Found him.”
Peter unhooked his harness and told Slower to do the same. The ropes went back up, and investigators from the coroner’s office attached the two clasps to opposite ends of a human-length mesh-metal basket used in helicopter rescues. Now it was recovery.
Peter grabbed the pulley lines until the stretcher rested on the bottom. “Slower, come help me.”
Unpleasantness began.
They dug a moat of sorts around the body and fit the bag over it upside down. Then they rolled Martin into the stretcher. Peter gave two tugs on the rope. “Good to go.”
He stared straight up as the litter slightly rotated on its ascent, rising into the floodlights hanging from the I-beam.
Slower was looking the other way. He approached one of the sinkhole walls that they hadn’t explored yet. To himself: “What’s this?”
A corner of a clear plastic bag. Slower glanced back at Peter, still looking up with focus. The younger man grabbed the plastic and tugged. It began emerging. Green-and-white paper. “The money.” He pulled some more.
From behind: “What the hell are you doing?”
Slower spun around to hide the discovery. “Nothing.”
Peter looked up again. “Uh-oh.”
Faint vibrations became a rumble.
“Get away from there!” Peter yelled as he lunged.
Too late.
Above: “Everyone out! Now!”
The hole’s western wall came down with fury.
It had been supporting three more of the home’s foundation piers, which gave way, taking out sixty square feet of floor. A bedroom wall collapsed, along with half of the adjacent kitchen.
Everyone who had evacuated onto the lawn watched high-velocity plumes of dust shoot out sideways from the crawl space and front door. The middle of the roof began to creak, then fell in halfway and lurched to a stop. Everyone held their breath. The roof stayed put, for now.
Sheriff Highsmith urgently swung his right arm toward the house. “Back inside!”
The firefighters grabbed searchlights and breathing masks and axes. They were first to the expanded hole. The dust still too thick for even the highest candlepower beam. “Can anyone hear me down there?”
Cough, cough. “Yeah.” Cough, hack.
“You okay?”
“Just hard to breathe,” Peter said with the front of his shirt over his mouth.
“I’m tossing down a mask,” yelled the firefighter. “Say something else.”
“Like what?”
“That’s good enough.” He pitched the mask in the direction of the voice. “Got it?”
“Hit my leg.” He put it on.
“Okay,” shouted the rescuer. “Did the litter with the body fall back down there?”
“It’s here.”
“Detach the clasp and hook it to your harness.”
“All right.” Click.
“Hang on. We’re pulling you out.”
“Wait! You can’t!”
“Why not?”
“The other guy’s still here.” Peter fell to his knees and began digging. “I have to find him.”
“No time,” said the firefighter. “Everything’s unstable and could go at any second.”
“But I have to.”
“It’s not your call.” The rescue team began pulling the rope.